FULL STORY in memoirs

June 2/44 ---June 15/46:
Excerpts from Grandpa’s Memoirs
By Bill Monks Copl., Marines
3rd Marine Regiment, 3rd Division
(Edited for language)

July 18,2007

Each Morning on the way to James Madison, H.S., Brooklyn N.Y., Pep and I would pass the Draft Board on Madison Pl. & Quentin Rd. We would see either a friend or a relative hanging out in front, waiting to be processed. It was like a giant drain sucking all the young men out of the neighborhood. When we graduated in Jan of 44, we were still seventeen, and too young for the draft.

We worked in A & S Dept. store for about 3 months as stock boys. When I got my draft notice, we both quit without giving notice. We knew nothing about notice. We got one heck of a lecture by a somber old gentleman, wearing a black suit, in the personnel office. He spoke to us about the ethics of the business world and our responsibility to our employer. That the proper thing to be done would be to provide the firm with the normal two weeks notice. What we were doing was not just done. It certainly made a lot of sense.

We hung our heads while we listened and felt very guilty, then we quit. Pep got his "Greetings" (draft notice) shortly thereafter. We had our 18th birthdays two weeks apart. Two months later the Government gave us the choice of service, Pep chose the Navy and I went to Parris Island.

Parris Island, S.C. was Boot Camp for all Marines east of the Mississippi. I was to find out about forty years later that I had spent the hottest summer in the history of South Carolina learning how to obey an order, and stay in back of the guy in front of me.

Crossing over the bridge to Parris Island (P.I.) was a one-way trip. When we arrived we were greeted by a very large muscular gentleman called Corp. Stone; he was to be our Drill Instructor (D.I.). He had us form into four ranks of 15. We were a group of 60, made up of a majority of 18 yr. olds; the rest of us were from 25 to 32. The Gov. was scraping the barrel, as far as ages available for the draft. I could tell immediately D.I. Stone was not impressed with the clay that he was to mold into Marines. He stood there glaring at us with a face that would make a lemon blanch. He did not snuggle up to us, he hated us. He vilified us, using all sorts of profanity, displaying a very limited vocabulary. He randomly picks an individual from the ranks and destroys him with demeaning comments about his mother, father and the girl back home. This guy was really sick. He seemed to be barely containing an urge to do us bodily harm. His harangue boiled down to, that despite this pile of garbage that was unloaded on him, he was
going to turn it into a platoon of Marines. He told us to forget about Mom, he was going to be our Mother and we were to be in his care from June 2 till Aug 15th. I later realized that he had either lied to us, or he had one hell of a tough Mother. I also noticed the poor man had a hearing problem. He would stand with his nose almost touching mine and inform me that he couldn't hear me, forcing me to shout into his face. I had no problem hearing him. His memory was shot too, couldn't remember names, called everybody "Boy"! It was my first encounter with a real live son of a b___h.

From my first moment on P.I. I was totally immersed in a training program that used my every breath for the good of the Corps. What ever they were doing to us, they had it down to a science. The main idea in the training was to destroy all self esteem, kill the individual. All the Corps wanted was raw meat. Life was to be found only in the group. We were to exist only as a cell in the body. A lobotomy was thrown in with the hair cut, all free will was removed. A mental gang rape in reverse, was part of the training program. The group would think as one, and of only one thing, OBEY. The only saving grace was that we were in it together. We bonded like a herd of musk oxen. The experience was so irrational. It was like punishing a man before he committed the crime. It was the stick without the carrot. It was hard for us to fathom why they were so cruel.

Each morning after they would pair the Boots (us) off in order to box each other. The match would not be over until there was a display of blood. The D.I. would always attempt to match two buddies. Those matches were unholy. I thought the system definitely called for some constructive criticism, but on second thought I realized I might be putting the Drill Instructor's foot in my mouth. I felt sorry for the old guys, men between the ages of 25 & 32, that was a tough age to be made over. My age at least left me more pliable, not yet set in the ways of human behavior. The Drill Instructor assumed no responsibility for the end product, he really didn't give a damn how you could ever fit back into civilian life. His job was to get you back home in one piece. All I knew, was that each day I was losing something, part of me was dying each day. It was as if I was bleeding "me.”

I wondered how anybody could live in South Carolina while enduring that horrible heat. Everyday in the sun it was well over a hundred degrees, I kid you not. I did not realize until years later, when by a strange quirk of faith, I saw South Carolina's weather statistics. I cracked up when I saw that June, July and August of l944 was the hottest summer S.C. ever had. I remember how I would watch the uniform of Bill Farrell, the guy in front of me, turn from a light green to black as we marched, and the beads of sweat drop off his ears.. We popped salt tablets like peanuts. The D.I. had a thing about keeping in step and rank while we threw our rifles from one shoulder to the other. We would practice this close order drill for hours, on a field of deep loose sand. God it was hot. He would march beside us constantly repeating "Reep, Reep, Reep". I could never figure out what he was trying to tell us. Joel Kershoff was the first man to collapse, down he went into white hot sand. He was a big fat soft guy from Brooklyn. I don't think Joel ever exercised in his life. As we marched over him, naturally we went out of step to avoid stepping on him. After we passed over him, the D.I. gave the order to the rear march. Back we went, every man in step. As we approached our fallen comrade, lying where he fell, we were told that there was a possibility of stepping on him, or over him depending where your foot fell, but you kept in STEP and in RANK. The D.I.,said, "The man who missed a step or broke rank to avoid the prostate form, will take his place, and we will walk over you.”. The D.I. always had a thing about keeping in step, I guess it looked pretty. As we marched over him , we managed not to step on him. He joined us back in the barracks, the sand had clung to the sweat on his face. He looked as if had been stepped on.

Joel was definitely a D.I.'s nightmare. Joel was an overweight, misfit, a real blob. Even though he was in sad shape and made a lousy appearance, Joel had guts. Life on Parris Island was a chore for all of us, but for Joel the physical training was hell. His special cross was made of fat. Most of Joel made it through P.I., but he did leave about forty pounds down there. No doubt his mind was busted when we graduated, but he looked great. His family must have been shocked when he came home on Boot leave and saw the end product of P.I. They probably never believed his tale of woe, he could hardly believe it.

So many guys were collapsing that an order came down, if the temp. went over 95 we were not to go on the drill field. The D.I.'s scoffed and we continued drilling in the sand between the barracks. I'm talking about 130 in the sun, look it up, July,Aug., l944, Parris Island. Before dawn we would fall in at attention at the foot of our sacks. Guys would collapse like trees falling, never bending their knees, you would hear this sickening slap, as if a board fell. You
would always hesitate falling out for sick call. There was always the chance they would put you in the hospital and you would lose your platoon, which meant additional time on the Island.

I remember one night helping a buddy, John Cook, over to the head (bathroom) to soak huge blisters he had on his feet. While we were there we made the mistake of asking a Marine, who was stepping out of the shower, for the time. I called him Joe, for lack of a name, big mistake, he turned out to be a nude D.I. He made us stand at attention and said he would be back. My buddy and I spent most of the rest of the night standing at attention. We finally worked up enough courage to take off back to our barracks. I never did get the gentleman's name.

Constant fatigue was always a problem, not near enough sleep time. I remember standing exhausted in front of our D.I. while I attended one of his many lectures. God I was tired. He was built like Arnold Swartzeneger, with the head of a gorilla. I was deathly afraid of him. I guess you would describe him as a poor mixer and antisocial. He must have came from a broken family. While he talked I was having serious trouble keeping my upper lid from touching my bottom lid. The behemoth's gaze froze on me and I knew there was something horrible about to happen. My eye lids were lead. He was kind enough to notice my unintentional faux pas, as I went off to sleep on my feet. He had a remedy for my unpardonable behavior--he grabbed me by the collar, with these huge hands and shook my eyeballs. I was suddenly wide awake, my eyelids felt like feathers. I was now able to give him my complete attention. It was obvious that he had a medical background. A Johns Hopkins man no doubt, had specialized in narcolepsy. It was a lasting cure; to this day, I sleep with one eye open.

Whenever we screwed up we would have the bucket drill. We really didn't have to screw up. Our two D.I.s would come back to the barracks in the middle of the night, after being well bombed and yell "BUCKET DRILL,” "HIT THE DECK." Upon hearing that dreaded order you would leave a coma like sleep and leap from your sack, and place yourself at rigid attention in your skivvies (underwear), at the foot of your metal, double decker sack. Before taking this position, you would place your heavy cast-iron wash bucket over your head. Immediately next to you is the man you share the double decker with. Our heads, in the buckets, are about six inches from the metal bar along the foot of your top sack. The D.I.s walking with the silence of cats, would proceed down the long aisle between the two rows of bucketed Marines, at attention, at the foot of their sacks. A D.I would slam each bucket into the metal bar that was at the foot of the top sack. You would try to anticipate your bell being rung, by trying to spot the toes of his shoes as he stood in front of you, giving you time to brace and cringe. Now the bucket drill begins, picture l5 double deck sacks on each side of the aisle with two bucket heads standing at the foot of each sack. On the word "GO" the first man crawls on the floor under the first double decker, he then proceeds to climb over the top of the second double decker and then under the bottom of the third, etc. At his heels there are 59 other guys following the same course. Naturally the buckets remain on our heads during the whole drill. It always was hilarious, the buckets were filled with cries of pain and laughter. It wasn't all that bad, it was the only privacy we ever had.

One Sunday afternoon one of our D.I.'s was attempting to walk on his hands during a break in the training. To show up the D.I., like a real smart ass, I walk down the few steps that led out of the barracks on my hands. He pretends not to notice. That night he showed how much he appreciated my agility. That night, about 1 o'clock, The night guard woke me from my coma and informed me that I had just been ordered to the D.I.'s quarters, which was a separate room at the end of the barracks. I knocked on the door and reported my presence to the Drill Instructors. They readily granted me access and then proceeded to bounce me from one wall to another. It was like a game of catch, only they were too drunk to catch. They eventually opened the door and threw me out. They never said a word. They didn't have to.

A great deal of time at P.I. was spent developing a bond with your new found friend the M1 rifle. It was a great weapon and a loyal friend. If you treated your friend right he would never let you down. A grueling exercise called snapping in was used to train you in all the varied firing positions, which were never to be used in combat, outside of the prone position. I pulled every muscle in my body before I pulled a trigger. I did enjoy firing my weapon. At the Rifle Range you would not only learn to fire your weapon with expertise., but you also had to spend time on butt detail.. This entailed standing in a trench as the firing line placed shots in the target several feet above your head. After the firing ceased you lowered the target, which you would slide down on a frame. Down in the butts the activity is fast moving. Targets must be
disked, marked and pasted up carefully and quickly. You would immediately place markers in the bullet holes, to indicate the hits. You would also hold up marker poles to give the score. All this was not to difficult under normal circumstance, but my friend Corp, Stone, while sitting on a bench in back of me, amused himself, by prodding me in the back with a marker pole, as I work the target. Maybe I should have offered to teach him to walk on his hands. I think we were still at the Range, it was on a Sunday about the last week of training, a Boot sneaked off to the PX to buy a 1/2 gallon of Ice Cream. The D.I. caught him and tied the container on top of his head, up side down. It was high noon on another blazing hot day. The platoon was called out, to form up at attention in front of the barracks. We were forced to watch as the poor soul stood suffering the melt down. He stood in front of the platoon until the ice cream had melted all over him and he was covered with sand flies. In the beginning we thought it was amusing. I wonder, if he ever got home, if anybody ever asked him what the low point of his life was. It's strange how whenever Marines meet it's never the campaigns, but P.I., that always becomes the center of the conversation. Laughter always manages to drown out the wild tales of horror. It always turns into a game of "Can you top this". Everybody believed they had the toughest D.I.'s. And for some strange reason we were proud of them. (Stockholm Syndrome). I hold the D.I.s in high esteem. A fine body of men who did a damn good job. They deserve as much credit for Marine victories as any front line outfit.

On our last day, my personal nemesis, Corp Stone, gave us a story about there was nothing personal in his tortuous behavior, that it was all done to save our lives. I am sure his statement had a ring of truth to it, but it did make you pause and think, just how much you valued your life. I see the truth to Machiavelli's crack about power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely. There is always that small element that does not warrant power over other men. When I look back at P.I., I get this strange feeling of pleasure. I guess that Frenchman felt the same way, after he had walked over Niagara Falls on a cable, pushing his wife in a wheel barrel. If you want to live a hundred years, spend l0 weeks on Parris Island. There are two things you cannot adequately convey to another,.. P.I. and pain, thank God.

After combat training in New River, NC we boarded a troop train for San Diego (A tragic comedy on wheels). We didn't have enough food on board for the troops. One time the train paused and little black children gathered at the side of the track. We threw money out the window and asked them to buy us some chow. I can't remember if we ever got the food before the train moved on.. We stopped in a small town in the middle of Texas for l5 minutes of calisthenics, followed by a ten minute break. We were so hungry, during the break we stripped the only grocery store in town. We bought everything that was eatable. In minutes the shelves were bare, and the locust were gone. Imagine the memory we must have left with that grocer. The train pulled out and left about twenty Marines running down the track. When they caught up with us in San Diego they were thrown into the brig for 5 days on piss & punk (bread & water). Once, while we were rolling, a bum stepped into our car He must have been traveling between cars or on the roof, Gad was he filthy. I couldn't believe he was human. We withdrew from him as if he was a beast. We fed him and he disappeared out of the car.

I shipped out of San Diego on the Dutch East Indian freighter, Bloemfontein, on the Marine Corps birthday 10 November l944.The ship was never equipped to carry troops. Crew made up of little black guys, from the Island of Java. As we proceeded further and further south, the heat and overcrowded conditions became unbearable. We tried to escape the heat below, by sleeping on the hatch covers. In the moonlight you could watch the rats jump from one body to another. There were only four things you could do on board to pass the time, read, play cards, shoot dice, or get on the chow line. After we were out a couple of weeks, the guy in the next sack, a card shark, we called Mr. Lucky, asked me to keep an eye on him, while he slept. He not only had everybody's money, but also had their watches. What ever he was doing, he was good at it. He must have noticed that I slept with one eye open. Mr Lucky had narrowed down the entertainment to reading and the chow line. I remember sitting on the floor in the head cutting cards for ten dollars a cut with Frank Morganstern. Neither one of us had any money. We had extended each other an endless line of credit. Neither one of us won any money, but we did lose a lot of time, which was the name of the game.

The smell of fuel oil was memorable. Your uniform took on all the attributes of a greasy, grimy canvas hatch cover. The only water available to wash with was sea water. Our soap and the sea water didn't mix. The suds in your hair would turn to gum. Sometimes we would attach our dirty clothes to a line and throw it over the side, hoping the motion of the wake would remove the dirt.. I remember how we would crack up when a Marine would forget he had his clothes over the side and leave it overnight. When he would heave the line in, there would just be a bundle of rags.

Taken off ship in Hawaii for a three hour beer party. Three thousand Marines, charge cases of beer stacked on picnic tables in an open field. Those who were fleet of foot grabbed as many cases they could lift and kept on running, disappearing into the boondocks . It was a case of the quick and the sober. It was hilarious, the mother of all hide and seek games. It was the first time I drank that much beer, I got sick as that old dog, part of me is still in Hawaii.

On to Eniwetok, land of palm trees, without palms. The shell fire from the Navy prior to a previous invasion had denuded all the trees The island looked like a hair brush. Convoy bombed off Saipan. Confined below deck during bombing, all hatches battened, felt trapped. It was the last bombing of Saipan. Land on Guam, thirty days out of San Diego, (now the bum looked well dressed). If there was ever a ship that deserved a toast it was the Bloemfontein, " BOTTOM UP". I join Charlie Co.. Live in a tent that has been pitched over fox holes. Five old salts in tent, nice guys, when they look at me I feel 5 years old. They think I have my Boot hair cut. I let a buddy cut my hair aboard ship with a little scissors from a sewing kit. I look like I have the mange.

First night on guard at perimeter, I hear wild pigs eating garbage. I think we are about to be overrun. P.I. pays off, I managed to subdue the urge to spray the area. First week in Charlie I report to sickbay, Doc. informs me I have Mu Mu ( elephantiasis , a disease that caused a severe swelling of the legs and scrotum) and that I can expect big things, tells me I'm going home. This is deduced from infection in the groin. Old salts in my tent get hysterical when I tell them. It seems the Div. picked up the disease during the Bougainville campaign. A lot of guys were showing up with it, but there was no way I could have it. Doctor seems disappointed when I tell him, I just arrived from the States. Infection disappears, no need for wheel barrel to carry scrotum. Beragata Showered in the rain, (the only fresh water) the trick was to get the soap off before it stopped. Led to a lot of humorous scenes. What do you do when your standing in the middle of the Co. street, stark naked, covered with soap and God shuts off the shower. Later we put out empty fuel drums at edge of tent to catch rain water to wash in. Helmet great wash basin. Drinking water in Lister bags, (Large canvas bag, holds about 30 gallons, water mixed with heavy dose of Iodine), it had four spigots, usually set up at center of camp. Each day before we would go out on patrol we would stop at the bag and fill our
canteens. Put bullion cubes in my canteen to kill taste of iodine. It was a strange mix, iodine tasted better. At our meals we drank coffee or concentrated lemon juice mixed with water. We called the concentrated lemon juice, battery acid. Naturally without refrigeration, it was always warm. It was so caustic that what ever was left after the meal the cooks would use to scour the pots. Back in the states I think they call it Vivid.

My squad gives me a unique initiation ceremony. While out on patrol we take a break at a particular spot on the trail, and I'm sent out as outpost. I'm placed in a small clearing, down trail and told to stay alert and warn them if I hear anything. I immediately sit on a fallen log and relax. After being there a short time I realize I am not alone. Flush up against the back of the log I am sitting on, is a Japanese Solider. I first notice his feet out of the corner of my eye, he is lying on his back. I jump up and whirl around to look at his face, only to realize he had been decapitated. It's obvious by the condition of the body, that he has been dead for some time. After the initial shock I find it more interesting than frightening. When I return to the squad I mention the corpse to them, nobody seems interested. Later I realize they must have been watching me make the discovery, and I kind of let them down. To me he is the enemy, I feel nothing for him. The system worked.

Heat & rain, most of the time it didn't bother me. One of the main reasons I joined the Corps, was to make sure I escaped the hated cold, not realizing I was heading for the Parris Island oven. Charlie Co, great bunch, still paling out with old buddy from New River, Sam Morgal. Sam was a good friend, he came from D.C.,a real character, great sense of humor. He was much older than I, about thirty two. All Sam ever wanted was a beer and a deck of cards and my money to lose. He was a great beer drinker and a great card player, but he had trouble doing both at the same time. The guys in the tent are Howard Clifton, Bill Rosnick, Walter Clausen, Jimmy Gaskins, John Aiello, and Sam Morgal. We all came from different States, but we had one thing in common, that bound us together. We were all suffering and we hated being there. Thank God we all went a little crazy.

I remember one night we got into our sacks neglecting to turn off the light, (Taps had sounded but our light was still burning brightly.) Each guy refused to get up. Each time the guard would
pass our tent he would yell lights out. No body would move. About eleven o'clock, out of no where the Officer of The Day lands in the middle of our tent floor, screaming attention. Nobody is awake, we all lie there with our eyes bolted closed. We know the first guy who shows life is going to get nailed. Finally he shakes Sam. Sam pretends that he is Lazarus coming forth from the sleep of death. Sam has us all killing our selves holding back the laughter. Finally we all get up like we are following Sam out of the tomb. The Lieutenant is mad as hell but we swear to him that the whole thing was just an oversight. I remember the day we chipped in and bought a two tube radio for $ 125 bucks, big money in those days. The next day we went off to chow and our prize radio went elsewhere. I remember Jimmy Gaskins would wake up some mornings saying he heard the whistle of the train that passed on the other side of the corn field back home. Where I live now, 50 years later, I too hear a train whistle at night, and my thoughts go back to Jimmy.

Patrols (eyes & ears used to the maximum), mosquitos had a field day, afraid to take your hands off weapon to brush them off your face. Thirteen men moving in complete silence, ghostlike. Walking the point (lead man on patrol, first man to draw fire) was like having cancer, "why me?" While at point, the silence always tempting you to turn around to make sure you weren't alone. A sustained feeling of terror and yet the eager tenseness of a football kickoff. Point man upsets beehive, discipline disintegrates, everybody takes off, very embarrassingly funny. We would try to guess about how long it would take us to actually sweep Guam of the Japanese, not taking prisoners didn't help. They were still coming out 25 years later. For years after the war I would occasionally spot an article in the N.Y. Times, how 3 or 4 Japanese emerged from the boondocks on Guam. They played war for keeps. They were as tough as they come, a worthy opponent, they could not accept defeat. Jungle ( Adapted to tropical habitat, couldn't believe I ever walked on a sidewalk.)

Time takes a holiday, clock stops moving. I can't get used to the necklaces that two machine gunners are wearing. (Marines wearing necklaces made up of the gold teeth, that are being taken out of the mouths of the dead Japanese). I realized now that the boy next door had the potential to be a hell of a nut. Some of us were (anthropologically speaking) were climbing back up into the trees. I find that the top soil of civilization is very thin. We needed Mom watching us, more than her apple pie. We actually developed a sort of new language to express our inner turmoil. Sex was rampart, every noun was having intercourse. I mean every word used was preceded by the verb. It was the only way to vent our deep frustration. We all used it, so it must have worked.

Living in a tent with other men taught me an awful lot about love and forgiveness. What I remember most was that who ever moved into our tent, no matter what kind of personality, we would eventually understand his faults and love him. We had no problem empathizing with a tentmate, we all had the same pain inside of us. We were closer than brothers. A costly bonding, a unique sharing never to be matched in my life time. (Not ever being in prison.) It has been many years but I still have a picture of my squad over my desk. We each have a beer in our hand, and a great smile on our face. I think we were all pretty shot. I never saw another picture that displayed more joy. Sometimes you wonder if it ever happened. It has taken me fifty years to say "It was worth it." When I came back after the war I listened to my friends tell these wild stories about the English, French and German and Italian girls. We were sitting at a round table at our local Pub, each guy would top the previous seduction. When it came my turn I couldn't think of how to top them, so I decided to tell the truth. "The only woman I ever met or spoke too, was behind a counter in the Marvin House, a PX on Guam. She was about fifty. I'll never forget what I said to her. I turned on the old charm."Can I please have a Coke?" You know you can tell when a woman is about to lose control, it was obvious she was smitten. I took the coke from her milk white hand. I looked deep into her eyes, as I said "Thank you,” and walked back into the night. There was no doubt in my mind that she would have been my slave, but I had a war to win. I hope she has forgotten me."

It gets to the point, at night when a mosquito came under the net I won't interrupt his dinner. There was no malaria on the Island and it's hot as hell, so we sleep naked, we couldn't care less about mosquitos. Our feet were covered with the creeping crawling crud. Our toes look like they are rotting off. Every week the corpsman tries a new dip. My toes have been painted every color of the rainbow. Soon as I hit the States an immediate cure takes place. Huge toads all over Guam. No matter where you were in the boondocks, there would be a toad. The constant spraying of DDT killed the food chain that the toad depended on, hastening his demise. A good spraying would turn our green dungarees black, I still can remember the evil smell of it. Spray planes came over often, while we were out on patrol, we should have been issued umbrellas. " We have met the enemy and they are us." I heard years later that the toads were replaced by giant snails. The latest news is that tree snakes have killed the snails and decimated all the bird life by destroying their eggs.

It's my nineteenth birthday, I'm out on patrol. Tonight I'll celebrate by sleeping in a swamp, in the rain. I'll sleep on my back to prevent drowning. Now it's morning, I'm wet, cold, hungry. We look at each other, and crack up laughing. We are all soaked to the skin, our uniforms are black with water, our hands are wrinkled from resting in water all night. Why am I laughing? Tom Morgan, a past member of a Florida chain gang, has broke down and is crying. Tom was much older than the rest of us and we thought of him as our rock. There is a time to cry, and that was the time. Of course nobody noticed or mentioned that Tom had had it.

It is strange how nobody ever seems to catch a cold, despite the hours spend in the rain, soaking wet. I had painful asthma attacks from the time I was nine till I joined the Corps. From the day I left home till the present day I never have another attack. My Mother thought that the
service was going to be the death of me. Outside of a few minor scratches I enjoyed marvelous health. I do remember one time when I was in the hospital, there was a Marine in a sack opposite mine who was suspended in mid air by ropes. He told me that shortly after he came back from the Iwo campaign, he was on the top of his tank scrubbing it down with gasoline, when a passing Marine flipped a cigarette butt at the tank. He joked with me, saying he was facing a court marshall when he got out for using gasoline to clean the tank. I don't think he made it out. Most of his skin was gone, which left the poor guy looking like a lobster. The pain had to be unbearable. He was what the word cool was all about. Even though he was flat out he looked real tall to me, man at his best.

I actually had a bullet land in my lap while sitting in a hole on a combat firing range. It had ricocheted off a tree, hit my helmet then the side of the hole then into my lap. I nonchalantly placed it in my breast pocket and brought it home. I always think of it as my greatest catch. Served as runner, poor sense of direction. I was never lost, always knew where I was, but where the hell was Baker Co. Luck was my North Star. I missed the talent that Phil used, to guide us out of the cattails, down at the old Mill, back home.

We all take a physical prior to Iwo campaign. Doctor tells me I have a heart murmur. I thought I had a ticket home, and it wasn't going to be on my toe. The Doc. just told me not to run around too much when I got to Iwo. We both cracked up laughing. The whole 3rd Reg.is moving out. My outfit is to board the APA Frederick Funston. We are strung out for miles in full combat gear, preparing to embark. As I reach the top of a rise, I can see the five thousand long snake winding its way along the coral road the Seabees (Navy Construction Battalion) built, were heading for the beach. I wonder how many guys are walking their last mile. Thank God eighteen year olds don't die. It's a long haul to the ship, and I remember how a case of stolen pears relieved the squads thirst on the march. It was extremely hot and everything we owned was on our back or in our seabag. We would stick our Kaybars (jungle knife) into a can and suck the juice and throw the can away with the pears. I realized my James Madison H.S. ring was missing, and it was going to remain somewhere up in the hills, where we had broken camp. That ring belonged to a 17 year old who was as missing as the ring.

After several days at sea, we enter the area called the Volcano Chain. In the morning mist, we notice strange land masses called stacks, jutting out of the water. It was as if we were approaching the castle of Dr. Frankenstein. Arrive at Iwo Jima early morning, rest of Div. has already disembarked. The panoramic view of Iwo Jima was awesome. It was a piece of nothing, covered with volcanic ash. It lacked any growth and was spotted with sulphur wells. The initial landing had been made and the black beaches were covered with wreckage. It appeared as if a huge ammo dump had exploded destroying all the equipment that we had placed ashore.

The beach looked like absolute chaos. It was immediately obvious that the Japanese had the catbird seat on Mt. Suribachi, on the southern tip. They could drop mortars on anything, on anybody, anywhere. It was the Queen of positions. The beachhead was continually being pounded. One year later I stood on top of Surabachi, and the sight made me sick. It made shooting fish in a barrel look hard. We intended to put 60 thousand men ashore on an Island that was 2 X 4 miles, 1/3 the size of Manhattan. It was being defended by 25 thousand Japanese (Longstreet odds).This does not leave too much standing room when you realize how much equipment had to be brought ashore. In spite of our Gung Ho, 3rd Div. Commander, the overall Campaign Commander (Now sitting at the right hand of) would not authorize the landing of our 3rd Mar. Regiment.

The other three Regiments in our Div., the 9th Mar., 21st Mar. & 12th Mar. were in action ashore. Our Div. was taking tremendous losses but the need was more for equipment than troops. There was just so much beach room. We were to be designated Floating Reserve. We continuously circled the Island. It was ringside, watching men die by the thousands. The only thing that occasionally obstructed our view was the smoke of battle. There was a mantle of smoke that hung a couple hundred feet over the island. We were surprisingly very close in. I guess if they needed us in a hurry we could be on the beach in no time. We could see the tanks
get bogged down and knocked out. The tanks were having a tough time operating in the volcanic ash, but they were doing a great job rescuing guys who were pinned down. Field glasses were being continually passed. It didn't get much darker during the night. Flares and shell fire were constant. The noise of the exploding shells was continuous, no let up. The big wagons were further out to sea firing their huge shells over us. They do sound like freight trains. The carrier planes were dive bombing.

We immediately took wounded aboard. They cleared all cabins for them. The story has it that the ship's Captain's son came aboard for dinner. He was a Marine Capt serving with the 4th Marine Div on the island. They say he was a stand up guy, who gave us a brief talk on what was going on. It was an odd happening, his Dad sailing around Iwo while his son fought. He went back on shore after dinner. The next evening his father had his son's body brought back on board. He wanted to bury him at sea. The wounded wanted to know why we were not relieving them. They said the Japanese mortars were killing them, there was no cover. If you stood in one place long enough you were bound to get hit. They said the Japanese were firing huge mortar shells that the Marines had dubbed "flying seabags". Every move was being watched from Suribachi. We had a tremendous feeling of guilt and helplessness.

To this day I still have a sense of guilt. Some wanted to go ashore, I prayed to God we wouldn't, I had suddenly found religion. The best Marine is l8 or l9 and a hell of an optimist. Of course there is always the thinking man, who didn't win too many marble games. The wounded told us the garbage men were taking the worse losses. Those are the fellows who carry the flame throwers. They were priority targets for the Japanese because of what they carried. It did not pay to stay close to them. Prior to the campaign I had the unlucky experience of having my lungs seared by a flame thrower from a tank. It was during a practice run at a pillbox, we were out of sight of each other, in high grass. I could hear it moving but I couldn't place it. I just didn't want to be mashed. I never thought it was carrying a " Zippo", (Cigarette lighter, slang for flame thrower). For one brief moment the air was burning hot and my lungs were on fire. What a miserable way to go. Luckily there was no lasting damage. If you want the same sensation, put your head over the gas flame in your kitchen and take a deep breath. I might have stumbled across the cure for asthma. Ask your Doctor first.

One day they call my platoon to fall in on the deck. They are asking for garbage men. No one budged. We are being asked to make an independent decision, to use our free will, not used since our lobotomy. There is no order involved, direct or indirect, if we are ordered over the side, we would go as one man. This was crazy, I was no longer part of the group. For one brief moment I'm Bill Monks again. I stand alone on the deck. It's catch 22, it going to be either physical or spiritual death. This wasn't what P.I. was about. I know if any of the guys from the tent put their hand up, the whole tent was going to be in big trouble. We took our muskcox's stance and closed ranks, no one volunteered. Deep in my heart I knew there wasn't a coward among us, yet we were cursed to sail on that Flying Dutchman for the rest of our lives, forever circling that damn island, questioning our courage. Talk about a guilt trip. "Yes Son, I saw the flag go up on Suribachi. I watched".

Everyone knew the campaign was going to be settled on Suribachi. He who holds the high ground wins the battle. It was Marye's Heights at Fredericksburg, Cemetery Ridge at Gettysburg and it was going to Mt. Suribachi at Iwo Jima. We had a huge plaster mock up of the Island on deck, and that Mountain looked ominous. We hit that Mt. with everything that we had. All the heavy stuff off shore, are carrier based planes, constantly bombed and strafed. All the Marine artillery on the Island was concentrating on it, determined to give cover to the Marines who were going to attempt the ascent.

I think it was the 28th Mar Reg. who initially sent the first platoon of 40 men up. The Fifth Div. had the misfortune to have it in its zone. Some of the guys watched through glasses as the patrol wound there way up. The climb itself was mysteriously easy, I don't think they took any losses going up. Finally a cheer went up all over the ship when we saw our flag flying in the breeze. Every horn, whistle and bell rang out aboard the ships surrounding the Island. The man in the very center of the arena, is the man who carries the colors. A country's flag represents more than a cause in battle. It's the ultimate wager, life itself, with the odds against you. No man walks taller than when he is carrying his flag into a roaring hell. I could never stomach a flag sewed on a shoulder or pinned to a lapel. God how I admire and pray for those thousands of Civil War color bearers S & N who served as point,(most exposed position to fire), and died leading their outfits.

Of the 40 men who went up only 4 were not killed or wounded by the end of the campaign. The blood poured out on Iwo Jima was to rank with the baths of Antietam and Gettysburg. On Iwo Jima, every man was at point. The overall campaign cost was one in three killed or wounded. Who can comprehend the magnificence of man? I'll always regret not being ordered over the side. I had no idea that moment would live in history, and a year from that moment I would be standing on that very spot. I was one of six Marines they brought back (randomly picked) for a memorial ceremony. There were a couple thousand service men stationed on Iwo, a year later, but no Marines. We stood at the 3rd Div. cemetery and gazed at the sea of crosses. Unforgettable, a good part of our outfit was lying there, no doubt the best. The Chaplain had asked for two altar boys, but we embarrassingly declined. We had no idea what to do. We fired the volley and walked among the crosses. To the victor had gone the marker.

Each man a colorbearer, forever young, most 18,19. or 20. Old friends had died with the 21 Mar. Reg. whom I knew from, Guam, New Rivwe and P.I. They were encamped across the road from us on Guam. The Twenty First Marines were decimated. There's a saying in the Corps, "If you want to meet a real Marine you will have to dig for him." They had bonded forever.

Our worthy opponents, lay in a barren field nearby, covered over by a bulldozer, marked Enemy Cemetery #1. Both forces shared a common epitaph. "Iwo Jima, where uncommon valor was a common virtue."

Back on Guam, Apr. of 45 we immediately went on another sweep of the island in search of stragglers from the Guam campaign. Their vacation was over, we were back, and that the game of hide and seek could once more commence.

By August we were ready for the big one. Word was out, we were going to hit Kyushu, the southern island of the mainland of Japan, in Sept. They had the 3rd Reg. set up to pay its dues. We were going to be the point Reg., there were no optimists. We were going into a meat grinder.

I return from a problem (Dry run drill) and ready to collapse on my sack in my tent only to find my brother Dick sitting on it. I didn't know that he was in the Pacific, he had just arrived. It turns out his Seabee outfit is stationed up on Saipan (Island north of us) and he has hitched a ride down to Guam for a short visit. I tried for a 72 hour pass, to stay with him in a Seabee outfit, but I was frozen, too close to Kyushu time, we were ready to go... Dick and I still had a good time, the words had to take a vow of celibacy, (Remove that nasty verb). Back home, we
wouldn't even say "damn" in the house.

My school chum, Pep, (MENTIONED IN THE FIRT PARAGRAPH) was my next visitor. He just walked into my tent one day. I thought he was in the Atlantic. We celebrated the dropping of the Bomb together. We thought at the time it was the thing to do. We had no idea of its horror, to us it meant life. He was a radio operator in the Navy. Pep had just missed a berth on the Indianapolis, the Cruiser that went down I think between the Tinian and the Phil. The Indianapolis had brought the bomb over. Pep and I had gone through grammar, and high school together. We were later to attend college together and keep our relationship going over to seventy years. Pep still is a ball of fire and I see him regularly, we are both 81.

The odd thing was that Pep and I were sitting on the grass on a football field lacing on our cleats, preparing to play, when we heard of Pearl Harbor!!!! Some guy suddenly burst into the tent" Hey did you hear the radio" " They just dropped one hell of a bomb, and a Jap city disappeared." IN A COUPLE OF DAYS IT WAS OVER!!!!! We were numb! We couldn't believe it! Going HOME!!! Pep and I are sharing the close of the war. I could not believe Pep was in my tent. Naturally I looked like hell when we met I had just came in out of the field.
He looked clean as a whistle and couldn't stop laughing at the sight of me. He had managed, while attending radio school, to stay in the states for quite a while. Upon the war ending the Corps was faced with a hell of a strange problem. There are not enough ships to take the men home.

Their moral is starting to slip. What do we do to keep them busy? They will not stand for any nonsensical drill time. Somebody got a great idea. We will send them all to school. First we will pick teachers out of the Div., anybody who can teach any subject at all, French, Chinese, Basket Weaving, Trigonometry, Algebra, Law, Cooking, Philosophy, History. The next thing we do is make it mandatory that each man attend a class of his choice, or face a work detail. Thank God this program barely got underway, a few classes were held, when they called a halt to it. No more teachers, no more books, no more teachers dirty looks, we were off to occupation duty. There was still a lot of islands in the Pacific, held by Japanese, at the close of the war, that still had to be demilitarized and occupied, before we could go home. On Dec.13, l945 The American Flag returned to the Bonin Islands after 117 years.

The First Battalion, Third Marines, moved ashore on Chichi Jima and began the official occupation of this former Japanese Island fortress. (The Gibraltar of the Pacific) According to historical records. In l828 a small group of settlers composed of several Americans and British subjects, a Portuguese, and about 20 Hawaiian Islanders watched as Nathaniel Savory of Massachusetts raised the Stars and Stripes to the top of a makeshift flagpole. At the request of Savory, the flag had been loaned to the group by Captain Joel Abbot of the United States Navy, to be flown as protection against marauding pirates who had been terrorizing the island. The impressive ceremony which marked the return of the American Flag to Chichi Jima climaxed a bloodless invasion of the Bonins and started the peaceful occupation of the islands by the United States.

Our Battalion had embarked from Guam five days earlier, and had landed from LSTs. The air was soon filled with the martial strains of our battalion's drum and bugle section. After a ten minute march, the group formed at the base of the flag pole in front of the Japanese Headquarters, just across from and facing, the Japanese garrison. By 10 AM the Japanese garrison, led by Lieutenant General Tachibana and his military staffs composed of high ranking Army and Navy officers, had gathered.

The officers were garbed in their best military array and each carried for the last time his "Samurai" sword. The Japanese Flag "The Setting Sun" flapped gently in the breeze. It was a strange eerie sensation; there just a few yards from us were those Goddamn son of b____s, out in the open at last. No more boondocks, eyeball to eyeball. After 14 years of war in China and the Pacific they had arrived at a mortifying surrender.

They appeared so small and harmless, yet we knew what a horrible faith we would have faced, if the situation had been reversed. Pearl Harbor, Bataan, Wake, Singapore, would always be fresh in our minds, these bastards had never shown any mercy to their captives. At exactly 10:15, the Japanese Flag was lowered from the staff. The Japanese color guard composed of two soldiers, carried the folded flag to the American side of the field and presented it to Colonel P.M. Rixey, the commanding officer of our Battalion. Colonel Rixey, in turn marched over to the Japanese staff and presented the flag to General Tachibana.

At exactly 1025, the Marine drum and bugle section sounded colors, and everyone present, both American and Japanese alike, rendered a salute as Old Glory was raised to her lofty summit. Following the official flag raising, Captain John Kuziak, of the occupation force staff, stepped forward and read the occupation proclamation. The proclamation directed that all powers of the government of the Japanese Empire be suspended and promised that all existing customs, religious beliefs and property rights would be respected. Major Horie (See defense of Iwo Jima) of the Japanese staff stepped forward and read the same address.

Emotions you might say were mixed. General Tachibana stared at the ground throughout the reading of the message. Frowns were deep set on most faces. The military careers and ambitions of these men were now at an end. This realization was emphasized a moment later when all Japanese officers present, led by General Tachibana, and Vice Admiral Mori, stepped forward in single file to surrender their "Samurai" swords. The next day each Marine to commemorate the surrender was presented with one of these handsome swords.

The "Samurai" was highly valued in the Corps as a souvenir. Up until that moment the sword could only be obtained, by removing it from the body of a dead Japanese officer. Each man was also issued two Japanese Nambu pistols and a pair of binoculars, trophies of war. After receiving the swords, Colonel Rixey marched to the center between the Americans and Japanese garrisons and began his occupation address. "I accept these swords in the name of the United States of America. The raising of the American Flag and surrender of all officer's swords signifies the actual termination of Japanese rule over all islands of the Ogasawara group."

The establishment of United States occupation of Muko Jima Retto, Chichi Jima Retto, and HaHa Jima Retto, is hereby proclaimed effective at ten minutes to eleven on 13 December l945. We shall demilitarize these islands for all time. We shall destroy all evidence of war. I hope these islands will be rebuilt into a peaceful land." (These islands were later to become a Japanese National Park)

Cadet Oyama reported Colonel Rixey's address. Lieutenant James T. Sanders, a Navy Chaplain, then read a prayer in memory of those who gave their lives on the battlefield and on the sea. Everyone was uncovered with heads bowed. Following the prayer, the Marine bugler sounded taps. Survivors of the Japanese garrison on Chichi and Haha, the neighboring island, comprised 20,656 Army and Navy personnel.

It was strange finally meeting the enemy face to face. This was our first introduction to the oriental facade. They were continuously smiling and bowing to us, polite and cooperative. We thought their attitude was unbelievably hypocritical. All our knowledge of the Japanese added up to a fearless enemy who showed no mercy. We could in no way accept this veneer of fellowship. We rejected them as if they were not human. We wanted pay back for the utter misery they had caused us. The atom bomb was not personal enough. I would not have been surprised when we landed on Chichi if some guy had yelled out "GET A ROPE".

As we learned later we had reason to get a rope. One morning a Japanese Coast Guard cutter showed up in the bay. It was bearing Fred Savory, and his three uncles, all descendants of Nathaniel Savory, a Massachusetts whaler who had settled in the Bonins in l830, they were being returned to Chichi. Fred Savory had a strange tale to tell, he had heard rumors in Japan, spread by soldiers repatriated from Chichi. "These stories are not nice ones," he told the Col. He accused the Japanese of cannibalizing five American airmen. Three were beheaded, one was bayoneted, and another beaten to death. Prior to the medical officer removing their livers, these five men were murdered with out any semblance of a trial. These livers were later served as a meal at a "sake" party.

This story was corroborated by the Korean slave laborers, being used by the Japanese on the Island. All told 21 Japanese were eventually tried for those five murders, and other beheading of U.S. Navy airmen on the Island. The instigator of the sordid goings on at Chichi Jima was a Major Matoba. He served in China where, he said, it had been determined that the eating of prisoners was a stimulant to morale and human liver was a cure for stomach ulcers. He had also ordered the first victim's body dug up, it had been in the ground only one day and the liver removed for eating. Another pilot, beheaded on 26 May l945, had his liver and a 6pound chunk from his thigh removed and delivered to the galley of Matoba, who gave a party at which the "delicacy" (as he designated it) was served.

We found the remains of the deceased and through their dental records identified the bodies. I remember the Corpsmen sorting out their remains on large tables, by the side of the mess hall. We sent their remains home in small green boxes. We then arrested and held the culprits prisoners, until we returned to Guam for their trial. One of the anomalies of the trial was this: there is nothing in International Law providing punishment for cannibalism and the cannibals could only be charged with "preventing honorable burial," with murder , and with failure to control persons under their command.

Of the 21 men held responsible, one Japanese lieutenant was acquitted, who had been a cannibal inadvertently, with no knowledge of what was taking place. General Tachibana, Navy, Captain Yoshii, Colonel Ito, Major Matoba (Tiger of Chichi) and Captain Nakajima were sentenced to death by hanging. The remainder of the guilty were given various sentences ranging from life imprisonment to lesser penalties.

I had the pleasure of being a member of a patrol that went deep into the Japanese camp to arrest Matoba. During his trial on Guam, the Guam paper referred to him as "The Tiger of Chichi". It's afternoon there are six of us lying in our sacks in the tent, when the Lieut. enters. "How about six volunteers"? (normally that is a no,no, but we are bored stiff.) Most of the time on the Island we are bored stiff. The only thing to do to break up the monotony, outside of ball playing and swimming is whale watching. We discover them frolicking outside the bay while on a garbage detail. To pass the time we take Japanese landing crafts off shore, and just sit out there and watch their antics, gad they were big. One of our bazooka men says he is tempted to get his weapon and try for some fresh blubber. He thinks it would be an easy shot. He really wants to nail a whale. I have no doubt he could do it. He manages to restrain himself. This patrol, is a straw to grasp at, we are desperate. We conceal our weapons by putting them in two seabags along with our ammo and helmets. We are going to bring in Matoba.

The Japanese are not aware that we know that Matoba is responsible for initiating the cannibalism. The Lieut., Sam, Clausen, Clif, John Lucas, Sam Hughes and myself, make up the patrol. Because we are always under Japanese observation it is to be a clandestine operation. We place our seabags in the bottom of our landing craft, which had a load of garbage on board. We cross the bay to the Japanese encampment disguised as a unarmed working party. Our dress to be only our helmet liners, dungaree pants and boondockers. Once we were out in the bay, we duck low and put our weapons together. We want to get in and out fast. Our orders were to rush his house, drag him back to the boat as quickly as possible, before any action could be taken to defend him, or before he could commit Hari Kari, (they were unarmed, we hoped). That just what we do, but there was one hell of hill we have to run up. The Japanese stand on the side of the road wondering what we are up to. We hit the house and the Lieut. enters it. I remember absolutely nothing of what happened at that house, or of our return to camp.

Recently I read in the "History of Marine Corps Aviation in World War II" by Robert Sherrod a quote from our Col. Rixey ," A special squad fetched Matoba still in his pink bathrobe, from beside his phonograph. I can faintly remember a Browning Automatic Rifle in my hands as I came down the hill. I know we were not fired upon.

On occasion I would pull the guard duty on our war criminals. You would sit with them in a small shack for a four hour tour. I regretted not knowing Japanese, it would have been a wonderful opportunity to get their insight on the war, instead it was a very dull guard. Chichi Jima, is located about 150 miles north of Iwo. We were awe struck by its defenses. Nothing previously seen in the Pacific could compare with the coast and artillery defenses surrounding the main Chichi Harbor, Futami Bay, the only potential landing area for an invasion. Concrete emplacements, high in the mountains with steel door openings. The emplacements dug into the sides of the mountains were so plentiful that it gave the Island the appearance of a block of swiss cheese. They must have worked on the fortifications for at least 30 years. It was no doubt the Gibraltar of the Pacific.

The area where we landed once served as the Japanese sea plane base on Chichi Jima. Bomb craters in the ramps, used to haul the planes out of the water, testified to the accuracy of our carrier based planes, prior to the surrender. The surface damage on the island was quite extensive, but it was obvious that we hadn't scratched their defenses, which were expertly concealed underground and in the sides of the mountains. Once we got on the Island we found stairs hidden in the base of the mountains, leading to the emplacements. The guns in these emplacements were humongous, how they placed them there must have been one tough job. The location of many of the emplacements indicated that the Japanese plan was to permit an entrance into the harbor or onto the airfield, then to give us the "works".

We found tunnels that led to huge ammo and fuel dumps in side of mountains. These tunnels were large enough to drive a large truck in about 100 yards. Large generators the size of trailers were concealed under the ground, surrounded by thick concrete. We all agreed that the whole Corps would have bought it on Chichi. Iwo was hell, Chichi impossible. Sailing into that bay, we should have been kneeling on the deck thanking God that we passed this one up. I do not exaggerate. There was one huge cave, (100 yards deep, 10 yards wide) lined with copper sheathing. This cave was meant to store the Japanese archives, when and if the main Japanese Islands were occupied. I heard very recently from a native of the Island that, that particular cave was used to store atomic bombs during the Korean action. Japan would not allow the bombs on the mainland.

We attempted to salvage the copper. While we were using small jackhammers to remove the rivets, holding the copper plating together, several of us collapsed and fell off the scaffolding. We didn't know what the hell was going on, till it dawned on us, the generator driving our jackhammers, at the mouth of the cave, were pumping carbon monoxide in. We carried the guys out and shut down the operation.

To give you an example of what boredom will drive you to, I'll tell you about an incident that happened during a 5 man patrol of Haha Jima, a near by island. We were taken to Haha by a Destroyer Escort that waited off shore while we went on reconnaissance. We were put a shore just to check out what the Japanese garrison had left on the Island. We had removed those who had been stationed there, to Chichi. It was a beautiful island and being the only ones on it, it gave us a feeling of ownership. As we were passing through a valley on the far side of the Island we noticed a huge cave in the side of the mountain bordering the valley. It was subway tunnel size, big, those boys liked to dig. Inside we found a several thousand drums of kerosene. We had no orders to destroy anything of this magnitude. We didn't hesitate for a second, "Let's blow it." We punched holes in one of the drums and rolled it out to the mouth.

We lit the fuel, no good, the ground was to damp. We found a shack nearby, dismantled it, and used the wood to construct a wick that we strung deep into cave. We soaked it down with another open drum, lit it and took off. We waited and waited and nothing, ten minutes. It was time to separate the optimist from the pessimist. We were all nuts, we went back in hoping it wasn't going to blow in our face. Same operation, we lit it, and away we went. WHOOSH!! The daddy of all Zippos, came shooting out of the mouth of the cave, with a huge thunderous roar it crossed the valley, and hit the opposite side. We were jumping, and yelling, and laughing. No Corps, no parents, we were kids again. We kept moving and after a couple of hours we were climbing back aboard ship.

As we hit the deck, Capt. Moriority asked "What the hell did you guys do over there?" as he pointed back to the Island. The whole of Haha Jima had a thick black cloud hovering over it. Sam quickly rose to the occasion. "We burned a Japanese landing craft loaded with tires." "Boy look at that smoke" The Capt. kept looking at the cloud, as we beat it below deck.

We were on Chichi about two months when we received orders to detach half our number for China duty. It seemed that the Chinese communist were attacking the trains around the Tientsin area in north eastern China and some Marines were needed. One billion Chinese and they needed 250 homesick Marines. They asked for volunteers. None of us had liberty for almost two years or more, here was the opportunity at last. It would be the closest we had ever came to civilization (read that women), for a hell of a long time. The only hitch was that we might stay overseas a little longer. That night the outfit stayed up to the wee hours, each man pondering if he had one more great adventure in him. I still had wanderlust, and boredom was always a thorn in our side. I knew this would be my only opportunity to see China. In those days China was a long way from the States.

My father had previously sent home a beautiful rug while he was doing his China tour in l930, (38 yrs, Navy). My mother placed the rug in the living room and immediately declared the room off limits. From then on the only way you could get into my house was the back door. What a joke it would be to send the family home a new oriental rug, which I knew would put the dining room off limits. It was extremely painful, friends trying to convince each other to stay or to go. The debate centered on two choices 1- (Big city, and women, go home a little later.) 2- (Never volunteer and odds were early return to the States, when you finished the tour on Chichi.) I gave it a lot of thought, and then I cast my vote to stay on Chichi.

The guys in the tent argued with Sam all night, trying to convince him to stay. Sam was a little elf, who could make you laugh and always had a story to tell. He was about 33 years old and very homely. He was honest with us, he told us that his social life back home in D.C. was nil and it wasn't going to get any better. He had never had any luck with the ladies. This was the opportunity of his life time: woman, wine, and song. I remember how Sam would gamble his salary away on pay day, and then wake me up in the middle of the night so I could give him mine to lose. There was nothing to do with the money anyway. He looked like a little old man lost in a Marine uniform. There was nothing to him. What he lacked in size, he made up with a fantastic personality. Everybody felt like they had to look after him. His real name was Bill. He had made such a production of going over the obstacle course down in New River, N. C., we labeled him " Sam, Sam, the Obstacle Man." Sam left. We missed him, I still do.

One day we woke up to find a large supply ship from the States in the bay. Word went out that it was loaded with refrigerated stores. We hadn't had fresh food since we came to the Pacific. Our diet had been made up of powdered eggs, dehydrated potatoes, Spam, cheese and tins of Australian mutton, plus all the C & K rations you could stomach, (assortment of canned food). The drink was usually coffee, powdered milk, or battery acid. One morning, on Guam we went into shock at breakfast, when they served each man 1/2 of a fried egg. We had traded a Samurai sword to a Seabee cook for the eggs. The Seabee camps always had refrigeration.

All day long we were hustling from ship to shore, unloading tons of fresh food, plus a mountain of beer, Coke and Chocolate Cow. The fresh food was made up of cases of steaks, turkeys, grapefruit and oranges. I can't remember the rest of the ships manifest, but outside of the beverages, it was all fresh. We had cases and cases of turkey and steaks piled on the beach. Mountains of oranges & grape fruit. I don't know what the opposite of scurvy is, but it looked like we were about to die from it. The ship left the next day, leaving us with one hell of a problem. They had left us enough fresh food to last a Reg. (5,000 men) 2 or 3 months. We had approximately 200 men. I don't remember if this episode happened before of after the Tientsin detachment had left, it wouldn't have made a difference. The problem being we didn't have an ice cube on Chichi. One big SNAFU, (Situation Normal All Fouled Up). We tried storing the food in caves, but it didn't look too good.

There was only one thing we could do, and that was to set a new high for gluttony. Never had so few eaten so much. Just use your imagination what the next two weeks were like on that Island. We gorged ourselves day and night. We would build fires on the beach at night and have beer and steak parties. We were having turkey for breakfast, lunch and supper. We were having steak for breakfast lunch and supper. We were having steak for breakfast, turkey for lunch and steak for supper. We were having turkey for breakfast, steak for lunch, and turkey for supper. Finally thank God, we noticed the steak and turkey were turning blue, and the oranges and grapefruit were putting on fur coats. We just couldn't eat anymore. We hadn't made a dent in that mountain. All the meat and fruit in the caves, were now rotten. Ever smell rotten turkey? "WHEW". We ended the eating orgy by taking the remaining, nine tenths of the shipment out into the bay and dumping it. It wasn't that easy. The next day it was all over the beaches. We finally ended up burying it. The whole episode lasted about two weeks, then it was back to basics, powdered eggs, dehydrated potatoes etc. The beer, coke and Chocolate Cow we put to good use: there was only a small supply of fresh water on the Island. We had brought a small distillation plant with us to provide us with a limited amount of fresh water.

At home they call that tale, "Dad's Thanksgiving Day story". If I'm lucky, and there is a guest at the table, the family once more is forced to hear why Dad doesn't like turkey.

The episode of cannibalism did not help slacken the hate we already had mustered toward the guys who now own Rockefeller Center. The lobotomy was still in place, we could not understand why we should stop hating them. You can't just hold up a sign. If it was that simple there would be no bigotry. This war crime was not an isolated case, many even more horrible crimes committed against Japanese prisoners are still coming to light. The N.Y. Times 1994, published a list of crimes admitted to by the Japanese, which actually topped the Nazi atrocities in its viciousness. All sorts of barbaric vivisection operations were performed on their prisoners, for the purpose of scientific research. Our government in exchange for this research knowledge did not prosecute the doctors who executed these acts. These unpunished war criminals are still practicing medicine in Japan.

When we first arrived on Chichi, the Marine enlisted men would be assigned small working party's of Japanese. We would take them into the hills to destroy gun installations, ammo and fuel dumps. We would also use them to do all the menial tasks about the camp. Some of us were too tough on them, but not any harder then the D.I.'s were on us. Hatred for the foe was deeply embedded in us. Some of us, rather enjoyed breaking their humps. I think it gave a lot of guys a good night sleep when they got home. Not nice but true. There was never a hint of any sort of atrocity committed. This only lasted a short time, the Japanese General complained to our Commanding Officer, Col. Rixey. We were no longer permitted Japanese working parties, this really boiled us. What's the fun of winning a war.

The Col. was constantly entertaining the Japanese General Staff, those Officers, who were not involved in the crime, at our Headquarters in a large building called the White House. The Japanese officers would sit around on the porch drinking their sacci, watching us do the work done previously by our new found friends.

As I said, to most of us, the Japanese were not human. Our Government had propagandized us well, and we knew first hand of the atrocities that had been committed. We no longer felt like the victors. We wanted know who was going to pay the bill for the misery, not only our outfit had suffered, but also the debt that the Japanese owed every American . Is this it? That was it! We were just there to send them home, no pay back. Some guys started to get that gold teeth look in their eyes, they would scratch their heads and wonder what ever happened to justice. We felt we were losing face, our morale had hit rock bottom. What affected our behavior I think more than the Japanese, was that we were bored. A second metamorphosis was taking
place.

The war was over, life had lost its zest. We were all looking for that bridge off Parris Island. Each day was twice forever. Please dear God a letter. We were half way around the bend. The most memorable moment during my stay at Chichi was when my Col. Informed us that he was going to see us all "Hang from the yardarm". Due to circumstances beyond my control, the Col. mistakenly thought I led a mutiny. The strange thing about it was that I did lead it, but I had no idea it was in back of me.

I happened to be the first guy out of the wrong door. It all started the day scuttlebutt (rumor) went around the camp that the Col. had invited the Japanese Staff to our theater that evening. Word went out (from where, I still do not know) that when the Col. showed, we were all to leave. The theater was actually a large garage that had been benched to hold about two hundred of us for a nightly movie. There were two large openings, one at each end of the building.

That night it was my turn to go early and hold two seats, for Sam and Clausen. I arrived early and spread my poncho over prime bench, in the first row and waited. Just prior to the show starting, they both appeared at the door brandishing three beers, beckoning me out into the darkness to join them. There was no drinking in the theater and this was the normal
procedure.

As I approached them and reached for my brew I heard pandemonium break out immediately behind me. The three of us were swept away by the surging mob that was stampeding out the front entrance as Col. Rixey and his entourage entered through the rear. Within a millionth of a second I knew I had been stung. Upon seeing my exit, the rest of the outfit took it as the cue to beat it out the front door. I had been the victim of a marvelous sting. Within seconds the theater was empty, all but for the Col. and his friends, who no doubt got the message.

It was just my luck that when Sam & Clausen arrived at the door, the O.D. (The Officer of Day, who was responsible for the defense and decorum of the camp) was approaching from their rear. As the men stampeded past the O.D., he attempted to order us back into the theater. We had passed the point of no return, the mob just barreled past him. It was not the place to be standing around. The crowd quickly disappeared into the black night amid the shouts of "MOVIE CANCELED". But I knew I had made eye contact with the O.D. just as I had left the theater, and he would remember who came out that door first. He had been my Platoon Leader on Guam, my bad luck.

We beat it back to our tents and waited in the dark for the ax to fall. Sam and Clausen were lying on their sacks laughing hysterically, until I dumped over their sacks. They swore it was pure chance that the beer and Col. arrived simultaneously. Then it came loud and clear "FALL OUT ON THE BLACK TOP", (Formation area).

The Col. made his second mistake of the evening. He attempted to address us in the dark, I mean dark, a starless night. We figured mutiny was to be the main topic of his lecture. There was a very long pause as we stood at attention while he stared at us. He thought he had us at bay, but we were far from it. When he entertained the Japanese he had crossed the line. In our warped minds, we felt he had disgraced the uniform, and betrayed us. He started to wade into us with a great opening line." God damn you sons of b____s", (or words to that effect), but he never got off the ground.

He stood about 10 yards in front of the Company. I'm sure he could not identify the men, who from deep in the ranks, blanketed him with those old dull expletives. "Shove it up your ©©© " "Blow it out your ©©©" " "Kiss my ©©©", etc.

The officers were too far out in front of the Company to track the voices in the pitch dark. It was all over in seconds. The Col. was stunned, he had no alternative but to have us quickly dismissed, with the warning, that mutiny had a high price, and we were to pay every penny. "I will see you all hang from the yardarm". (There is a little Navy in every Marine). It was shocking experience, I never heard of it happening in the Corps.

I saw it happen once before when a naval officer made the mistake of
going into our dark hold, after "lights out" aboard the Funston, up at Iwo. He had shouted at us to knock off the noise, we immediately responded with some salty heckling. But that was done in fun and he quickly retreated, never to be heard from again. The three of us retreated to our tent and waited, we knew what was about to happen. We quickly agreed to stick to the truth about why I was the first to leave. In the mob we heard people shouting the movie was canceled and naturally we went back to our tent.

Within moments the O.D. entered the tent and invited me to Headquarters. The Col., Capt. and three Lieut.'s were waiting for me. I stood at attention forever and waited. The Col. looked like he had the face of that bulldog that Marines have tattooed on their arms. The Capt. Informed me that I was seen to be the first man out of the theater and would like an explanation why I left. I readily admitted I was the first man out, and only to quench my thirst. I explained about our routine of saving the seats, and how Sam & Clausen invited me out to down a brew. When we saw the men coming out and hearing the movie was canceled, we went back to our tents.

Normally I never enjoyed being in the company of Officers, but now I was enjoying their plight. They were stymied, our story was so simple and solid. I kept my normal dumb, bewildered look on my face and waited. The O.D. who was a good soul, suggested that, "The man who shouted out that the movie was canceled was the culprit". But then again a lot of men were it out, and it was canceled. Did someone shout it out from inside the theater?" The Col. said "I'm not buying this crap, and Monks I'm going to see you hang from the yardarm". (I thought, where is he going to find a yardarm)?

After the questioning of Sam and Clawson, we were sent back to our tents. We sat in the dark, broke out some more beer, and laughed like hell. You only let guys you love, do that to you. How I miss those bums. The next day scuttlebutt was flying all over the camp. The word went out the Col. was going to break down the rank of all Non Commissioned Officers, and our mail was to be once again censored. It never happened as far as breaking the Non Coms, I don't know about the mail. The Col. left shortly to fly to Wash, we believed to press charges of mutiny, and to see if he could locate an old yardarm.

In the meantime disciplinary action was to be taken against the whole outfit. This action consisted of digging trenches and filling them up again. Unnecessary policing of the area and more work parties. All beer, soda and cigarette rations ended. When the Col. left things lightened up. While this harassment was going on, we had sent all Japanese troops back to their mainland. All except the prisoners. Shortly after the Japanese left, we received orders to return to Guam.

The Boniness were to be placed in a UP.N. Trusteeship. The Island was to
remain unoccupied for many years. Only the actual natives, the descendants of Nathaniel Savory were to return in Oct. of 46. Our orders of departure contained the strange request that all live stock on Chichi and Haha were to return with us. The livestock consisted of 12 horses, numerous pigs, goats, chickens, dogs and one monkey. The Col. had been using the horses we found on the Island to whip some of our farm boys into a cavalry outfit. Being a Va. man he knew his horses and something about cavalry drills. He and the boys were having the time of their lives, until the mutiny.

The vessel we were to return on was rather small. The ship was an LST 1069 (Landing Ship Tank) mainly used during the war as a landing craft for troops and armor. The ship was 300 ft. in length with a beam of 50 ft. and a crew of 110. It was l,625 tons with a flat bottom. The most striking characteristic was the large doors that made up its bow. When the craft ran up onto the beach these huge doors would open, then like a large tongue a ramp would come out of the open mouth. Tanks and Troops would then spew out onto the beach.

C/O FLEET
POST OFFICE, SAN FRANCISCO
23 March, l946 From: The Commanding Officer To:
The Director, Personnel Department, Headquarters
U. S. Marine Corps, Washington, 25, D.C. Subject:
Embarkation Roster, Reference: (a) Article 1015, Marine
Corps Manual. 1. The below named members of this organization embarked on 23 March, l946 at Chi Chi Jima, BONIN ISLANDS and sailed there from on Ã Ä on USS LST # 1069.

THE ARK

The occupation of Chichi Jima after WW II had come to a close; we were finally ordered to return to Guam. We had sent all Japanese troops back to their mainland, all except the prisoners. Chichi was to be placed in a U.N. Trusteeship and the island was to be uninhabited for the next twenty years. Our orders of departure contained the strange request that all livestock on Chichi were to return with us.

The livestock consisted of 19 horses; numerous pigs, goats, chickens, dogs and one monkey named Hojo. Hojo was a member of Charlie Co. He had joined Charlie during the Bougainville campaign. The Colonel had been using the horses found on the Island to whip some of the farm boys into the first and last Marine Corps cavalry outfit. Being a gentleman from Virginia he knew his horses and something about cavalry drills.

The vessel we were to return on was small. The ship was an LST (Landing Ship Tank) mainly used during the war as a landing craft for troops and armor. The ship was 300 ft. in length with a beam of 50 ft. and a crew of 110. It was 1,625 tons with a flat bottom. The most striking characteristic was the large doors that made up its bow. When the craft ran up on the beach these huge doors would open, then like a large tongue, a ramp would come out of the open mouth. Tanks and troops would then spew out onto the beach. I give you all these details because in the following yarn the ship is the main character.

We loaded our strange cargo into the hold, and made them as comfortable as we could among the trucks, Jeeps and the rest of our supplies. The situation did not look too promising for our four legged sailors. We constructed a wooden shack on the main deck to act as a brig for our Japanese prisoners. These men were being taken back to Guam to stand trial for war crimes.

After a day out at sea, the smell of the animals permeated the ship. We were sailing in a dirty barn. It was painful trying to sleep, between the grunting of the pigs, the barking of the dogs, the baa of the goats and the neighing of the horses. We had a regular Spike Jones band below deck. Chickens were starting to wander around the deck.

The second night out, the ship started taking a beating from a heavy sea. We received the word that a typhoon was about to bear down on us and to secure everything. How do you secure a zoo?

A sailor told me that prior to the ship’s arrival at Chichi they had lost their regular Captain, who had been transferred to another ship. An inexperienced Executor Officer was now the Acting Captain and the crew did not trust him. The executive was about to get his baptism of fire. Within a couple of hours, the wind had increased in force to 70 mph. I recently consulted the U.S. Weather Bureau for the WD SP of that typhoon in that longitude & latitude during late March, l946. They sent me a computer printout, that read, 045, 070, 070, 100, 085, 080, 090, 090. As any old swabbie would tell you, that was a blow and a half.

The ship was being tossed and battered in an honest to God typhoon. I stood out on the deck to watch the magnitude and power of the seas. I could actually see the ship bending amidships. The deck plates were continuously crying out in pain. A sailor reassured me that the ship was made to buckle amidships so that it wouldn’t snap in half. I felt like crying along with the plates. The ship tipped more then rolled because of its flat bottom, on a good tip you could look UP at the sea. The decks were constantly awash.

WHOOSH! The brig we made for our prisoners went bottom up and blew over the side, leaving the Japanese still on the deck. We ushered them below deck. Our intentions were to hang them not drown them. They must have had some fun in that shack while the ship pitched.

We were to be in the typhoon for several days. We were notified that the port on Guam was closed and to ride out the storm as best we could. I had been in rough weather before but nothing like this. The bow would ride high into the air and then come crashing down to bury itself in the sea. Prior to the storm a sailor had informed me that the doors were damaged and had been jury-rigged to stay closed. I prayed they would.

The huge seas controlled our course. The ship appeared helpless, as the helmsman’s metal was being tested, trying to keep the bow into waves in order to keep the ship from broaching. As we left Guam to our stern, the storm increased in velocity. It looked as if we were going to be blown as far south as Truk, in the Caroline Islands. Our brother Regiment, the 21st Marines who were stationed there might be in for a surprise.

I was scared stiff. I wished that I hadn’t heard about the doors or the Executive. I always hated a rough sea, but this was like being in a blender.

As you would expect our sailors in the hold were taking heavy casualties. A lot of the poor animals, including several horses had died early on. The dead horses had bloated. The ship reeked from the smell of the dead and the waste of those still alive. This pungent aroma and the ferocity of the storm called for an iron stomach.

We were out at sea far longer then we had expected and therefore had to ration our chow and fresh water, not that anybody had an appetite. Marines and Sailors alike would just lie in their sacks with their head in their helmets, The helmets were strapped to the edge of the sacks and at night, as the ship tipped, you would hear the splashing on the deck, as the helmets runneth over.

Some Marines volunteered to go into the hold and hoist out the dead horse carcasses through the main hatch. We all watched as the first horse, hog-tied went out of the hold. The horse was bloated to twice its normal size and swinging like a pendulum. Just as the carcass was about to clear the hold, it broke in half, deluging the working party below, with horse. The audience fell on the deck laughing. Due to a shortage of volunteers that work detail was canceled.

All day long the carcass of the horse followed in our wake. Was the mangled equine stalking us? It was positively eerie, was it horse or albatross? A blanket of gloom covered the ship.

I thought of the lines of Coleridge

And having once turned round, walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.

The following morning our spirits rose as we finally escaped the storm and headed back to Guam, our pursuer had sank beneath the waves. As we entered the harbor we breathed a sigh of relief, but it was much too soon. The Executive was about to dock a ship for the first time. If there is any sort of cross wind, combined with the loss of headway, docking can be a very difficult task for any seaman.

As we bore in, the Marines on board were lining the rail checking out the ships in the harbor. We appeared to be closing on a beautiful yacht, the “Lonely Lady,” that was tied up to the pier. The sailors, pointing out its flag, told us it belonged to the Commodore of the Island. The yacht was J.P. Morgan class. It was a luxurious showpiece made of wood, its polished brass and varnished deck glistened in the sun.

The only person on deck was a young officer, waving to us in a friendly manner, a very cool character. This guy seemed real smug, he knew he had it made. He looked like Ensign Pulver from that play Mr. Roberts, a ninety-day wonder, in new, neatly pressed khaki. His demeanor quickly changed to panic as he realized we had lost headway and were being blown into his side. He started making signs with his hands as if to push us off. It was now obvious we were about to mash the Lonely Lady against the dock. The guy on the yacht deck had by now completely lost it. He was springing into the air, waving his arms and screaming foul language. We came along broadside and tucked the Lonely Lady into the side of the pier.

The Marines were howling with laughter as we watched the polished planks pop and spring into the air. We kissed her, un-puckered and impolitely continued on our way. We had done extensive damage. We never exchanged a word with the maniac; he was not making any sense. This poor guy was in deep trouble with the Commodore. (Officer of the Deck, what deck?) As we proceeded deeper into the harbor, the sailors were cursing the Executive, and the Marine laughter could not be contained.

We are now heading for a docking space between two other LSTs, who have their doors open on to the beach. Sitting ducks! There is about a thirty-yard space between them.

I figure by now every ship in the harbor had their glasses trained on us and we didn’t let them down. The docking operation looked to us as easy as parking a car. I’m sure it appeared that way to the Executive. As we approached the gap between the two ships, we slowed our forward motion and again we lost headway. The crosswind caught our bow, crashing us into the stern of the LST on our starboard side. As we back off, we proceed to cream the other ship on our port side with our stern.

We are on the verge of being wedged between them. Nobody has the heart to laugh anymore; by now the Marines are bonded to our ship and we are sharing our shipmate’s embarrassment. We can no longer even look.

Finally the three crews fight us free and we eventually dock between the ships. Our sailors want to take the ship back out to sea and go down with it. They all agree that it would not be wise to take shore leave. The other two crews are complaining about a horrible smell.

We no longer notice it; we have become the smell. Now comes the piece de resistance. When the ship is made snug to the beach, the Exec gives the order, “Open the bow doors.” Sure enough with all the eyes of Guam staring at us, out of the mouth of our ship comes one hell of a bad breath, followed by the survivors of the typhoon: sick chickens, thin pigs, smelly goats, wild dogs, and a bunch of lame horses. Looking into the hold one can see a bloated horse has commandeered the Col.’s Jeep.

Hojo had been quartered with us, and was in the pink.

I want to know how the heck the Executive got us through that typhoon. I never saw the man. He is now probably living out in Kansas, far from the briny deep.

Next day the headline of the Guam Daily read:

NOAH’S ARK LANDS ON GUAM

The trials got very little if any publicity in the U.S.. We were holding our breaths, waiting for the Col. to return. Every time I pictured myself hanging from a yardarm, I would always be dressed in the clothes of a buccaneer. Hanging from a yardarm sounded pretty romantic. Remember Lincoln quoting that guy who was to be tarred and feathered "If it wasn't for the honor I would just as soon decline" (Something like that).

One afternoon I was suddenly told to pack my seabag, several of us were going home the next morning. We all got smashed that night. We exchanged addresses and promised to look each other up. I just couldn't get it through my head that I had a home and family, and I was going their. It was like being told that I was going to the moon. I had become a person, while far from the ties of my family. I had been born again, and had spent a lifetime in the Pacific. I didn't feel like I was going back, more like I was going to a place for the first time. The sadness, overwhelmed the joy. My happiness was to come, but my loss was immediate. Parting is such an unnatural phenomenon.

HOME AT LAST
I got out of the cab, on a Sunday morning June- 1944 in front of my house. I threw my seabag over my shoulder walked through the alley to my back door. I remembered the rug.

SUMMER OF 46- By June of the summer of '46 most of us had made it back. We had been in every military service and every corner of the world. We had gone away as innocent as boys could be, and had come back still in a daze from our experiences. Our innocence had also been interred in that common grave, where "Ernies" and Stickball was buried.

Everybody took that summer off and joined the 52/20 club. The Govt. gave all the veterans 20 bucks a week for a year, to tide them over until they found themselves. Most of the gang would be off to college in Sept., courtesy of Uncle Sam. The only words that could adequately describe that summer would have to be, celestial bliss. We had years to make up and we packed it into three months. For the first time in our lives we were free spirited adults with a tremendous "Joie de vivre". We all had our family cars to joyride with the crowd. We had all reached the legal age to drink, which
opened the door to nights of revelry and degradation. But for us there was only "HAPPY'S", one of the greatest yacht clubs that ever graced any shore.

Our average day started in the morning with a round of golf. We would then proceed to the beach which was only a stones throw from the golf course. The loser of the golf game would buy lunch at the Pavilion on the boardwalk. We would then go for a swim and lie on the beach for awhile. All over the beach you would see the crowd lying on Navy, Marine and Army blankets. We always had a football and our cleats with us. All the old crowds from Ernie's hung out in the same beach area, Bay 13. There was never any trouble getting up a touch tackle game. There was a grassy playing area in back of the boardwalk that made for a great field.

After the game we would go back into the water for a quick dip. From there we would go back to the Pavilion and sit outside at the round tables and guzzle a few beers. The plans for the evening were then brought to the fore.
In the evening there were three popular places to choose from. Happy's Yacht Club, Irish Town and De Leos. No matter which place we chose, at the end of the night we would end up at the Ave S Diner for burgers or ham & eggs. I found Happy's to be the most enjoyable. When you were in Happy's, you had it all. The club itself was built out on the water. When the atmosphere inside the club got a little too stuffy, you could take a stroll with your date on the open deck overlooking the water. Ah! To stand on that deck for one more moment.

I can still hear the music in the background, feel the cool night breeze that draws us closer together, as we share the beauty of the moon, reflecting off the water. It was that romantic setting that Hollywood musicals always strove for. That summer was to be the beginning of one hell of a love affair in my life. After almost 50 years I can still stir up some beautiful and painful memories. "There will be a tree forever leafless in the forest of my heart".
(Santayana) Let’s leave her out here, get off this deck and get back inside.

The bands great sound and the good size dance floor, really enhanced our dancing pleasure. We took good advantage of those dancing lessons that we had in Pep's basement a lifetime before. I always got a kick out of watching Joe Lundy and Dot Burdgie doing the Peabody, to the music of "Hold That Tiger". It was an incredibly fast dance. Joe turned out to be the used car dealer in the crowd. He was as bad as the best of them. Joe was great fun, I always enjoyed his war stories. I remember at the time he was driving an old Ford. He used a piece of clothesline to tie the doors closed. It was probably the best car on his lot. The girls would drink rum and coke or
just coke. The guys would drink a ton of beer.

The price was terrific, the whole evening would add up to about five bucks. The war had separated us for such a long period that we had a lot of amusing and exciting experiences to share. And as the old saying goes, we never let the facts get in the way of a good story.

My two childhood friends, the other two Bills (Harry & Phil) would be at the table. We knew each other from the age of four. Phil had been a pilot and Harry was part of the crew of a Navy torpedo bomber. Pep would be there also, he had been a radioman with the Navy. We each still had our esprit de corps, always defending the branch of the service that we had served in. You can bet this could only have been done in retrospect. It was the first time any of us ever said a good word about the outfits we were glad to get the hell out of. I remember how we would all end up singing at the table.

The songs were the old standbys that belonged to that time. "When You Were Sweet Sixteen" "In a Shanty in Old Shanty Town," "The Gang Down on the Corner" "Whippenpoof Song. " Paper Doll" "Don't Get Around Much Anymore”. We all sang, we never let a good song get in the way of a bad voice. I remember how the girls really looked great. But the guys wore some strange suits in those days. All the Vets came home at the same time, causing one big clothing shortage. There was just not enough decent suits to go around. It was always good for a laugh to go with a guy who just came home to buy a suit. He would try on these weird suits, and we would say how terrific he looked.

That night at Happy's we would kid the pants off him. He wouldn't care, he was finally out of uniform. Come to think of it, it was probably the first suit he ever bought. I remember when the suit makers finally caught up with the demand, gabardine came into fashion. It seemed we exchanged one uniform for another. Everybody was wearing a grey gabardine suit. It looked great on all of us.

I remember Old Irish Town, a section in Rockaway on the shore. On a summer evening after a day at the beach we would pile into our cars and drive into this area that had more Irish bars per sq. ft. than any place in the world. The music from each bar would flow out its doors and windows and blend into an Irish mist that would permeate the air. The whole area was in continuous frenzy. I think the only scene you could compare it to would be the feast day in Pamplona, when on the occasion they let the Bulls run free, chasing the brave populous down the winding street into the bullring. We would bounce from one gin mill to another, pausing in each, to drink, sing and dance. On the edge of town there was a miniature Coney Island.

Occasionally, before we would go home, we would end up at the shooting gallery. Every G.I. thought he was the greatest marksman in the war, especially when he had a few beers in him. It was a great fun town. You had to be in shape to last the night. Thank God we always had a designated driver.

I remember one night after we had returned from Irish Town, it must have been about one in the morning. Four of us had dropped the girls off and we were sitting in my parked car on Ave. R. We heard this awful loud noise and turned to look out the back window. Here comes this car, sliding down the Ave. on its side, throwing sparks like a blast furnace. Some how it had tipped over in a race with friends in another car. We really didn't know what it was until the car came to a halt and the sparks stopped. We immediately ran over to the car and pulled out 5 guys.

The chap I pulled out has only one arm. I was horrified, till he told me that he lost it in the war. No one was hurt and we quickly set the car upright. They were gone in a matter of moments, before the residents on either side of the street could open their doors. It turned out we knew most of them. We joined them down at that roast beef place, Brennen & Carrs, and we all had a good nervous laugh. It was hard to believe they all got out without a scratch. They don't make cars like that anymore. You know it didn't even look that bad.

Forty six years later I met an occupant of the car, Joe Bradberry, in MA. We both agreed not many people ever believed what happened that night. That car slid a good twenty yards. He told me he still lived on Marine Parkway.

September finally came and higher education beckoned. We had no regrets; we had done the summer of 46 in spades. It was the best of times in that kingdom by the sea. There were other great summers that followed, but there was no doubt about that being the high water mark. It was now time for the guys in the crowd to choose their individual careers. And they were various, they ran the gambit from used car dealer to test pilot, from philosopher to architect.

Tom Belcher combined chicken farming and investment banking. The G.I. Bill provided all the vets with a paid college education and sixty bucks a month. All the fellows were anxious to take advantage of it. In a short time we were absorbed in that wonderful game called, "What in hell is it all about?" Phil attended the Acad. of Aeronautics. He ended up a designer and test pilot for Republic Aircraft. My old childhood friend never got flying out of his blood. He flew for a good thirty years. His wife told me at his wake, that on weekends he would always go down to the local field and rent a plane. That big heart of his quit on him one night while he was sleeping. I was fortunate to have spent my youth with him, a real honest to God Huck Finn.

Harry, Pep and I went to one of the local colleges in Brooklyn, St. Francis. Harry had gone to the Prep and had heard good things about the College. It was a very small college and I'm sure it went into shock when the great influx of vets enrolled. It had only five classrooms, two labs, a postage size gym and about 7 or 8 hundred students. Let’s just say it was a small college where you had ample opportunity to develop a close relationship with your fellow students. Every available space including the roof was used for a classroom. I had the unique experience of attending both day and night school during the same semester. The classes during one semester were spread over a six day week. I remember one semester I had a math class at 11 AM and a class in labor law at 6 PM. The local restaurant the Greasy Spoon was used as our study hall, student center, and dining facility. Pie was a dime and coffee a nickel.

I was twenty years old, I went to on marry my wife Dorothy, have seven
children, four adopted and nineteen grandchildren. I have been blessed, but Iwo Jima will always be a part of me. I can never get off that ship.

- Bill Monks

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