Chapter 6:  Guadalcanal

. . .The first man killed was an officer, Lt. Hunt, who received a burst of machinegun fire across his chest. He was a big, athletic man and had helped me with the athletic program in NZ. We got word that this had happened and the chaplain and I went to get him. We found him at a forward position and wrapped him in a poncho (there were no body bags in those days) and put him in the bed of the truck on a stretcher. He was so tall — about 6ft 3in — that his booted feet hung over the rear of the stretcher. We didn't have anything to cover him with so we took off in hopes that we'd find something to use.

The road was no road at all but a series of unrelated ruts, so the truck was slipping and sliding in the mud and bumping over the ruts. We got back near the rear when all of a sudden we heard a shout.

"Stop that truck! Stop that truck!"

I stopped and looked around to see a full colonel coming toward us, looking mad as hell. When he got alongside the truck he said, "Cover that man's feet! What the hell's the matter with you? Give him the respect he deserves!"

I had stepped down from the truck and saluted and now, with a crack in my voice, I said, "Colonel, this man was my friend, I would never disrespect him or do anything to strip him of his dignity, even in death."

I had a hard time controlling myself and the chaplain just sat in the truck. The colonel looked into my eyes and said, "Take it easy, son. Just wait here; I'll get my poncho." He did and we covered Lt. Hunt's feet and drove to the cemetery.

About two days later we got a call to pick up another body. We were

told it was at K Company,

and had just come

off the line. I was

apprehensive, but we

had no idea who it was.

It turned out to be Dick          Watson, who had been bringing cans of water in a machinegun cart up to         the line, and he was gut shot. After being hit he was in such a position              that no one could get to him without exposing himself, so Dick slowly              bled to death. He had drunk all the water in his canteens — and                     even put the caps back on the canteens before he died.

I lost it when I saw him and went over to talk to him. He had been my friend for a long time. You may recall my comments in Chapter 5, where I mentioned Dick and I had made our last liberty together in LA before shipping out for Guadalcanal.

I reminded him about that and said, "Damn it! Dick, we'll never be able to do that again. What's it going to be like without you?" I had to get it out of my system.

Things never got easier after that. Probably just the reverse, but I had developed a hard attitude toward it all. It was a job that had to be done and be done with compassion. The chaplain and I did it that way.

One morning I was walking toward the aid station when I noticed a body lying under a poncho on a stretcher. I went over and lifted the poncho, but could not see any wounds or marks, so I completely lifted the poncho and noticed that, in addition to being one of the finest looking young men I had ever seen, he was a curly-headed blonde with beautiful skin.

Then I looked at his right leg. Midway between the knee and the ankle it had been severed as if by a machete, at a slight angle. He had either died of shock or bled to death. Whichever it was, I think that was the day I became a pacifist.

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