WITH THE OLD BREED (MTI)(ISBN=9780891419068) 下载 pdf 百度网盘 epub 免费 2025 电子书 mobi 在线

　　In The Wall Street Journal, Victor Davis Hanson named With the

Old Breed one of the top five books on epic twentieth-century

battles. Studs Terkel interviewed the author for his definitive

oral history, The Good War. Now E. B. Sledge’s acclaimed

first-person account of fighting at Peleliu and Okinawa returns to

thrill, edify, and inspire a new generation.

An Alabama boy steeped in American history and enamored of such

heroes as George Washington and Daniel Boone, Eugene B. Sledge

became part of the war’s famous 1st Marine Division–3d Battalion,

5th Marines. Even after intense training, he was shocked to be

thrown into the battle of Peleliu, where “the world was a nightmare

of flashes, explosions, and snapping bullets.” By the time Sledge

hit the hell of Okinawa, he was a combat vet, still filled with

fear but no longer with panic.

Based on notes Sledge secretly kept in a copy of the New

Testament, With the Old Breed captures with utter simplicity and

searing honesty the experience of a soldier in the fierce Pacific

Theater. Here is what saved, threatened, and changed his life.

Here, too, is the story of how he learned to hate and kill–and came

to love–his fellow man.

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　　E. B. "Sledgehammer" SLEDGE was born and grew up in Mobile. In

late 1943 he enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps. After basic

training, he was sent to the Pacific Theater where he fought at

Peleliu and Okinawa, two of the fiercest battles of WW II.

Following the Japanese surrender, Sledge served in China as part of

the occupation force. Upon his return home, he obtained a Ph.D. in

biology and joined the faculty of Alabama College (later the

University of Montevallo), where he taught until retirement. Sledge

initially wrote about his war experiences to explain them to his

family, but he was persuaded by his wife to seek publication.

Sledge died on March 3, 2001.

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　　Chapter OneMaking of a MarineI enlisted in the Marine Corps on

3 December 1942 at Marion, Alabama. At the time I was a freshman at

MarionMilitary Institute. My parents and brother Edward had urgedme

to stay in college as long as possible in order to qualify fora

commission in some technical branch of the U.S. Army.

　　But, prompted by a deep feeling of uneasiness that the warmight

end before I could get overseas into combat, I wantedto enlist in

the Marine Corps as soon as possible. Ed, aCitadel graduate and a

second lieutenant in the army, suggestedlife would be more

beautiful for me as an officer.

　　Mother and Father were mildly distraught at the thought ofme in

the Marines as an enlisted man–that is, “cannon fodder.”So when a

Marine recruiting team came to Marion Institute,I compromised and

signed up for one of the Corps’ newofficer training programs. It

was called V-12.

　　The recruiting sergeant wore dress blue trousers, a khakishirt,

necktie, and white barracks hat. His shoes had a shinethe likes of

which I’d never seen. He asked me lots of questionsand filled out

numerous official papers. When he asked,“Any scars, birthmarks, or

other unusual features?” I describedan inch-long scar on my right

knee. I asked why sucha question. He replied, “So they can identify

you on some Pacificbeach after the Japs blast off your dog tags.”

This wasmy introduction to the stark realism that characterized

theMarine Corps I later came to know.

　　The college year ended the last week of May 1943. I hadthe month

of June at home in Mobile before I had to report 1July for duty at

Georgia Tech in Atlanta.

　　I enjoyed the train trip from Mobile to Atlanta because thetrain

had a steam engine. The smoke smelled good, and thewhistle added a

plaintive note reminiscent of an unhurriedlife. The porters were

impressed and most solicitous when Itold them, with no little

pride, that I was on my way to becominga Marine. My official Marine

Corps meal ticket got me alarge, delicious shrimp salad in the

dining car and the admiringglances of the steward in

attendance.

　　On my arrival in Atlanta, a taxi deposited me at GeorgiaTech,

where the 180-man Marine detachment lived in HarrisonDormitory.

Recruits were scheduled to attend classesyear round (in my case,

about two years), graduate, and thengo to the Marine base at

Quantico, Virginia, for officers’training.

　　A Marine regular, Capt. Donald Payzant, was in charge.

　　He had served with the 1st Marine Division on Guadalcanal.

　　Seeming to glory in his duty and his job as our commander,he

loved the Corps and was salty and full of swagger. Lookingback, I

realize now that he had survived the meat grinderof combat and was

simply glad to be in one piece with thegood fortune of being

stationed at a peaceful college campus.

　　Life at Georgia Tech was easy and comfortable. In short,we didn’t

know there was a war going on. Most of the collegecourses were dull

and uninspiring. Many of the professorsopenly resented our

presence. It was all but impossible toconcentrate on academics.

Most of us felt we had joined theMarines to fight, but here we were

college boys again. Thesituation was more than many of us could

stand. At the end ofthe first semester, ninety of us–half of the

detachment–flunked out of school so we could go into the Corps as

enlistedmen.

　　When the navy officer in charge of academic affairs calledme in

to question me about my poor academic performance, Itold him I

hadn’t joined the Marine Corps to sit out the war incollege. He was

sympathetic to the point of being fatherlyand said he would feel

the same way if he were in my place.

　　Captain Payzant gave the ninety of us a pep talk in front ofthe

dormitory the morning we were to board the train for bootcamp at

the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego, California.

　　He told us we were the best men and the best Marines inthe

detachment. He said he admired our spirit for wanting toget into

the war. I think he was sincere.

　　After the pep talk, buses took us to the railway station. Wesang

and cheered the whole way. We were on our way to warat last. If we

had only known what lay ahead of us!

　　Approximately two and a half years later, I came backthrough the

Atlanta railway station on my way home. Shortlyafter I stepped off

the car for a stroll, a young army infantrymanwalked up to me and

shook hands. He said he had noticedmy 1st Marine Division patch and

the campaign ribbonson my chest and wondered if I had fought at

Peleliu. When Isaid I had, he told me he just wanted to express his

undyingadmiration for men of the 1st Marine Division.

　　He had fought with the 81st Infantry Division (Wildcats),which

had come in to help us at Peleliu.* He was a machinegunner, had

been hit by Japanese fire on Bloody Nose Ridge,

　　and was abandoned by his army comrades. He knew hewould either

die of his wounds or be cut up by the Japanesewhen darkness fell.

Risking their lives, some Marines hadmoved in and carried him to

safety. The soldier said he was soimpressed by the bravery,

efficiency, and esprit of theMarines he saw on Peleliu that he

swore to thank every veteranof the 1st Marine Division he ever ran

across.

　　The “Dago people”–as those of us bound for San Diegowere

called–boarded a troop train in a big railroad terminalin Atlanta.

Everyone was in high spirits, as though we wereheaded for a picnic

instead of boot camp–and a war. The tripacross the country took

several days and was uneventful butinteresting. Most of us had

never been west, and we enjoyedthe scenery. The monotony of the

trip was broken with cardgames, playing jokes on each other, and

waving, yelling, andwhistling at any and all women visible. We ate

some meals indining cars on the train; but at certain places the

train pulledonto a siding, and we ate in the restaurant in the

railroad terminal.

　　Nearly all of the rail traffic we passed was military. We sawlong

trains composed almost entirely of flatcars loaded withtanks,

halftracks, artillery pieces, trucks, and other militaryequipment.

Many troop trains passed us going both ways.

　　Most of them carried army troops. This rail traffic impressedon

us the enormousness of the nation’s war effort.

　　*Together with the 1st Marine Division, the U.S. Army’s 81st

Infantry Divisioncomprised the III Amphibious Corps commanded by

Maj. Gen. Roy S.

　　Geiger, USMC. For the Palau operation, the 1st Marine Division

assaultedPeleliu on 15 September 1944 while the 81st Division took

Angaur Islandand provided a regiment as corps reserve. The 81st

Division relieved the 1stMarine Division on Peleliu on 20 October

and secured the island on 27 November.

　　We arrived in San Diego early one morning. Collecting ourgear, we

fell into ranks outside our cars as a first sergeantcame along and

told the NCOs on our train which buses to getus aboard. This first

sergeant looked old to us teenagers. Likeourselves, he was dressed

in a green wool Marine uniform,

　　but he had campaign ribbons on his chest. He also wore thegreen

French fourragère on his left shoulder. (Later, as amember of the

5th Marine Regiment, I would wear thebraided cord around my left

arm with pride.) But this mansported, in addition, two single loops

outside his arm. Thatmeant he had served with a regiment (either

the 5th or 6thMarines) that had received the award from France for

distinguishedcombat service in World War I.

　　The sergeant made a few brief remarks to us about thetough

training we faced. He seemed friendly and compassionate,

　　almost fatherly. His manner threw us into a falsesense of

well-being and left us totally unprepared for theshock that awaited

us when we got off those buses.

　　“Fall out, and board your assigned buses!” ordered the

firstsergeant.

　　“All right, you people. Get aboard them buses!” the NCOsyelled.

They seemed to have become more authoritarian aswe approached San

Diego.

　　After a ride of only a few miles, the buses rolled to a stop

inthe big Marine Corps Recruit Depot–boot camp. As Ilooked

anxiously out the window, I saw many platoons of recruitsmarching

along the streets. Each drill instructor (DI)bellowed his highly

individual cadence. The recruits lookedas rigid as sardines in a

can. I grew nervous at seeing howserious–or rather, scared–they

seemed.

　　“All right, you people, off them damned buses!”

　　We scrambled out, lined up with men from the other buses,

　　and were counted off into groups of about sixty. Severaltrucks

rolled by carrying work parties of men still in bootcamp or who had

finished recently. All looked at us withknowing grins and jeered,

“You’ll be sorreee.” This was thestandard, unofficial greeting

extended to all recruits.

　　Shortly after we debused, a corporal walked over to mygroup. He

yelled, “Patoon, teehut. Right hace, forwart huah.

　　Double time, huah.”

　　He ran us up and down the streets for what seemed hoursand

finally to a double line of huts that would house us for atime. We

were breathless. He didn’t even seem to be breathinghard.

　　“Patoon halt, right hace!” He put his hands on his hips andlooked

us over contemptuously. “You people are stupid,” hebellowed. From

then on he tried to prove it every moment ofevery day. “My name is

Corporal Doherty. I’m your drill instructor.

　　This is Platoon 984. If any of you idiots think youdon’t need to

follow my orders, just step right out...

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多赫提下士就像跟钉子那样坚强，这一点我们没有人怀疑。大多数海军陆战队队员回忆时，都说他们的教官向他们喊话时是多么响亮，但多多赫提喊得并不太响。相反，他喊话时用的是一种冰冷而威胁的口吻，将寒气穿透我们的身体。我们都认为，如果没有被他吓死，那我们也不会被日本佬杀死。他总是很整洁，制服很贴身，就像最好的裁缝专门给他定做的一样。

E·B·斯莱奇的故事从他作为一名士兵参加海军陆战队第1师第5团第3营K连的训练开始。回忆录集中描述了两场梦魇似的岛屿战斗，他们最终毁灭了这个师。第一场是在贝里琉（对峙行动II，1944年9月15日——11月25日），在10个星期的激烈战斗之后，8769名美军或死或伤或失踪。大约11000名日军被消灭——几乎是驻守岛上的所有敌军，争论纷起——还包括进攻太平洋上许多岛屿的战略——在道格拉斯·麦克阿瑟上将将反攻菲律宾时，是否真的需要占领贝里琉这一日军堡垒以确保其右翼的安全？

但对斯莱奇而言，这种战略必要性的辩论意义不大。他所关心的事K连235个弟兄的生死存亡，因为其中已经有150个士兵死伤或失踪。斯莱奇没有去讽刺占领贝里琉的愚蠢。

在部队里，我们对目标岛屿的自然条件知之甚少。在帕武武的一次训练课上，我们得知必须拿下贝里琉，以保证道格拉斯·麦克阿瑟将军反攻菲律宾的右翼安全，另外它还有一个好的机场可以支援麦克阿瑟。我想不起来是什么时候听到了这个岛屿的名字，尽管我们在课堂上看到了换防图和设计图。（它有一个好听的名字：Pel'e loo。）尽管我们从帕武武写的信都被仔细审查，但指挥官显然仍害怕有人会借此机会用密码写出一些东西让家乡的人知道，我们将攻打一个叫做贝里琉的岛屿。可正如一位战友后来告诉我的，家里没人知道在一张地图上到哪儿能找到它。

黎明的第一缕光线刚刚出现，我把装备放在铺位上，一切都已收拾停当，随时可以上肩，然后就出去上了主甲板。所有人都在轻声交谈，抽着烟，向海岛张望。我找到了snafu并和他待在一起，他是迫击炮的炮手，因此我们要团结互助。他还是一名格洛斯特的老兵，我感觉围着老兵转会更安全些，他们知道会发生什么。

他拿出一包香烟，拉长腔调说：“来根烟，大锤。”

“不，谢谢，snafu。我已经告诉你一百万次了，我不抽烟。”

“我敢跟你打五毛钱的赌，大锤，今天结束之前，你会抽掉你手里能拿到的每一根香烟。”

我只向他苦笑了一下，然后我们就看着海岛。太阳刚刚升起，天空中没有一丝云彩。大海很宁静。一阵微风拂过。

我注意到躺在我们周围的几具日本死尸嘴唇间的金牙闪着明亮的光。采摘金牙是打扫敌人死尸的一道工序，迄今为止我还没有一试。停在一具多枚齿冠熠熠发光的死尸旁，我忍不住拿出刀，然后弯下身子准备去拔。

一只手抓住了我的肩膀，我直起身来看是谁。“你想干什么，大锤？”卡斯韦尔医生问道。他凝视着我，脸上现出悲哀和责备的表情。

“就想弄点儿金牙。”我回答。

在我们向上走的当口，约翰尼·马尔梅走下山谷的斜坡来迎接我们。还没看清他的脸，我就从他走路的姿势上看出一定有什么事情不对劲。他踉踉跄跄地迎向我们，紧张地抓着挂在肩头的手提机关枪网袋。我之前还从没看到约翰尼紧张过，即使是最猛烈的炮火，在他眼里也只是完成任务之前的小麻烦。

他疲倦的脸因激动而扭曲，双眉紧锁，充血的双眼看上去泪汪汪的。显然他有让人担心的事要告诉我们。我们拖着脚步停了下来。

我第一个想法是：日本人已经从北边的帕劳偷偷运进来数千名士兵，我们再也无法从这岛上脱身了。不，也许是敌人轰炸了一些美国城市或是驱逐了我们的海军，就像他们在瓜达卡纳尔干的那样。我脑子里满是胡思乱想，但谁也没有料到真正发生了什么。

“你好，约翰尼。”在他向我们走过来时，有人招呼道。

“好吧，兄弟们，就在这说吧。”他四下望望后说，但没瞧我们。（这很奇怪，因为约翰尼绝不是那种害怕与死亡、命运或将军进行眼神交流的人。）“好，兄弟们，好，兄弟们。”他重复着，显然是惊慌失措。一些人相互看看，觉得不解。“头儿死了。‘高射炮’被打死了。”约翰尼终于脱口，然后眼睛就迅速移开我们。

我万分震惊，心乱如麻。我将弹药包放下，离开众人，坐在钢盔上，轻声呜咽起来。

“那些该死的斜眼的狗娘养的。“我后面有人哼哼着。

在我狂乱的念头中，从未出现过霍尔丹上尉的死亡。总有细绳和受伤的同伴不时离开我们，但不知什么缘故，我认为”高射炮“是不会死的。在这样一个充满暴力、死亡和毁灭的世界，我们的连指挥官代表了稳定和方向。如今他的生命终结了，我们感到绝望和失落，这是整个战争期间我经受的最大伤痛。这种伤痛丝毫没有随时间而缓解。

安迪·霍尔丹上尉不是一个偶像。他是一个人。但他在最艰难的条件下，以最大的同情心引领了我们个人的命运。我们知道他永远不可能被取代。他是我认识的最好的陆战...

媒体评论

　　"Eugene Sledge became more than a legend with his memoir,

With The Old Breed

. He became a chronicler, a historian, a

storyteller who turns the extremes of the war in the Pacific —the

terror, the camaraderie, the banal and the extraordinary—into terms

we mortals can grasp."—Tom Hanks

　　“In all the literature on the Second World War, there is not a

more honest, realistic or moving memoir than Eugene Sledge's. This

is the real deal, the real war: unvarnished, brutal, without a

shred of sentimentality or false patriotism, a profound primer on

what it actually was like to be in that war. It is a classic that

will outlive all the armchair generals' safe accounts of—not the

"good war"—but the worst war ever.”—Ken Burns

书籍介绍

In The Wall Street Journal , Victor Davis Hanson named With the Old Breed one of the top five books on epic twentieth-century battles. Studs Terkel interviewed the author for his definitive oral history, The Good War . Now E. B. Sledge’s acclaimed first-person account of fighting at Peleliu and Okinawa returns to thrill, edify, and inspire a new generation.

An Alabama boy steeped in American history and enamored of such heroes as George Washington and Daniel Boone, Eugene B. Sledge became part of the war’s famous 1st Marine Division–3d Battalion, 5th Marines. Even after intense training, he was shocked to be thrown into the battle of Peleliu, where “the world was a nightmare of flashes, explosions, and snapping bullets.” By the time Sledge hit the hell of Okinawa, he was a combat vet, still filled with fear but no longer with panic.

Based on notes Sledge secretly kept in a copy of the New Testament, With the Old Breed captures with utter simplicity and searing honesty the experience of a soldier in the fierce Pacific Theater. Here is what saved, threatened, and changed his life. Here, too, is the story of how he learned to hate and kill–and came to love–his fellow man.