Quotes from Eugene B. Sledge

APC pills from a corpsman.* This medication was the standard remedy for everything except bayonet, gunshot, or shrapnel wounds.

Time had no meaning; life had no meaning. The fierce struggle for survival in the abyss of Peleliu eroded the veneer of civilization and made savages of us all.

Doc kept at his work. In a quiet, calm voice he told me to get a battle dressing out of his pouch and press it firmly against his face to stop the bleeding while he finished work on the wounded arm. Such was the selfless dedication of the navy hospital corpsmen who served in Marine infantry units.

Didn't the Marines teach you anything?" demanded a frustrated registrar at Auburn. "Yes, Ma'am," Sledge replied icily. "They taught me how to kill Japs.

As I looked at the stains on the coral, I recalled some of the eloquent phrases of politicians and newsmen about how "gallant" it is for a man to "shed his blood for his country

The words seemed so ridiculous. Only the flies benefited.

This man was a middle-aged, pleasant-looking civilian dressed in a neat white Panama suit, straw hat, and black tie. Surrounded by sailors in blue denim and ship's officers in khaki, he looked like a fictional character out of some long-forgotten era.

Listen, mate, everybody gets scared, and anybody says he don't is a damn liar.

Howard's luck just run out, that's all. Ain't no damn way a guy can go on forever without gittin' hit," gloomily remarked a Gloucester veteran who had joined Company K with Nease two campaigns before Okinawa.

Even the hardiest Marine typically kept his rifle and his person clean. His language and his mind might need a good bit of cleaning up but not his weapon, his uniform, or his person.

I was never awarded an individual decoration, but the simple, sincere personal remarks of approval by my veteran comrade that night after Peleliu were like a medal to me. I have carried them in my heart with great pride and satisfaction ever since.

The company had many rugged individualists, characters, old salts, and men who were "Asiatic," but Haney was in a category by himself. I felt that he was not a man born of woman, but that God had issued him to the Marine Corps.

War is brutish, inglorious, and a terrible waste... The only redeeming factors were my comrades' incredible bravery and their devotion to each other. Marine Corps training taught us to kill efficiently and to try to survive. But it also taught us loyalty to each other - and love. That espirit de corps sustained us.

I am the harvest of man's stupidity. I am the fruit of the holocaust. I prayed like you to survive, but look at me now. It is over for us who are dead, but you must struggle, and will carry the memories all your life. People back home will wonder why you can't forget.

Your soul may belong to Jesus, but your ass belongs to the marines.

Something in me died at Peleliu. Perhaps it was the childish innocence that accepted as faith the claim that Man is basically good. Possibly I lost faith that politicians in high places, who do not have to endure war's savagery, will ever stop blundering and sending others to endure it.

Courage meant overcoming fear and doing one's duty in the presence of danger, not being unafraid.

As I looked at the stains on the coral, I recalled some of the eloquent phrases of politicians and newsmen about how "gallant" it is for a man to "shed his blood for his country," and "to give his life's blood as a sacrifice," and so on. The words seemed ridiculous. Only the flies benefited.

I asked God "Why, why, why?" I turned my face away and wished that I were imagining it all. I had tasted the bitterest essence of war, the sight of helpless comrades being slaughtered, and it filled me with disgust.

I think the Marine Corps has forgotten where Pavuvu is," one man said. "I think God has forgotten where Pavuvu is," came a reply. "God couldn't forget because he made everything." "Then I bet he wishes he could forget he made Pavuvu.

And I didn't neglect to point out to my Yankee buddies that most of the high shooters in our platoon were Southern boys.

As the sun disappeared below the horizon and its glare no longer reflected off a glassy sea, I thought of how beautiful the sunsets always were in the Pacific. They were even more beautiful than over Mobile Bay. Suddenly a thought hit me like a thunderbolt. Would I live to see the sunset tomorrow?

Would the war dehumanize me so that I, too, could "field trip" enemy dead with such nonchalance?

Lying in a foxhole sweating out an enemy artillery or mortar barrage or waiting to dash across open ground under machine-gun or artillery fire defied any concept of time.