James White is a WWII Marine Veteran, NRA Instructor, Former ORA President, and Distinguished Marksman. He served the ORA for many years and began the Sharpshooter. These writings are from the Sharpshooter archives and his personal collection.
THE SHELL HOLE
Bobby Wooler looked all around the hole. He lifted his M1 rifle and pulled the operating rod all the way back. He caught the round of ammunition as it was extracted from the chamber. He pressed the clip latch and unloaded the four rounds and the clip from the M1’s magazine. He found three loose rounds in a pocket and reassembled the clip until it again held eight rounds. He carefully looked all around the hole and up the hill. He took the tooth brush out of the left breast pocket of his dungaree jacket and quickly used it to clean the action of the M1. He again looked all around the hole as he reloaded the clip into the M1. He lowered the rifle until its butt was on the ground. He rubbed his eyes and leaned against the side of the hole. He was very tired.
* * *
Four men came out of the big tent and approached the jeep.
“Want to drive, Strain?”
“Yes, Sir.” Strain got in behind the steering wheel and started the engine. The other three men began to climb into the jeep. A man wearing gold oak leaves on his collar came out of the big tent. A sign on the tent stated that it was the headquarters of the Sixth Medical Battalion.
“I want to go on record as being completely against this,” the commander said. “It will probably cause a setback in the recovery of each of you men.”
The man seated in the front passenger seat nodded. “Your objection is noted, Doctor. But this is something we have to do. Let’s go Strain.” The jeep pulled away from the tent.
* * *
Bobby Wooler would never come to mind when the word Marine is envisioned. He was short, squat and bow legged. His teeth were prominent and his ears stuck out from the sides of his head. A female high school classmate had once described him as “– so ugly, he’s cute”.
After his parents had died, he had been raised by an uncle and aunt. He was not unintelligent, he was good at mathematics, but his interests were more athletic than intellectual, more toward hunting than reading. He could throw a baseball fast and straight, so he pitched and played third base. The school was too small to have a football team, but football was a sport that was secondary to basketball in Indiana high schools. He was an excellent ball handler but the school had boys who were equally good and much taller who usually played in games.
World War II was raging. After high school graduation he went to Indianapolis and enlisted in the Marine Corps. He was sent to Parris Island, South Carolina for recruit training. At first, he was the butt of jokes by his fellow boots and singled out for extra “treatment” by his drill instructors. But Bobby took the abuse without complaining and learned so readily that after several weeks he began to be treated no worse than any other member of his boot platoon.
Bobby’s M1 rifle had partially failed him on qualification day near the end of the three week sojourn at the rifle range. It was being discovered that the rear sights on some M1 rifles would “walk” down under the recoil of firing, changing the sight setting and making bullets hit low. This was especially costly in rapid fire. Bobby became aware that his rifle was doing this during the qualification firing, but too late. He finished his slow fire at 500 yards by running the rear sight all the way down before each shot, then coming up the correct number of clicks for his 500 yard zero. The rifle shot well otherwise, Bobby shot a perfect score at 500 yards. He didn’t achieve every Marine recruit’s ambition, to qualify as an Expert Rifleman. He shot a score of 305 and only qualified as Sharpshooter, just missing the 306 minimum score for Expert. He was disappointed, but he had learned from the experience.
Six months later, Bobby Wooler was assigned to a Marine rifle company on Okinawa. The company had been relieved from the front lines and was in a rest area when the replacements arrived. The platoon sergeant of the Third Platoon, Sergeant Fiorillo, was watching the new men as they climbed down off the truck. He pointed out Bobby Wooler. “There’s our new assistant BARman. All he’ll be good for is wearing that vest and luggin’ ammo.” The Third Platoon leader, Lieutenant Rocco Lucchi, said nothing.
Each rifle platoon in a Marine company normally had three Browning Automatic Rifles, or BARs, per squad. Since a platoon at full strength had three squads, there would be nine BARs in a platoon. The BAR was like a light machine gun with a slower rate of fire. It fired full power .30 caliber cartridges that were loaded in magazines that held twenty rounds. It could use up ammunition at a prodigious rate. A BARman carried the twenty pound BAR and wore a vest as well that had pockets in which BAR magazines were carried. An assistant BARman carried an M1 rifle or a carbine. But he also wore a vest that held even more BAR magazines and was even heavier.
The evening of the day that Bobby joined the Third Platoon, The Company moved up and occupied front line positions. At first light of the next morning, Bobby called out, “Lieutenant, come take a look at this”. Rocco Lucchi was tempted to ignore the request because of the reference to his rank, and as he was making his way to Wooler’s position, Bobby compounded his error by singing out, “Sorry, Sir. I should have called you ‘Rocky'”. Ranks were usually not mentioned in Marine rifle companies while they were in close proximity to the enemy. And no one was ever addressed as “Sir”, lest a hidden Japanese sniper be made aware who was an officer and who was not. Officer and enlisted were dressed alike and wore no insignia of rank.
When Lucchi knelt down beside him, Bobby pointed down into a valley where a recess had been dug into the side of a small hill. It was occupied by a truck that had been damaged by shell fire. All four tires were flat.
“There’s a Jap down there,” Bobby declared.
“How do you know it’s a Jap?” asked Lucchi.
“Wrap leggings,” answered Bobby.
Lt. Lucchi raised his binoculars and finally located a figure at nearly 500 yards away. Sure enough, the man had wrapped leggings. “Keep him in sight and I’ll get one of the BARs to take a shot at him.” He started to leave.
Bobby grabbed his arm. “I can get him,” He said quietly.
Lucchi looked at him for a second or two. “Okay, have at it.”
Bobby rested his M1 on an embankment and got in position behind the rifle. He aimed at the man. The wind was calm. The rear sight had a locking bar that prevented recoil from walking the sight down. The bar had to be loosened before rear sight adjustments could be made. The rifle had a good 200 yard zero so he decided to use Kentucky windage and not make an elevation change for the longer distance. He estimated that he would have to aim at a point equal to a third of the Jap’s height above his helmet.
Lucchi focused his binoculars on the Jap, who was standing in front of the truck with his hands on his hips. He was about to tell Bobby that he would spot his shot for him, when the rifle fired. Lucchi jumped slightly and lost the truck in his binoculars. When he again found the truck the Jap was not in sight.
“I couldn’t see where your shot hit, Wooler. You must have missed him.” Lucchi kept looking, then said, “Mama Mia, Wooler, you got him”. The Jap was laying in front of the truck.
After the successful long shot, Bobby gave up the assistant BARman’s vest. He remained a rifleman.
* * *
The jeep left the valley and began to struggle up the hill. The driver tried second gear, then shifted into low. He weaved around and between craters of various sizes while the motor howled as it strained to keep the jeep moving up the hill.
The hill looked as if an immense gray lump had been worked over by a huge ball peen hammer. The surface of the hill was cratered and had been swept by shell fragments. Any vegetation remaining on the hill had been truncated into stubs of stems and roots. The hill had been the site of ferocious fighting as late as two days before.
The four men in the jeep hung on as the jeep rocked its way up the hill. The driver had the steering wheel to give him support, while the man in the right front seat grasped the windshield with his left hand and the side of the jeep with his right. The two men in back had their seats and the sides of the jeep to hold onto, except that the man in the right rear seat could use only one hand. His left arm was in a sling.
The man in the right front seat leaned toward the driver and pointed at something ahead of them. The driver nodded and gave a terse reply. After another fifty feet of climbing, the driver turned left, broadside to the slope of the hill, and stopped the jeep on a relatively level area. He turned the ignition switch off and stopped the engine. All four men remained seated for a few seconds. The air was still and carried the smell of death. With the engine stopped, the ‘CRUMP’ sounds of shell explosions and a constant cacophony of shots; single shots, shots in pairs and in groups, sometimes interspersed with the fast bursts of machine guns and the slower bursts of BARs — the age old rattle of musketry — came to them from beyond the top of the hill.
They began to get out of the jeep. The man in the right front seat gingerly lifted his right leg out of the jeep and tested it against the ground before he put his weight on it. He was the tallest in the group.
All four of the men were dressed in brand new dungaree pants and jackets made of gray-green herring bone cotton twill, with the eagle, globe and anchor Marine emblem and the letters USMC on the pocket over the heart. Each had new khaki colored, lace-up leggings that ran most of the way up their calves, and new shoes, boondockers, high top rubber soled shoes with the rough side of the leather on the outside of the shoe. Three of them wore helmets with camouflaged cover brown side out.
The driver of the jeep, PFC Strain, wore a regulation rifle cartridge belt. The other three men wore pistol belts. Strain was wearing a billed cloth cap, made of the same material as his dungarees, stenciled with a Marine emblem on its front. A white bandage peeking out from under the cap was the reason he wasn’t wearing a helmet. His ribs were also tightly taped. A bullet had cracked a rib. He wasn’t really a jeep driver, but rather a rifleman. As the lowest ranking man, he had been detailed to drive the jeep when the four men had left the hospital.
Each of the men had been wounded, one as recently as a week before, and, at least technically, none had been released from the Division Hospital. The tall man was Lieutenant Colonel Bundy. The mortar fragment wounds on the side of his right leg and buttock had been made very tender by the motion of the jeep on the way to and up the hill.
The man who had been seated behind the colonel was Captain Rutledge. His left hand had been partially paralyzed by mortar fragments that had torn his left biceps and left forearm and injured a nerve. The hand was now functional and the arm was healing. His carbine was in his right hand as he climbed down from the back seat of the jeep.
The Marine Corps designated certain warrant officers as Marine Gunners. The fourth man, Warrant Officer Horst, was a Marine Gunner because of his demolition expertise. Fifteen days ago, a bullet from a Nambu 6.5 MM machine gun had gone front to back through his left leg above the knee. He put the sling of his carbine on his right shoulder while he tried to hide his limp as he walked to the uphill side of the jeep. A note book was under his left arm.
The colonel reached into the front seat of the jeep and pulled out a pair of binoculars. He put the strap around his neck and laid the binoculars on his chest, shoving his shoulder holster further under his left armpit to make room. The holster contained a pistol he had acquired when he had been promoted to corporal in France in 1918. It was the early straight grip Model 1911 without the arched main spring housing. He glanced over at PFC Strain and watched for a few seconds as the young Marine held his M1 rifle in both hands and warily looked around the hill.
“They said it’s up near the crest,” the colonel said in a quiet voice. “Let’s go take a look.”
* * *
Lieutenant Lucchi was checking the men in his platoon. He duck walked and scooted over to Bobby Wooler’s foxhole and dropped into it. Wooler looked up. He was working on the action of his M1 with a toothbrush. He slid the brush into the upper left hand pocket of his dungaree jacket.
“Doing okay, Wooler?” the lieutenant asked.
“Doing fine,” Wooler answered. “We movin’ out?”
The lieutenant looked at his watch. “In about five minutes. You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Lieutenant Lucchi raised up and looked around the area. He settled back down and wiggled until he was comfortable. “Loan me your brush,” the lieutenant said. Wooler pulled the toothbrush out of his pocket and handed it to the lieutenant. The officer busied himself with flicking dust particles, some imaginary, off the action of his carbine. “You scared, Wooler?”
“All of the time, Rocky. Aren’t you?”
The lieutenant looked up at Wooler and smiled. The answer had caught him by surprise. “Couldn’t admit it if I was. You never show it. You know Wooler, bravery is not fearlessness. It’s overcoming fear, not being scared stiff, so that you’re able to function like you should.” He handed Wooler the tooth brush. “You’re doing fine, Wooler. Just keep on doing what you’ve been doing.” He climbed out of Wooler’s hole and scooted over to the next one.
Bobby Wooler watched him go, then put the brush back in its pocket. He opened the trap in the butt of the M1 and extracted a small plastic container and a short piece of wire. He used the wire to apply a few dabs of a cream colored grease from the container to various places on the bolt of the rifle. He slid the wire in and crammed the container against the rag in the hole in the butt and closed the trap. He loosened the locking bar on the rear sight and ran the rear sight all the way down. He had a serious look on his face as he counted up eleven clicks. He took a look at the windage indicator marks at the rear of the sight and then tightened the locking bar. He pulled the operating rod back an inch or two to check the chamber and the magazine. He carefully laid the rifle down and picked up his pack. He checked that all of the fasteners were secure then struggled the straps over his arms and down onto his shoulders. He straightened his cartridge belt and adjusted the position of the two grenades inside his dungaree jacket. He put his left arm through the bandolier strap and looped it over his head and around his neck. He pushed his helmet firmly down on his head, leaned back against the pack and laid his rifle across his lap. He was ready.
* * *
The colonel led the way up the hill, followed by the captain and the gunner. PFC Strain lagged behind, constantly swiveling his head, keeping a wary eye on the terrain around the group. The colonel leaned down without stopping and picked up a shell fragment. He blew on it to clean it and flicked off a piece of dirt with his thumbnail. He turned it in his fingers, examining it, then dropped it in a pocket. He stepped around a discolored area on the ground, marking where a man, undoubtedly a Marine, had lain and bled, probably to death. Many spots like that were visible.
The bodies that had left the marks had been removed earlier in the day. Farther up the hill, several bodies were visible. The colonel changed direction and walked up to a body. It was that of a Japanese soldier laying face down on top of his rifle. The hands and arms were under the body but the exposed head was covered with flies with green bellies. A halo of flies rose from the head as the colonel nudged the body with his foot. He looked around him and confirmed that each of the bodies he could see was Japanese. Only the bodies of dead Marines had been removed.
* * *
Bobby Wooler’s squad leader waved at him, then pointed toward the hill. Bobby had a feeling of dread as he climbed out of his foxhole and began walking with the other members of his platoon, down into the valley, past the burned out Amtrak and toward the big hill.
Most of them were nearly across the valley before the first mortar shell hit. As Bobby began running up the hill he heard the repeated “Snap” of bullets going by him as the Japanese Nambus began firing. Bobby’s squad leader was the first to fall. The impact of the bullet blew his helmet off. Bobby ran past him, toward the top of the hill. He stopped at a level spot on the hill where the ground gave a little bit of cover. He looked up the hill. A Jap rose up and was aiming a rifle. Bobby shot twice and the man fell.
Lieutenant Lucchi ran by and shouted, “Keep moving. Don’t get pinned down.”
Bobby stood and began moving up the hill at a fast trot. Lieutenant Lucchi, fifty feet ahead of him, collapsed and fell. Bobby reached him and rolled him enough to see that his eyes had a lifeless stare. He was dead. Bobby left him and continued up the hill, head up, eyes wary.
A Nambu began shooting at him from some distance away. He dived for a shallow gully and wormed his way into it, shoving dirt aside with his elbows to get his body lower. The Nambu, unable to depress low enough to hit him, fired over his head, then stopped, but a single rifleman began to hit close to him. Every few seconds a bullet would spray him with dirt or snap as it went by him. Bobby raised his head enough to look around his location.
It was not a good place. He didn’t want to dig in here. He noticed the crater of a large shell hole up the hill. It had to be near the top. That’s where he would go. He spotted where the rifleman was and noticed that the Jap was reloading a five round clip in his rifle and having trouble doing it. He raised up enough to aim his M1 and shot the Jap. He gathered himself, jumped up and trotted up the hill toward the shell hole. A Nambu began to fire at him at about the time he jumped into the shell hole. He gasped to catch his breath. Although he didn’t think of it in so many words, he realized that his breathlessness was caused by fear as much as by exertion. He remembered what Lieutenant Lucchi had said about not being scared stiff.
The hole had been made by two large shells that had landed almost in the same spot. The hole was almost twice as wide in the east and west direction as it was in the south to north, or uphill and downhill direction.
He cradled his M1 with the butt against his knee and pushed the operating rod handle all the way back, catching the extracted round in his right hand as it ejected. He depressed the clip latch with his thumb and caught the four rounds and the clip. He put the rounds in the side pocket of his dungaree jacket. He reloaded a clip from the bandolier.
He started to take his pack off, but then thought better of it. If he had go someplace else in a hurry he’d hate to have to leave it. He reached up, unfastened the snap fastener and pulled the entrenching tool out of the pouch attached to the flap of the pack. He extended the blade and began to work on the shell hole. He kept looking around him as he worked. He began to shovel out loose dirt and he leveled uneven spots on the bottom of the hole so he wouldn’t trip over them. He dug two holes, six feet apart, each a foot deep and a foot in diameter.
As he was finishing the second hole a grenade landed in the shell hole beside him. He kicked the grenade into the nearest hole and ducked as it exploded. He heard the whine of fragments as two other grenades exploded outside the shell hole, one above him on the hill, one below him. He dove for his rifle and looked up the hill to see three Japs bearing down on him, bayonets flashing. He fired at the first one from the hip and he went down. His rifle failed to fire when he aimed at the second Jap. Bobby quickly pulled the operating rod back and let it fly.
He shot a second Jap, but missed the third man who hurdled his downed comrades and came on, rifle held high, bayonet pointed at Bobby’s chest. Bobby ducked and deflected the rifle so that the point of the bayonet stuck into the ground on the bottom of the shell hole. The Jap fell hard and Bobby jumped on him. Bobby reached to his right hip and found the KaBar. He unfastened the small strap and pulled the knife free. He tried to stab the Jap in the chest but ribs were in the way. He tried lower down on the Jap’s body and the razor sharp knife slipped in easily. The Jap stiffened and gasped. He angled the blade upward and moved it around. After a few seconds the Jap relaxed. Bobby pulled the knife out and wiped it on the Jap’s pants before putting it back in its scabbard.
He pushed the dead Jap up and out of the hole and rolled the body down the hill. He picked up the man’s rifle and examined it. It was a long barreled bolt action rifle with a sliding bolt cover and with a long bayonet attached. The muzzle looked like the rifle was about .30 caliber. He leaned the rifle against the side of the shell hole.
Bobby thought about why his M1 had misfired. The same thing had happened at Lejeune when he had fired from the hip on that silhouette course. The armorer who had looked at his rifle had told him that it had to have something solid to recoil against or the bolt might not come back far enough to pick up a round and chamber it. Here, he had been firing from the hip with the rifle held loosely and at a slight upward angle as well.
“Hey, Mac.” Bobby looked up, warily. He peeked over the down hill side of the shell hole. Nothing. “Is it you, Wooler?” He looked a little farther toward the west. A Marine crawled slowly toward him. “Give me a hand, will you?”
Bobby looked all around outside the hole. He decided not to take his rifle. He jumped out of the hole and ran toward the man. The man held out a hand, but Bobby grasped a shoulder strap on the man’s pack and began to drag him up to the shell hole. A Nambu opened up as they neared the hole, but missed both of them. The man gasped with pain as Bobby pulled him into the hole.
“Thanks. Glad I spotted you. I couldn’t have gone much farther.” The man was Sergeant Fiorillo, the platoon sergeant. He had given Bobby a hard time after he had first been assigned
to the Third Platoon, until Lt. Lucchi had put a stop to it.
“S’okay. Where you hit?”
“In the butt and leg.” Fiorillo grimaced and pointed to his right buttock.
Bobby rolled him over on his side and used his KaBar to cut the pants leg. A massive wound at the juncture of the buttock and the thigh was exposed when the bloody cloth was rolled down.
“What got you?” asked Bobby.
“A bullet. Might have been a ricochet.”
“The bandage in a first aid packet won’t cover that.”
“I’ve got a sweat shirt in my pack. Use that.”
Bobby was opening Fiorillo’s pack when he glanced outside the shell hole. Two Japs were crouched, looking at something on Bobby’s left. Bobby watched them for a few seconds, then picked up his rifle and fired a round into each man. They both fell and were still. He fired another round into each man. He unloaded his M1 and reloaded with a fresh clip. He put the live rounds in the pocket with the others.
“What was that all about?” Fiorillo asked.
“Couple a Japs.” He got the sweat shirt out of Fiorillo’s pack and swathed the wound with it, wrapping the sleeves of the sweat shirt around the leg and tying them loosely on the back of the leg.
Bobby dug around in Fiorillo’s pack and found three grenades. He made a pile of those three and the two from his dungaree jacket. He kept his eyes moving outside the shell hole. At intervals, mortar shells exploded on the hill below the shell hole, but for some reason, very few fell close to it. Nambu machine guns would fire over the hole periodically, but the guns were located on other hills and at lower altitudes. The streams of bullets came no closer than a foot above the top of the shell hole.
East of the shell hole and slightly down hill, Bobby noticed movement. He saw that it was a Marine crawling up the hill.
“Hey, Marine, over here, but stay down.”
The man stood and started toward the hole at a fast trot. Bobby recognized him. Wright had come into the platoon at the same time that he, himself, had come. Bobby shouted, “Get down, Wright.” A Nambu fired a burst at the man and he fell. He was moving. He waved a hand weakly. Bobby rolled over the edge of the shell hole and crabbed his way to the man. He grabbed a pack strap and began crawling back to the hole, dragging the man with him. At the hole he crawled over the edge and laid the man down next to Fiorillo.
“Where you hit?”
“Belly. It hurts. I can’t feel my legs.”
Bobby looked all around the area outside the hole, then dug into Fiorillo’s pack and came out with a green skivvy shirt. He pulled out his KaBar, took Wright’s cartridge belt off and cut the man’s clothes. The entrance wound was just above his pubic hair. Two grenades rolled out of the dungaree jacket. Bobby added those to his pile. He rolled Wright onto his side. The exit hole was in the middle of his back. Neither wound was bleeding much. Bobby bandaged both wounds by wrapping the skivvy shirt around Wright’s middle and knotting it.
* * *
The colonel walked up near the crest of the hill, followed closely by the other three men. A buzzing sound could be heard, overlaid by the ubiquitous sounds of explosions and small arms fire from the fighting farther south. The buzzing noise was caused by millions of flies, feeding and breeding on the bodies of half a hundred dead Japanese which were laying in a pattern to the southwest, up toward the crest of the hill.
The colonel, without taking his eyes off the grisly sight in front of them, said, “Guadalcanal, Gunner?”
“Yeah, the Lunga.”
The sight of violent death is something to which it is possible to become inured, but never accustomed. These four men were inured. They had each seen much death and each had caused some. Among the four of them were 13 earned battle stars. The colonel raised his binoculars and scanned the bodies of the dead Japanese, noting equipment and weapons.
“Colonel”.
The three men turned and looked at PFC Strain who was fifty feet away, peering down into a large shell hole. Strain turned and beckoned with his right hand. “This is it.”
* * *
Bobby reloaded his rifle. There had been eight of them this time. He had used his last grenade. There were two places where the Japs could come out on the back of hill from the caves inside it. The exits were not visible, they were below the curve of the hill, but he knew the general location of each of them. He had been shooting at Japs who appeared on the hill and beating off attacks all night, using light from a nearly full moon and from star shells fired by Navy destroyers out in the East China Sea. Due to the shellhole’s location and the configuration of the hill, Japs had to raise themselves above the ground in order to shoot at him. This outlined them against the skyline where he could see to shoot at them.
At one location over on the east, Bobby’s left, a Jap was able to take cover after dusk behind some of his dead comrades where Bobby had difficulty seeing him. They dueled for several minutes, each firing at the flash of the other’s shots. Three Japs had crawled up within grenade range. One grenade was thrown which landed short. The three Japs then charged the shell hole. Bobby killed two of the men outside the hole, which emptied his rifle. One came into the hole with him and Bobby knocked him down with the butt of his M1, then killed him with the bayonet on the Jap rifle that had he had earlier leaned against the side of the shell hole. The Jap with whom Bobby had been dueling came charging at the hole, then stopped and aimed his rifle. Bobby quickly raised the Jap rifle and shot first.
In the 24 hours since he had first occupied the shell hole, Bobby had probably experienced more combat, some of it hand to hand, than would the average Marine in a thirty year career.
Four other Marines were in the shell hole, three of them badly wounded, one of them dead. The last man he had carried into the hole had a shattered leg. The man had been hit again by a Nambu bullet just as Bobby was about to lower him into the shell hole. Bobby had begun to treat the man’s wounds, but he was interrupted by two groups of Japs. The first bunch of five had been setting up a machine gun about 80 yards away when he first noticed them. He had killed them all with his rifle.
He’d killed two of the second group of seven Japs about 50 yards away. The remaining five had made a run toward the shell hole. He’d had to use two of his precious grenades to stop those five.
When he had turned to resume the bandaging that had been interrupted, the man was dead from shock.
The last man had lost his right hand trying to retrieve and throw a Jap grenade away from his foxhole. He made his way into the shell hole on his own. Bobby had made a tourniquet and a bandage out of a pair of socks from Fiorillo’s pack. The man kept passing out from loss of blood.
Bobby was thirsty. There was no more water. He had been the only person in the hole who was active, but he had drunk the least amount of water. He had sneaked out once during the night and acquired three canteens, two of them nearly full, off of dead Marines, but the wounded were more in need of water than he was.
He had thrown all fifteen of the grenades. He had scrounged all of the ammunition that the other four men had on them and had brought back a bandolier and three grenades when he had sneaked out for the water. But he was down to four full clips of ammo besides the one in his rifle, plus 5 loose rounds. If he just could have got hold of one of those assistant BARman’s vests, he could have emptied the magazines and filled up all of his empty M1 clips. But the men wearing them had probably been hit far down the hill.
The other three living Marines in the hole with him were either asleep or in a coma. It had been cold during the night so he had covered the three live Marines with ponchos from their packs. He believed that he was the only unwounded Marine on the hill. Miraculously he had not been hit. But he knew that he was getting careless because he was so tired. He felt weak. He hadn’t eaten since he had been up here. He had C Rations but he wasn’t hungry. He stared out to the southwest, up the slight incline near the crest of the hill, toward the places where the Japs exited from the honeycomb of caves inside the hill.
A Jap had quietly made his way around the hill until he was on the downhill side of the shell hole, behind Bobby. He pulled the pin on a grenade and then armed it by hitting it against his helmet. Bobby heard the noise as the grenade was armed. He whirled and shot at the Jap as he rose up to throw the grenade.
He missed the first shot but hit the Jap with the second shot, just after he had thrown the grenade. The grenade landed in the shell hole. Bobby dropped his rifle and lunged for the grenade, hoping to throw it out or push it into one of the safe holes. He slipped and came up short. He stretched and got both hands around the grenade. He was in an awkward position and realized he was out of time. The grenade exploded just as he gathered it to his body.
Both Wright and Fiorillo had been aroused by the noise of the shooting. They both saw Bobby’s losing struggle with the grenade. They hardly had time to accumulate their thoughts and realize what had happened, when a mortar shell hit in the middle of the shell hole.
* * *
“No flies, Colonel,” said PFC Strain. He moved aside as the colonel stopped and looked down into the shell hole. There were five dead Marines laying in it. And unlike the bodies of the dead Japanese, there were no flies on the dead Marines. Three of the bodies were face up, one was on its side and one was face down. The body of the face down Marine was separated from the other four who were all positioned on the eastern side of the hole. The face down Marine was alone near the west side. Three of the dead Marines were covered with ponchos, but the faces were not covered. The colonel moved around to the downhill side of the hole and looked up the slight incline toward the southwest, toward the large number of dead Japs. He looked around the hole. The bodies of another dozen Japs were scattered around it.
In addition to a small amount of debris, a number of empty .30 caliber cartridge cases and M1 clips littered the bottom of the hole. Literally hundreds of fired cartridge cases were in and just outside of the west side of the shell hole.
The colonel climbed down into the shell hole. The stench of decomposing flesh was mixed with a strong chemical smell. He leaned down and picked up a safety lever and a ring with a cotter key that had been part of a grenade before it had been thrown. He wiggled the cotter key until it was in both holes of the safety lever, then put it in his pocket. He looked down at the M1 rifle laying near the body of the face down Marine. He leaned down and examined it further, then picked it up.
The safety was off, so he pushed it back and made the rifle safe. PFC Strain gave him a hand as he climbed out of the shell hole.
“Got your compass with you, Gunner?” the colonel asked.
“Aye, Sir.”
“Make a sketch of this shell hole, where each of those Marines are.” the colonel directed. “And note the position of the M1 before I picked it up.” The colonel swept his hand in a southwesterly direction. “And show a representation of the general layout of those Jap bodies.”
The Gunner nodded. “Aye, Aye, Sir.”
The colonel looked down at the rifle he held in his hands and brushed some dust off of the stock. He pulled back on the operating rod and cleared the rifle. Five rounds and a clip were in the magazine and a round was in the chamber. He pocketed the ammo. I probably should have left it where it was, he said to himself. But this is a pretty special rifle. He turned it in his hands, looking at it. He checked the serial number, 1560572, made at Springfield Armory. He looked for a date on the side of the barrel and saw 4-43. The rifle was probably being made while this young Marine was still in High School. It was in remarkable condition to have been fired as much as it must have been in the past few days. The action was clean. Traces of cream colored lubriplate grease showed in places where it should appropriately have been applied.
They all turned at the sound of a jeep as it began toiling up the hill. The jeep began altering course to dodge Japanese bodies as it neared the shell hole. It stopped about thirty feet away. Two men got out of the jeep and made their way up to the shell hole. One of the men stopped in front of the colonel and saluted.
“Good afternoon, Colonel. I’m Major Sellers.” He indicated the man with him. “And this is Gunnery Sergeant Harvey.”
The colonel didn’t return the salute. “Good afternoon, Major, Gunny. You’re from graves registration? We don’t usually salute up here.”
“Sorry, Sir. When in doubt …” He pointed to the shell hole. “We left it pretty much as we found it. Actually, Gunny Harvey was the one who actually shut down the recovery of these Marines when he saw how things were here. Have you noticed anything unusual about this, Colonel? If not, Gunny Harvey can point some things out to you that we’ve observed.”
“Do that, please, Gunny,” the colonel asked.
“Aye, Sir.” The sergeant carefully climbed into the hole. “We sprayed this area to keep flies away, Sir.” He went to the face down Marine. “Colonel, you have his rifle. We believe that rifle should be taken good care of.”
“It will be, Gunny, I can assure you of that.”
The sergeant lifted the Marine’s haversack away from the body. “Notice that the left shoulder strap has been severed. That was the clue that started everything.” The name ‘WOOLER’ was stenciled on the inside surface of the pack.
“This Marine’s name is, was, Bobby no middle name Wooler. I’m about to lift him. I want you to notice his hands, the crater under them and the massive wound in his chest.” He carefully grasped a fold of the dungaree jacket and the front of Wooler’s helmet. He slowly lifted the upper torso up off of the ground. Both hands were nearly gone. A few small bones were in a shallow crater. The left side of the chest was a mass of dried blood. He lowered the body.
“Colonel, we believe that this Marine smothered a grenade with his body,” he pointed, “to save these other Marines.”
The colonel was silent for a few seconds. “How do you know the others were alive at the time the grenade exploded?”
“Sir, sometime after the grenade exploded, and while at least two of the other Marines were alive, a mortar shell landed in the middle of this shell hole.”
“A mortar shell?”
“Yes, Sir, probably a Type 11, 70 Millimeter shell. The explosion pattern seems right for that type. And we found several unexploded Type 11 shells here on the hill.”
“Explosion pattern? Not that I don’t want to believe you, Gunny, but you’ve got to stay within the bounds of things that are believable.”
The Gunny looked up at the major. The major raised his hand.
“Sir, explosion pattern analysis is in my bailiwick. Let me explain myself. I’m a retread. This is not my first trip to enemy shores. You didn’t know me when you were a corporal in France, Colonel Bundy, but I knew of you. But, I’m getting off the subject. I’m really an engineer, mainly civil, but also mechanical. I was too old for this war. They wouldn’t take me at first. I told them I’d do anything. They finally called my bluff. They commissioned me a captain and put me in Graves Registration. I’m doing a fair job in this billet, if I do say so myself. This work, recovering dead Marines and everything that goes with that is spasmodic, only needed during and after battles. There’s time for training. There’s also time for other things. I’ve studied explosion patterns and ballistics. I could almost qualify as a coroner. I’ve visited hospitals and studied wound ballistics.” He waved his hand and shook his head.
“I know I’m sounding off too much, but it all needs to be said. I think you know most of this, Colonel. I approached General Shepherd with the idea that if and when a situation comes to light such as we have here, if it’s feasible, an investigation would be made. I don’t mean shut down the war. And I don’t mean flights of fancy. But when all witnesses to acts of heroism are dead or not available for some reason, if strong evidence exists that a man, or group of men, were heroic to the extreme, we would check into it if possible. General Shepherd agreed.
“We came up with a plan to involve people who were not in graves registration, people with combat experience. You know, General Shepherd is pretty sharp. His decision was to use people who had been wounded in action, were in a hospital recovering and were somewhat ambulatory, like you four men. That way, no men would be used who would have to be pulled out of combat units or other more productive duties. It was my idea to use people who had decorations in the mill. You four have already been told. Three of you are to receive Silver Star medals. You, Colonel, will receive a gold star in lieu of your second Navy Cross. My hat is off to each of you. I have a perfect set of judges for this case. That’s why we’re here.”
Colonel Bundy was beginning to like this man. Both men from graves registration had started off on the right foot with the colonel when they called the dead men ‘Marines’ and not cadavers, corpses, bodies or stiffs. The idea of investigating possible occasions of heroism where no witnesses had survived was an idea that the colonel had mulled over at times in the past, but had not come up with anything like this major had conceived. The colonel nodded. “I stand relieved of my ignorance. Gunnery Sergeant Harvey, would you please explain the timing of the mortar shell explosion.”
“Aye, Sir.” The gunny began outlining pieces of evidence, first, that there actually had been a mortar shell explosion, beginning with the location of the crater and continuing with the pattern of fragments on the sides of the shell hole and on the ponchos covering three of the dead Marines. Several identifiable pieces of the shell were evident. Then, he showed why it was believed that Bobby Wooler had been dead when the mortar shell had landed. Major Sellers told of the effect of fragments hitting a dead body and pointed out that effect on wounds that were on Wooler’s body. Gunnery Sergeant Harvey showed how, from the angles of the heads of both Wright and Fiorillo, in the positions in which they now lay in death, neither man could have suffered the facial wounds that each had received, unless their heads had been raised and they had been looking in the direction of the mortar shell when it exploded.
The colonel nodded. “That’s pretty convincing. I think that what you described actually did occur here.” He paused before continuing. “I hesitate to bring this up, but there are those who say that smothering a grenade deserves a medal, but that it is an impulsive action that perhaps doesn’t merit as high a decoration as a Medal of Honor. I could go either way on that. But I think we have evidence here of far greater heroism. What’s your opinion on that?”
Gunny Harvey raised a hand. “Sir, we wholeheartedly agree. Number one, We found two tracks that show where persons were dragged to the hole from some distance away, probably while under fire and probably by Private Wooler, since he was the only person not wounded before he smothered the grenade.”
The gunny pointed to places on the floor of the shell hole. “Number two, notice that most of the fired cartridge cases are in the west side of the hole. That’s the direction they would
have ejected from a rifle that was fired toward that mass of dead Japs that are laying up the hill. And we checked several cases that are nearer the east side. All of the cartridge cases we checked, regardless of location, have the same marks and dents and were fired from the same rifle. Colonel, you are holding in your hands the only M1 rifle that was found in the hole. All of the Jap bodies we checked were killed by small arms fire or fragments from small explosive weapons, like grenades.”
“PFC Strain,” Major Sellers interrupted, “a man with your experience has had occasion to throw a grenade or two?”
Strain looked at the major. “Yes, Sir. I’ve thrown some.”
“Would you please demonstrate for us how you would throw a grenade? I’ll hold your rifle.”
Strain handed his rifle to the major, then frowned. “Sir, how do you want me to demonstrate it?”
“Just act as if you had one in your hands and go through the motions.”
Strain hesitated. “That’s not exactly what I meant, Sir. Do you want me to demonstrate how I was instructed to throw a grenade in training, or the way I would do it for real?”
“Did you throw any grenades while you were earning your Silver Star?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Show us how you did it then.”
“Aye, Sir.” Strain rubbed his chin, selecting his words. He began to make motions with his hands. “First off, you grab the grenade with the spoon under your fingers and not in the palm of your hand like they train you to do it. That allows you to push down with your right hand and pull the ring up, the one attached to the pin, with your left hand. Not only is that an easier way to do it, the pin, the cotter key, doesn’t need to have the ends straightened to make it easier to pull it out. Then, before you throw the grenade, you let the spoon fly. You usually do that behind cover so the Japs can’t hear it as well. Then you count to two or three and throw it. The grenade goes off before the Japs have time to pick it up and throw it back at you. And, you might get an air burst.
“Now, the training way to throw it is with the whole arm, as if you were a wimp. I always throw one like a football, put a little spin on it — get a lot more distance and with better accuracy. And that’s how I would throw a grenade if the colonel wasn’t watching me.” Strain looked at the colonel with a straight face.
“That’s the way I’d want to you to throw a grenade if I was watching you, Corporal Strain.” said the colonel with a smile. “You’ve just been promoted. I take it that Corporal Strain’s demonstration has a point, Major?”
“Yes, Colonel. If you’ll look in the hole you’ll see some grenade safety levers, or spoons, as PFC, pardon me, as Corporal Strain calls them. I bow to the expert’s terminology. All are on the inside of the west part of the shell hole. Private Wooler must have used Corporal Strain’s grenade arming technique. Almost all the pins are east of the spoons, where they were dropped after being pulled out of the grenades. We think that all of the grenades were thrown by one man, Private Wooler.”
The major swept a hand around the shell hole pointing at Jap bodies. He pointed up the hill to the southwest. “Not a pleasant subject, but all of the wounds we checked on Jap bodies had fly eggs in them. None of the eggs had hatched. There were few maggots. The Japs have all died within the past several days. From the positions of the Jap bodies and the locations of fired cartridge cases and grenade safety levers, we believe that most, if not all, of the Japs around the hole and up the hill toward the southwest, were killed by Private Wooler in a series of fire fights and over a prolonged period of time.”
The major pointed east and west, then down at the hole. “I’ve analyzed the location of this shell hole in relation to the surrounding terrain. It seems that Private Wooler, either by design or by chance, picked the most ideal defensive location on this hill. The trajectories of machine guns fired from other hills would not allow fire to actually come into the hole. Bullets would pass over it. Unless a machine gun was located on this hill, this shell hole could only be attacked by men armed with rifles and grenades. If Private Wooler stayed alert, and indications are that he did pretty much until the end, he would
have a clear field of fire from cover at any machine gun located on the hill. By the way, we found two Nambus among the Jap dead up the hill toward the southwest.
“As for mortar and/or artillery fire, perhaps a similar situation existed. The shell hole is located at a spot that would make observation from surrounding hills almost impossible. If Private Wooler could keep live Japs from being on this hill, they could fire mortars, but couldn’t observe and adjust the impact of the shells. We believe that it was an unlucky, random mortar shell that landed in this shell hole.
“Private Wooler could have left the hole at any time during the night and probably made his way to safety. He stayed with his wounded comrades.
“We’ll leave it to the colonel to find out why no effort was made to relieve the Marines in this shell hole.
“It is our opinion, from the things we’ve observed, that Private Wooler demonstrated self sacrifice, dedication and above all, acted with gallantry and intrepidity above and beyond the call of duty and at the risk of his life. We believe he deserves a posthumous award of the Medal of Honor.”
The colonel looked at the major for a few seconds. “Do you have photographs of…” he gestured with his hand “.. all this?”
“Yes, Sir. We’ve also made sketches of the terrain, with elevations and locations of salient features.”
“Gunner,” the colonel said. “Belay that sketch I asked you to make. No use duplicating work.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Gunner Horst.
The colonel nodded his head. After a few seconds, he said, “Let’s go down to your jeep, Major. Do you suppose we could all fit in it or hang on to it while we drive down to the other jeep? I need to sit and rest. And I think several others of us need to also, like a certain elderly Marine Gunner I know.”
Gunnery Sergeant Harvey parked his jeep alongside the other jeep but facing the opposite direction.
When they all were seated in both jeeps, the colonel asked, “Major, do we need to do anything else in that shell hole, or could you take whatever action is necessary to recover those Marines up there?”
“I was just about to ask your permission, Colonel,” the major answered. He nodded to Gunnery Sergeant Harvey, who climbed out of the jeep with a radio and walked a short distance away.
Colonel Bundy said, “Let’s hear everyone’s take on this. We usually begin with the junior member of a group.” He looked over at Corporal Strain. “Corporal, what’s your opinion of all this?”
Strain got a serious, almost pained look on his face. “Colonel, in spite of that medal they say I’m supposed to get, I’m no hero. I was scared spitless all the while that was going on. My…,” he searched for a word “…action, seemed like it lasted longer, but it only took about fifteen minutes from start to finish. Then, people came to help me. That fella up the hill, that Marine, he was up there, fighting, for the better part of a day. He didn’t get any relief. I had been hit a couple of times, but that didn’t matter too much, I wasn’t disabled. I was lucky. That Marine up there, he was lucky for a while, but then his luck ran out. I think that he probably was disabled, by fatigue. He did all that could be expected of him. I think he deserves whatever he gets. I mean, I think he deserves the highest medal he could be given. I guess I didn’t say that very well, colonel.”
“On the contrary, Corporal Strain. You made some good points. Gunner Horst, what are your feelings?”
Horst rubbed his nose, then looked straight at the colonel. “Sir, we’ve known each other since Nicaragua. I’ve never pulled any punches with you yet and I won’t start now. I know you won’t be able to say anything about this, at least publicly, because of your rank, but somebody shit in their mess kit when they ordered that attack. One under strength platoon. It was a busted lashup from the word go.” He turned to Gunny Harvey. “How many live Marines, wounded or otherwise, were on this hill when you came to recover the dead Marines here?”
Harvey shook his head. “None, Sir.”
“Not knockin’ you, Gunny, and not sayin’ anything bad about graves registration — you all do a helluva job. But you all didn’t capture this hill. The Japs abandoned it before you got here. Now, why did they abandon it? I’ll tell you why. Because the two hills on either side of it were taken. How and why were those hills taken? One reason was that dedicated and courageous Marines assaulted and captured them. How were they able to do that? Because this hill wasn’t able to support the hills on either side of it. Why was that? It was because, believe it or don’t, one man had already captured this hill all by himself. That young Marine up there killed almost half a company of Japs and fixed it so this hill couldn’t be defended. I’m convinced that the way you people in graves registration say that things happened is the way it actually was. I believe that Private Wooler deserves to be decorated with the Medal of Honor.”
Out of the corner of his eye the colonel had noticed Captain Rutledge give a slight nod of agreement at Horst’s remarks. “Captain, we haven’t heard much from you. Would you care to comment?”
“Yes, Sir.” He looked at Major Sellers. “Sir, You were in the Marine Corps in the first war?”
“That’s right, 82nd Machine Gun Company, I was wounded at Belleau Wood, spent six months in hospitals, then got surveyed out.”
“And you, Gunny, you’ve been in a line outfit?”
“Yes, Sir. B Company, 1st Battalion of the 8th Marines, Second Division. Made the ‘Canal, Tarawa and Saipan. I was hit on Tarawa and then last year on Pelelieu, after I joined graves registration, a Jap played possum and cut me with a bayonet.”
“You have a point to make, Captain?” asked the colonel.
“Yes, Sir, several points. Number one, the six of us here are all warriors. Each of us can imagine what happened up on this hill. But someone without the experience that each of us has might not see things as we do.
“Point Two, warriors usually are rewarded when they do well. If a man gets up out of a foxhole and charges a machine gun, he won’t get anything if he gets cut down immediately. But if he manages to silence the machine gun, he might get a medal. If he wipes out several machine gun emplacements, chances are he’ll get a better medal, and so forth. Private Wooler, killing, as Gunner Horst so aptly put it, “almost half a company of Japs”, should get the Medal of Honor for sheer productivity. I don’t know of very many warriors, in anybody’s army, at any time, who singlehandedly killed that many of the enemy.
“My third point is this — Wooler stayed with his buddies. He could have left that shell hole and sneaked off. Most likely, no one would ever have known the difference. And he might even have been thought heroic for getting back. But he stayed in that shell hole with those wounded Marines. He didn’t manage to save any of them from being killed, but he tried, clear up until the end. And he gave up his own life while he was trying. It might be that he deserves two Medals of Honor, one for being such a productive warrior and one for his efforts in trying to protect four fellow Marines who couldn’t help themselves. But I believe that he does deserve at least one Medal of Honor, two times over. That’s all I have, Colonel.”
“Major,” the colonel said, “you and the gunny have already given us your opinions. I won’t have you repeat them unless you have something to add.”
“No, Sir, I have nothing further.” The major looked toward Gunnery Sergeant Harvey, who shook his head.
“Then, here’s what I want each of you to do,” the colonel continued. “I want each of you three — judges — to go back to the hospital and write up the same thoughts you just expressed. Use the same words if you can recall them. Expand on the things you said if you think that’s needed. But keep the same theme, the same thoughts. It’s a shame we didn’t have a stenographer out here with us so we’d get the words down just as you said them. Where we are right now is the place to get the clearest thoughts. When you get your words down on paper, sign each page and give them to me. No need to be too neat, as long as it’s legible. I’ll get mimeographed copies made and you can sign them also, but I do want signed originals.
“Major, Gunny, I’d like to ask you to get the maps and photographs flanged up, and write your narrative, with whatever evidence and exhibits you think are necessary, of what took place up on the hill, so we can get that in the report.
“I’ll write some remarks and tie it all together. It will be over my signature, and yours, Major, if you agree with what I write. I’ll reference your work, Gunny. And, of course, you three judges will each have a prominent part in this play. And a copy of the entire report, probably on microfilm, will go into each of our service records.”
The colonel raised his binoculars and looked off toward the northeast. “Looks like your Amtrak is on the way here, Gunny.” Gunny Harvey turned to look and started to get out of his jeep.
“Hold it a minute, if you would, Gunny. I’ve got a few things to say. The Amtrak will be a few minutes getting here.”
The colonel looked each of the five men in the eye, one by one. “What I’m about to say might seem corny and trite to some people. But I don’t think any of us here would feel that way. It relates to what the Gunner said about the attack that left Private Wooler up in that shell hole with four other Marines. And, I don’t think that what I’m about to say would hurt me if I should ever be quoted.
“We’re Marines. We’re pretty special. The Marine Corps is special. I really don’t know how we do it, how we maintain such Esprit d’Corps. But we do. Take Private Wooler, for instance. Here was an 18 year old who had been a Marine less than a year. And yet he performed as valiantly as the saltiest thirty year man. Could he have done what he did if he had not been a Marine? Probably. But his training and the tradition he was exposed to certainly didn’t hurt. He did what he did, not to receive a medal, not expecting any kind of reward. He did it to survive. But something that was instilled in him kept him in that shell hole up on this hill and kept him fighting to the end.
“We’ve fought a tough battle here. The closer we’ve gotten to their home islands, the harder the Japanese have fought. We’ve suffered many casualties in front line units. We’ve had battalions that lost almost a thousand men. We’ve had companies with twenty men left out of the 250 that landed on this island and with sergeants as company commanders. Platoons that were below the strength of a normal squad have had buck privates in command. It used to be said that when a unit went as low as 50 per cent of its normal strength that it would cease to exist as a fighting unit. But these Marine units, some of them below 10 per cent of normal strength, are still functioning.
It would be ridiculous to think that they were anywhere near as effective as when they were at full strength, but they are still fighting units.
“We’ve lost a number of experienced officers, many of them senior officers. Some were killed, some, like me, were only temporarily put out of action. Other, less experienced men had to take their places. When a unit is commanded by a man who has less experience and training than the job calls for, mistakes can be made. The man who made the decision to send an under strength platoon against this hill made such a mistake. The failure to support them afterward was, in my opinion, an even worse mistake. But those things will come to light and will be dealt with.
“Private Wooler’s platoon has probably ceased to exist. But a larger unit might have suffered as many or more casualties and the end result might not have turned out as well. The decision that was made was a bad one, but that decision put Private Wooler on this hill in an ideal location at an ideal time. He didn’t know he was doing it, but Private Wooler took advantage of a situation where he was able to literally turn the tide of a battle. Call it luck. Call it serendipity. But at the root was the actuality that Private Wooler was able to do what he did.”
The colonel turned to look up the hill toward the shell hole. “Private Wooler did it well.” He was quiet for a few seconds, then turned back to face the other men. “We six here are in agreement that Private Wooler deserves a Medal of Honor. But we’re not the ones who can award that medal. I hope the people who do have that authority will be able to comprehend what took place on this hill and in that shell hole. I’ll give our findings to General Shepherd. I don’t know if he will pursue it. I don’t know how successful he might be if he does decide to pursue it.
“The Medal of Honor is our nation’s most jealously guarded decoration. It is never given cheaply. The actions for which it is awarded must be heroic to the extreme. Private Wooler’s performance clearly meets that test. But the rules say that at least two witnesses must be able to testify to the acts of heroism. Our witnesses are dead. Our proof is circumstantial.”
The colonel lifted the rifle that he had removed from the shell hole. “Whatever else happens, I’m going to make sure that Private Wooler’s M1 gets sent to Headquarters, Marine Corps. It may only wind up in a museum somewhere. But it could have some influence on the decision. Along with the rifle, I’ll include some of your photographs, Gunny. And, I’ll write up something that tells how this rifle was used, and by whom and where and when. I’ll do all that I can to get that Marine his Medal of Honor.”
The colonel’s words were positive but his gut feeling was negative. His eyes found those of Gunner Horst, then both of them looked away. It was as if each of the two old Marines could read the other’s mind. They shared the same thought — that there was no chance that Private Wooler would ever receive a posthumous award of a Medal of Honor.
The Amtrak reached the hill and began to grind past them on its way up to the shell hole.
“Major Sellers, Gunnery Sergeant Harvey, find those Marines up there a good place to sleep. They’ve earned it.” The major and the gunnery sergeant both saluted Colonel Bundy. This time he returned their salutes.
— James S. White; The WHITE HOUSE; Duncan, Oklahoma
