[REFERENCE] Ack Ack & Hillbilly mentions from "With the Old Breed"

[thrillingdetectivetales]

In the same vein of the timestamps I shared earlier, some folks expressed an interest in seeing what Sledge's book had to say about Ack Ack and Hillbilly. As such, as I have gone through and pulled all mentions of either man from within the prose of Sledge's book to share here. I didn't include footnotes because the information they included was pretty much already available on Wikipedia.

Be aware that, as the quotations come from the book, they likely contain spoilers.

Eugene Sledge on
Captain Andrew Allison Haldane, a.k.a. “Ack Ack”
Company Commander of K/3/5

Then there was Company K’s commanding officer, Capt. “Ack Ack” Haldane. Late one afternoon as we left the rifle range, a heavy rain set in. As we plodded along Pavuvu’s muddy roads, slipping and sliding under the downpour, we began to feel that whoever was leading the column had taken a wrong turn and that we were lost. At dusk in the heavy rain, every road looked alike: a flooded trail cut deeply with ruts, bordered by towering palms, winding aimlessly through the gloom. As I struggled along feeling chilled and forlorn and trying to keep my balance in the mud, a big man came striding up from the rear of the column. He walked with the ease of a pedestrian on a city sidewalk. As he pulled abreast of me, the man looked at me and said, “Lovely weather, isn’t it, son?”

I grinned at Haldane and said, “Not exactly, sir.” He recognized me as a replacement and asked how I liked the company. I told him I thought it was a fine outfit.

“You’re a Southerner, aren’t you?” he asked. I told him I was from Alabama. He wanted to know all about my family, home, and education. As we talked the gloom seemed to disappear, and I felt warm inside. Finally he told me it wouldn’t rain forever, and we could get dry soon. He moved along the column talking to other men as he had to me. His sincere interest in each of us as a human being helped to dispel the feeling that we were just animals training to fight.

Acclaimed by superiors and subordinates alike for his leadership abilities, Captain Haldane was the finest and most popular officer I ever knew. All of the Marines in Company K shared my feelings. Called the “skipper,” he had a strong face full of character, a large, prominent jaw, and the kindest eyes I ever saw. No matter how often he shaved or how hard he tried, he always had a five o’clock shadow. He was so large that the combat pack on his back reminded me of the bulge of his wallet, while mine covered me from neck to waist.

Although he insisted on strict discipline, the captain was a quiet man who gave orders without shouting. He had the rare combination of intelligence, courage, self-confidence, and compassion that commanded our respect and admiration. We were thankful that Ack Ack was our skipper, felt more secure in it, and felt sorry for other companies not so fortunate. While some officers on Pavuvu though it necessary to strut or order us around to impress us with their status, Haldane quietly told us what to do. We loved him for it and did the best job we knew how.

When asked who he was and what unit he was in, he replied, “Capt. Paul Douglas. I was division adjutant until that barrage hit the 5th Marines’ CP yesterday, then I was assigned as R-1 [personnel officer] in the 5th Regiment. I am very proud to be with the 5th Marines,” he said.

“Gosh, Cap’n! You don’t have to be up here at all, do you?” asked one of our detail in disbelief as he passed ammo boxes to the fatherly officer.

“No,” Douglas said,” but I always want to know how you boys up here are making out and want to help if I can. What company are you fellows from?”

“From K Company, sir,” I answered.

His face lit up, and he said, “Ah, you’re in Andy Haldane’s company.”

We asked Douglas if he knew Ack Ack. He said, yes, that they were old friends. As we finished unloading, we all agreed that there wasn’t a finer company commander than Captain Haldane.

I was ordered to carry a five-gallon can of water over to the company CP. When I got there, Ack Ack was studying a map by the light of a tiny flashlight that his runner shielded with another folded map. The company’s radioman was sitting with him, quietly tuning his radio and calling an artillery battery of the 11th Marines.

Putting the water can down, I sat on it and watched my skipper with admiration. Never before had I regretted so profoundly my lack of artistic talent and inability to draw the scene before me. The tiny flashlight illuminated Captain Haldane’s face as he studied the map. His big jaw, covered with a charcoal stubble of beard, jutted out. His heavy brow wrinkled with concentration just below the rim of his helmet.

The radioman handed the phone to Ack Ack. He requested a certain number of rounds of 75mm HE to be fired out to Company K’s front. A Marine on the other end of the radio questioned the need for the request.

Haldane answered pleasantly and firmly, “Maybe so, but I want my boys to feel secure.” Shortly the 75s came whining overhead and starting bursting in the dark thick growth across the road.

Next day I told several men what Ack Ack had said. “That’s the skipper for you, always thinking of the troops’ feelings,” was the way one man summed it up.

Johnny Marmet came striding down the incline of the valley to meet us as we started up. Even before I could see his face clearly, I knew from the way he was walking that something was dreadfully amiss. He lurched up to us, nervously clutching the web strap of the submachine gun slung over his shoulder. I had never seen Johnny nervous before, even under the thickest fire, which he seemed to regard as a nuisance that interfered with his carrying out his job.

His tired face was contorted with emotion, his brow was knitted tightly, and his bloodshot eyes appeared moist. It was obvious he had something fearful to tell us. We shuffled to a halt.

My first thought was that the Japanese had slipped in thousands of troops from the northern Palaus and that we would never get off the island. No, maybe the enemy had bombed some American city or chased off the navy as they done at Guadalcanal. My imagination went wild, but none of us was prepared for what we were about to hear.

“Howdy, Johnny,” someone said as he came up to us.

“All right, you guys, let’s get squared away here,” he said, looking in every direction but at us. (This was strange, because Johnny wasn’t the least reluctant to make eye contact with death, destiny, or the general himself.) “OK, you guys, OK, you guys,” he repeated, obviously flustered. A couple of men exchanged quizzical glances. “The skipper is dead. Ack Ack has been killed,” Johnny finally blurted out, then looked quickly away from us.

I was stunned and sickened. Throwing my ammo bag down, I turned away from the others, sat on my helmet, and sobbed quietly.

“Those goddamn slant-eyed sonsabitches,” someone behind me groaned.

Never in my wildest imagination had I contemplated Captain Haldane’s death. We had a steady stream of killed and wounded leaving us, but somehow I assumed Ack Ack was immortal. Our company commander represented stability and direction in a world of violence, death, and destruction. Now his life had been snuffed out. We felt forlorn and lost. It was the worst grief I endured during the entire war. The intervening years have not lessened it any.

Capt. Andy Haldane wasn’t an idol. He was human. But he commanded our individual destinies under the most trying conditions with the utmost compassion. We knew he could never be replaced. He was the finest Marine officer I ever knew. The loss of many close friends grieved me deeply on Peleliu and Okinawa. But to all of us the loss of our company commander at Peleliu was like losing a parent we depended upon for security—not our physical security, because we knew that was a commodity beyond our reach in combat, but our mental security.

Some of the men threw their gear violently to the deck. Everybody was cursing and rubbing his eyes.

Finally Johnny pulled himself together and said, “OK, you guys, let’s move out.” We picked up mortars and ammo bags. Feeling as though our crazy world had fallen apart completely, we trudged slowly and silently in single file up the rubble-strewn valley to rejoin Company K.

So ended the outstanding combat career of a fine officer who had distinguished himself at Guadalcanal, Cape Gloucester, and Peleliu. We had lost our leader and our friend. Our lives would never be the same. But we turned back to the ugly business at hand.

One evening after chow as I sprawled on my cot wishing I were back home, I noticed one of Company K’s two surviving officers carrying some books and papers down the company street in the twilight. He passed my tent and went to the fifty-five gallon oil drum that served as a trash can. The lieutenant tossed some maps and papers into the can. He held up a thick book and with obvious anger slammed it into the trash can. He then turned and walked slowly back up the street.

Curious, I went out to have a look. The maps were combat maps of Peleliu. I dropped them back into the trash (and have since regretted that I didn’t salvage them for future historical reference). Then I found the book. It was a large hardback volume of about a thousand pages, bound in dark blue, obviously not a GI field manual or book of regulations.

Always seeking good reading material, I looked at the spine of the book and read its title, Men At War by Ernest Hemingway. This is interesting history, I thought, and was puzzled as to why the lieutenant had thrown it so violently into the trash. I opened the cover. In the twilight I saw written in a bold strong hand, A. A. Haldane. A lump rose in my throat as I asked myself why I’d want to read about war when Peleliu had cost us our company commander and so many good friends. I, too, slammed the book down into the trash can in a gesture of grief and disgust over the waste of war I had already experienced firsthand.

Eugene Sledge on
1st Lieutenant Edward A. Jones, a.k.a. “Hillbilly”
Leader of K/3/5’s Machine-Gun Platoon

Dug in next to our gun pit were 1st Lt. Edward A. (“Hillbilly”) Jones, Company K’s machine-gun platoon leader, and a salty sergeant, John. A. Teskevich. Things were quiet in our area except for our artillery’s harassing fire pouring over; so after dark obscured us form Japanese observers, the two of them slipped over and sat at the edge of our gun pit. We shared rations and talked. The conversation turned out to be one of the most memorable of my life.

Hillbilly was second only to Ack Ack in popularity among the enlisted men in Company K. He was a clean-cut, handsome, light-complexioned man—not large, but well built. Hillbilly told me he had been an enlisted man for several prewar years, had gone to the Pacific with the company, and had been commissioned following Guadalcanal. He didn’t say why he was made an officer, but the word among the men was that he had been outstanding on Guadalcanal.

It was a widespread joke among men in the ranks during the war that an officer was made an officer and a gentleman by an act of Congress when he was commissioned. An act of Congress may have made Hillbilly an officer, but he was born a gentleman. No matter how filthy and dirty everyone was on the battlefield, Hillbilly’s face always had a clean, fresh appearance. He was physically tough and hard and obviously morally strong. He sweated as much as any man but somehow seemed to stand above our foul and repulsive living conditions in the field. Hillbilly had a quiet and pleasant voice even in command. His accent was soft, more that of the deep South, which was familiar to me, than that of the hill country.

Between this man and all the Marines I knew there existed a deep mutual respect and warm friendliness. He had that rare ability to be friendly and yet not familiar with enlisted men. He possessed a unique combination of those qualities of bravery, leadership, ability, integrity, dignity, straightforwardness, and compassion. The only other officer I ever knew who was his equal in all these qualities was Captain Haldane.

That night Hillbilly talked about his boyhood and his home in West Virginia. He asked me about mine. He also talked about his prewar years in the Marine Corps. Later I remembered little of what he said, but the quiet way he talked calmed me. He was optimistic about the battle in progress and seemed to understand and appreciate all my fears and apprehensions. I confided in him that many times I had been so terrified that I felt ashamed, and that some men didn’t seem to be so afraid. He scoffed at my mention of being ashamed, and said that my fear had been no greater than anyone else’s but that I was just honest enough to admit its magnitude. He told me that he was afraid, too, and that the first battle was the hardest because a man didn’t know what to expect. Fear dwelled in everyone, Hillbilly said. Courage meant overcoming fear and doing one’s duty in the presence of danger, not being unafraid.

The conversation with Hillbilly reassured me. When the sergeant came over and joined in after getting coffee, I felt almost lighthearted. As conversation trailed off, we sipped our joe in silence.

Suddenly, I heard a loud voice say clearly and distinctly, “You will survive the war!”

I looked first at Hillbilly and then at the sergeant. Each returned my glance with a quizzical expression on his face in the gathering darkness. Obviously they hadn’t said anything.

“Did y’all hear that?” I asked.

“Hear what?” they both inquired.

“Someone said something,” I said.

“I didn’t hear anything. How about you?” said Hillbilly, turning to the sergeant.

“No, just that machine gun off to the left.”

Shortly the word was passed to get settled for the night. Hillbilly and the sergeant crawled back to their hole as Snafu returned to the gun pit.

The following day, Company K received a mission to push a strong combat patrol to the east coast of the island. Our orders were to move through the thick growth onto the peninsula that formed the smaller “claw” and set up a defensive position at the northern tip of the land mass on the edge of a mangrove swamp. Our orders didn’t specify the number of days we were to remain there.

First Lt. Hillbilly Jones commanded the patrol consisting of about forty Marines plus a war dog, a Doberman pinscher. Sgt. Henry (“Hank”) Boyes was the senior NCO. As with all combat patrols, we were heavily armed with rifles and BARs. We also had a couple of machine-gun squads and the mortar squad with us. Never missing an opportunity to get into the action with his cold steel, Sgt. Haney volunteered to go along.

“G-2 [division intelligence] reports there are a couple thousand Japs somewhere on the other side of that swamp, and if they try to move across it to get back to the defensive positions in Bloody Nose, we’re to hold them up until artillery, air strikes, and reinforcements can join us,” a veteran NCO said in a terse voice. Our mission was to make contact with the enemy, test his strength, or occupy and hold a strategic position against enemy attack. I wasn’t enthusiastic about it.

Weary hours dragged on. We strained our eyes and ears in the dripping blackness for indications of enemy movement. We heard the usual jungle sounds caused by animals. A splash, as something fell into the water, made my heart pound and caused every muscle to tighten. Haney’s inspection tours got worse. He obviously was getting more nervous with each hour.

“I wish to hell Hillbilly would grab him by the stackin’ swivel and anchor him in the CP,” George mumbled.

The luminous dial of my wristwatch showed the time was after midnight. In the CP a low voice sounded, “Oh, ah, oh,” and trailed off, only to repeat the same sound louder.

“What’s that?” I asked George anxiously.

“Sounds like some guy havin’ a nightmare,” he replied nervously. “They sure as hell etter shut him up before every Nip in this damned swamp knows our position.” We heard someone moving and thrashing around in the CP.

“Knock it off,” several men whispered near us.

“Quiet that man down!” Hillbilly ordered in a stern low voice.

“Help! Help! Oh God, help me!” shouted the wild voice. The poor Marine had cracked up completely. The stress of combat had finally shattered his mind. They were trying to calm him down, but he kept thrashing around. In a firm voice filled with compassion, Hillbilly was trying to reassure the man that he was going to be all right. The effort failed. Our comrade’s tragically tortured mind had slipped over the brink. He screamed more loudly. Someone pinioned the man’s arms to his sides, and he screamed to the Doberman pinscher, “Help me, dog; the Japs have got me! The Japs have got me and they’re gonna throw me in the ocean.” I heard the sickening crunch of a fist against a jaw as someone tried to knock the man unconscious. It didn’t faze him. He fought like a wildcat, yelling and screaming at the top of his voice.

Our corpsman gave him an injection of morphine in the hope of sedating him. It had no effect. More morphine; it had no effect either. Veterans though they were, the men were all getting jittery over the noise they believed would announce our exact location to any enemy in the vicinity.

“Hit him with the flat of that entrenching shovel!” a voice commanded in the CP. A horrid thud announced that the command was obeyed. The poor many finally became silent.

“Christ a’mighty, what a pity,” said a Marine in a neighboring foxhole.

“You said that right, but if the goddamn Nips don’t know we’re here, after all that yellin’, they’ll never know,” his buddy said.

A tense silence settled over the patrol. The horror of the whole affair stimulated Haney to check our positions frequently. He acted like some hyperactive demon and cautioned us endlessly to be on the alert.

When welcome dawn finally came after seemingly endless blackness, we all had frayed nerves. I walked the few paces over to the CP to find out what I could. The man was dead. Covered with his poncho, his body lay out next to the bunker. The agony and distress etched on the strong faces of Hillbilly, Hank, and the others in the CP revealed the personal horror of the night. Several of these men had received or would receive decorations for bravery in combat, but I never saw such agonized expressions on their faces as that morning in the swamp. They had done what any of us would have had to do under similar circumstances. Cruel chance had thrust the deed upon them.

Hillbilly looked at the radioman and said, ‘I’m taking this patrol in. Get battalion for me.”

The radioman tuned his big pack-sized radio and got the battalion CP. Hillbilly told the battalion CO, Major Gustafson, that he wanted to bring in the patrol. We could hear the major tell Hillbilly he thought we should stay put for a couple of days until G-2 could determine the disposition of the Japanese. Hillbilly, a first lieutenant, calmly disagreed, saying we hadn’t fired a shot, but because of circumstances we all had a pretty bad case of nerves. He felt strongly that we should come in. I saw several old salts raise their eyebrows and smile as Hillbilly stated his opinion. To our relief, Gus agreed with him; I have always thought it was probably because of his respect for Hillbilly’s judgment.

[My friend] was so appalled and depressed by the fighting of the previous day that he had concluded he couldn’t possibly survive the next day. He confided his innermost thoughts and secrets about his parents and a girl back home whom he was going to marry after the war. The poor guy wasn’t just afraid of death or injury—the idea that he might never return to those he loved so much had him in a state of near desperation.

I remembered how Lt. Hillbilly Jones had comforted and helped me through the first shock of Peleliu, and I tried to do the same for my friend. Finally he seemed somewhat relieved, or resigned to his fate, whatever it might be. We got up and shook hands. He thanked me for our friendship, then walked slowly back to his foxhole.