The View from My Foxhole by William Swanson

Author:William Swanson [Swanson, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781637584682
Publisher: Permuted Platinum
Published: 2022-08-25T22:08:31+00:00

My platoon members carrying supplies up to Hill 1000. I’m carrying the box in the front.

Difficult as it may be to imagine anything disrupting this idyllic existence, a lousy sniper is doing his best to do just that. The son of a bitch is hidden in a stand of tall trees overlooking the mountain’s only water supply, and so far at least, no one has been able to spot the bastard. The water is just a tiny trickle and is situated in a hard-to-reach but very exposed location, so as one might expect, there is no big demand for the water detail. The Marine Corps, however, handles these things very simply. When your name is called, it is considered that you have volunteered, no matter what the chore. We have, of course, had to contend with snipers on numerous other occasions, but this miserable SOB is beginning to be a damn nuisance. Fortunately, he seems to be a lousy shot but still manages to turn an otherwise mundane chore into something of an adventure. However, with more important things to occupy our time, we more or less put up with the inconvenience for a day or two, then someone finally kills the bastard, and filling a canteen goes back to being a somewhat ordinary affair.

Even though we work like hell to build up our lines, the Japs are still out there, still determined to kill as many of us as they can. One way is with artillery, and it isn’t long before we find out just how vulnerable these positions are. Of the many and varied miseries we face, artillery fire is probably the most devastating. The explosions literally shake the earth, the noise is almost unbearable, and never knowing where the next one will hit is a terror that can only be known by those who have had the misfortune of being in the way of the damned things. Fear ties our stomachs in knots while we hug the ground, praying that the shells somehow miss our foxhole. They must hit someplace, but not here, God, not here—please. Though we all pray, not all will be saved, and we constantly wonder if we really are part of a plan or if it, perhaps, is just luck of the draw.

On one such night, our section of the line is hit especially hard, and with our foxhole being one that escaped relatively undamaged, my buddy and I are ordered to separate in order to better cover our assigned area—attacks in strength often following heavy artillery fire. I am then ordered to a position where both men have been wounded, finding, as I crawl in, a distinct aroma of blood mixing with the already-dank smell of earth. This odor lingers due to the rather confined space (we have finally installed overhead cover of a sort), and with it comes a feeling of discomfort. I don’t know if it is the smell or that a little bit of hell had so recently struck

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