You sit huddled in your foxhole, exhausted and shivering in the mud. The rain is slashing down in a driving torrent. It feels as if you haven't slept in weeks and your dungarees are soaked and filthy. For the hundredth time, you wipe the water from your watch and try to figure out what time it is. You stare hard at the luminous hands, but it's too dark to even see anything, much less read the numbers on your watch. It must be after midnight, but you can't be sure.
The jungle wraps around you, dark and forbidding. You know it's at times like this the enemy comes, his movements cloaked by the rain and wind. Suddenly, you're startled by a sharp crack out to the front! Your heart pounds, and you stare hard out into the dark. Your foxhole buddy, sleeping beside you in the muddy water-filled hole, doesn't even stir. Maybe it was nothing... a tree falling... yeah, that was it... a tree. Please let it just be a tree. Just to be sure, you check for the hand grenades that you left on the edge of your foxhole just before dusk. They're still there, cold and hard on the soft sodden ground.
As the adrenalin wears off, your eyes become heavy and it's nearly impossible to stay awake. Your chin bangs against your chest, and you jerk your head back up. You can't doze off; the guys are depending on you. God, it's cold! Your teeth are starting to chatter and a hard chill goes through you. Maybe it's another malaria attack coming on. Gotta see the doc in the morning and get some quinine.
You take off your helmet and tilt your head back toward the sky. Opening your mouth, you let the water splash on your tongue like when you were a kid back in the states. That seems like a thousand years ago.
Off in the distance a burst of machinegun fire slants through the night, echoing faintly. Your foxhole buddy stirs beside you. He asks you in a whisper if everything's okay. You tell him sure it is and go back to sleep. He wants to know how long until his turn on watch. You whisper that it's not long. Soon, or maybe an hour later he's snoring very softly. The night wraps around you again and you begin to nod off. Wishing for a hot canteen cup of coffee, you rub your eyes. Then you blink and try to stretch in the cramped hole.
Deep in your belly the rumbling starts. Please don't let it be the runs again. There's no room to take care of it with your buddy sleeping. For that, you both have to be sitting up. Yesterday, the winner in the platoon crap contest went 16 times. After awhile the rumbling subsides and you're 
just there, staring into the jungle and waiting. Jesus, the rain is cold.
Suddenly, just over to your right, there's a sharp whoosh and a pop. You duck down and realize it's a flare going up over in the next-door platoon's area. Without thinking, you look up at the bright light as it floats toward the ground. The flare casts crazy shadows as it swings back and forth. You grab your rifle and hold it tight. Your buddy wakes up and you feel him there at your shoulder. He asks what's going on and you whisper that you don't have a clue. The flare burns out and the jungle settles down into an uneasy watchfulness.
Your buddy says quietly that you didn't look too good today. He thinks maybe you should go see the doc in the morning. No, I'm okay, you tell him. He says he can't sleep anyway, so he'll take watch for awhile and you can get some shut-eye. Sure, no problem, you whisper. Then, you lie back crouched in the muddy hole. Your eyes grow heavier and heavier. You yawn, and slowly drift into a fitful half-sleep...
...and the rain keeps falling.
(above) weary Marines moving to the rear on Cape Gloucester - January 1944
USMC Photo
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(above) Pfc George Miller, 1st MarDiv with
his heavy .30 machine gun moving to the rear
after 19 days on Hill 660, Cape Gloucester-
January 1944 USMC Photo
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(Painting "Counterattack" by Tom Lea - Peleliu 1944 US Army Combat Art Collection)
EXPERIENCE OF COMBAT #1
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