Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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PVT JIM OVERMIRE. JR 67458. U.S.M.C. During the moonlit night the transport packed with fighting men, fighting equipment, moved and zigzagged its way through the smooth Pacific waters in convoy; men were about the decks, talking, joking, laughing, in groups, in pairs— passing awa time in the best manner. Time was free and plentiful now; before long it would end for some. Laurie Sherman and I had just finished arguing. Now we stared into the night, at the stars, and at the moon. I still thought that combat wouldn't be too tough; anyway, with faith in yourself and in your own sacred beliefs, you could go through, and maybe even do a few heroic things, make day dreams real. Laurie. I knew, was different. How foolish and even cowardly his opinions seemed, to me—his not wanting to see action, his constant fear of sudden death, his hoping never to go in. . . . Well. Laurie, you just wait and see; it won't be too bad. And anyway, that's why I joined the Marines—to get some action; maybe soon I'll get that chance. I muttered almost angrilv. He would never see my point of view, so what was the use of talking to him about an operation. We changed the subject, therefore, and were back on the same level—talking and planning our good times to come on our future dates, the old get-togethers of our crowd, and the hell we would raise when we got back home. You see, Laurie and I were real buddies, both from Grant- ville; being buddies, it was easy to pass away the time talking- radio of the desperate Jap resis- tance and of the high casualties among our men. seen a few planes shot from the sky, realized the huge fues were actually our own fuel and ammunition dumps. Yet no orders had come for us to go ashore; instead, confusion was throughout the ship, and men peering through binoculars, watching the tiny dots that were our men on shore. A regi ment of experienced Marines on board had left earlier in the morning, but I was only a replacement, one of many. It seemed tough to me—seeing the others go to the island while we stayed behind and waited, waited as if all and every- body had suddenly forgotten our presence. Combat was still for me fighting the enemy, heroes and gallant battles, fear unheard of on the front lines. But why. I wondered, had the veteran Marines who had left earlier this morning been so still, so disinterested; why were there no jokes, no laughter, no horseplay? Probably there was something I hadn’t learned yet . . . but no. the feeling surged through me again. As I waited, the order, Move out,” would not come soon enough. We had watched the smoking island where the beachhead had been established and advances pushed inward, heard over the talking until we both decided to ' hit the sack.” P page sixteen

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The small landing craft were sloshing through the choppy whitccaps in huge circles awaiting the order from a nearby L.S.T. lor our group to land on Yellow beach. There were eighteen ol us in our craft, mostly seasick and wet. Some leaned on their rifles, others slung them over their shoulders: few had grenades hung on their cartridge belts—seemingly an unnecessary burden of weight. Oh, it was wickedly raw and miserably cold: pack straps cut into shoul- ders, arms were numb, stomachs rolled. We received the signal and quickly headed for the shore. Then 1 glanced back, and there was Laurie: we smiled, but faint- l : our smile was short, for some- one veiled and things began to happen then. Our craft scraped bottom and we leaped out into the loose brown sand, then wallowed in it: airplanes were strafing off to our left and right with a steady and deafening staccato: explosions ahead—only our own mortar and artillery crews: black, twisting smoke curled slowly into the low, dark clouds from burning and smouldering installations on the beach: men were barking orders, and all seemed in confusion to my inexperienced eyes. We floun- dered ahead in single column further up into the beach: I saw around me men who crouched low in fox holes and wearily glanced at us. Others lay by the road. Why there? I thought. As I trudged by, (hills and emptiness went through my body for I saw their white and waxen faces—so still, their open eyes seeing nothing, their blood-clotted hair moving in the wind: their still and broken bodies strewn in holes. These lifeless men, the day before full of life and warmth, would never move again, never smile again. Wild thoughts ran through my mind, my throat tightened, and I seemed to stumble onward. I didn’t desire glory now, for death seemed the only answer. Now I realized that battles were not scenes set for heroes, but places far from home where men fight in a grim manner and die for a cause which is common to each man’s mind—fighting to save a country, and hoping to come back alive. What role will I play here? came the thought as we dodged for cover from snipers’ bullets. . . . Editor's Not»: I ». James Overmire. Jr . was killed in action the following dav while charging an enemy position. Papers found on his l od included this store, probable written in his spare moments, and brought home by Laurie Sherman. Mae God rest his soul. James W. O verm ire. Sr.. Editor. irantville Courier. Eero Rigttii.a rusi, . CoM —. Jim. ULeSU- page seventeen