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Authors: Robert Cowley
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Marines who had fought in World War II, and wanted to go home now that it was over, died protecting a bridge or a railroad track in the wasteland of northern China.”
The man who wrote this was a Private 1st Class in the 1st Marine Division named Eugene B. Sledge. He was one of two thousand marines who had arrived in Beijing on October 9 to take over from the Japanese. Sledge was a veteran of Peleliu and Okinawa, and he and his fellow marines were still outfitted in the tropical cotton they had worn in the Pacific. With forty members of a reinforced rifle platoon, he would be sent to protect the division's radio relay station at a godforsaken rail town called Lang Fang. Finding themselves in the unwilling midst of a new war, the marines looked around for someone else to fight the Communists for them. The solution they chanced on could not have been more ideal.
EUGENE B. SLEDGE, who died in 2001, was the author of
With the Old Breed,
an account of his ordeals as a young marine at Peleliu and Okinawa that is widely regarded as one of the most vivid memoirs of World War II. Sledge went on to become a professor of zoology and ornithology at the University of Montevallo in Alabama.
I N THE AUTUMN OF 1945 , soon after the end of World War II, the 1st Marine Division was sent to northern China. Our mission was to disarm the Japanese, prevent a Communist takeover, and maintain order. Those of us who were stationed in Peking had the “good duty,” and we knew it. But late in October, a sergeant came into the British Legation, where most of the 5th Marine Regiment was billeted, and announced that a detachment from K Company was scheduled to pull a tour of guard duty. A reinforced rifle platoon with two light-machine-gun sections, as well as my 60mm mortar squad, would be sent to protect the division's radio relay station at Lang Fang, which was located along a railroad line midway between Peking and Tientsin. We received these orders with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, but we knew we had not been sent to northern China for rest and rehabilitation.
The next morning dawned crisp and clear. Having been issued ammunition and C rations, our detachment of roughly forty marines and a corpsman, under the command of a lieutenant, boarded five trucks and a jeep and set out for Lang Fang. After we passed through one of the big tower gates in the huge wall surrounding Peking, we looked back and saw Chinese soldiers pulling the gate shut behind us. Our convoy went out into the windswept countryside, while we kept a sharp lookout for possible Communist ambush. Some miles down the road, we moved through an ancient walled village, virtually unchanged since the time of Kublai Khan and Marco Polo. It was crowded with Chinese peasants. Not a single person could be seen outside the walls—grim evidence of the terrible unrest and chaos infecting the countryside.
We soon arrived at Lang Fang, an unwalled village of about five hundred people. Our convoy entered a modern walled compound; atop one small building was a radio antenna. Behind the radio station were our quarters, insome one-story wooden barracks-type buildings. Several of us were detailed for guard duty along the compound wall. My post was on the fire step overlooking a narrow intersection lined with rows of single-story houses of mud and brick. Looking through a fire port and over the parapet, which had barbed wire stretched on top, I realized that we would be easy prey for any snipers in nearby houses.
Several curious Chinese children gathered in the street, and I began talking with them as well as I could, considering my limited knowledge of their language. I tossed a couple of pieces of C-ration candy to them, and they shouted their appreciation. Immediately, a crowd of about fifty people gathered, shouting and holding out their hands. Those of us who were on the wall soon ran out of candy and started tossing hardtack biscuits to them. They begged for more. Then a sergeant
The man who wrote this was a Private 1st Class in the 1st Marine Division named Eugene B. Sledge. He was one of two thousand marines who had arrived in Beijing on October 9 to take over from the Japanese. Sledge was a veteran of Peleliu and Okinawa, and he and his fellow marines were still outfitted in the tropical cotton they had worn in the Pacific. With forty members of a reinforced rifle platoon, he would be sent to protect the division's radio relay station at a godforsaken rail town called Lang Fang. Finding themselves in the unwilling midst of a new war, the marines looked around for someone else to fight the Communists for them. The solution they chanced on could not have been more ideal.
EUGENE B. SLEDGE, who died in 2001, was the author of
With the Old Breed,
an account of his ordeals as a young marine at Peleliu and Okinawa that is widely regarded as one of the most vivid memoirs of World War II. Sledge went on to become a professor of zoology and ornithology at the University of Montevallo in Alabama.
I N THE AUTUMN OF 1945 , soon after the end of World War II, the 1st Marine Division was sent to northern China. Our mission was to disarm the Japanese, prevent a Communist takeover, and maintain order. Those of us who were stationed in Peking had the “good duty,” and we knew it. But late in October, a sergeant came into the British Legation, where most of the 5th Marine Regiment was billeted, and announced that a detachment from K Company was scheduled to pull a tour of guard duty. A reinforced rifle platoon with two light-machine-gun sections, as well as my 60mm mortar squad, would be sent to protect the division's radio relay station at Lang Fang, which was located along a railroad line midway between Peking and Tientsin. We received these orders with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, but we knew we had not been sent to northern China for rest and rehabilitation.
The next morning dawned crisp and clear. Having been issued ammunition and C rations, our detachment of roughly forty marines and a corpsman, under the command of a lieutenant, boarded five trucks and a jeep and set out for Lang Fang. After we passed through one of the big tower gates in the huge wall surrounding Peking, we looked back and saw Chinese soldiers pulling the gate shut behind us. Our convoy went out into the windswept countryside, while we kept a sharp lookout for possible Communist ambush. Some miles down the road, we moved through an ancient walled village, virtually unchanged since the time of Kublai Khan and Marco Polo. It was crowded with Chinese peasants. Not a single person could be seen outside the walls—grim evidence of the terrible unrest and chaos infecting the countryside.
We soon arrived at Lang Fang, an unwalled village of about five hundred people. Our convoy entered a modern walled compound; atop one small building was a radio antenna. Behind the radio station were our quarters, insome one-story wooden barracks-type buildings. Several of us were detailed for guard duty along the compound wall. My post was on the fire step overlooking a narrow intersection lined with rows of single-story houses of mud and brick. Looking through a fire port and over the parapet, which had barbed wire stretched on top, I realized that we would be easy prey for any snipers in nearby houses.
Several curious Chinese children gathered in the street, and I began talking with them as well as I could, considering my limited knowledge of their language. I tossed a couple of pieces of C-ration candy to them, and they shouted their appreciation. Immediately, a crowd of about fifty people gathered, shouting and holding out their hands. Those of us who were on the wall soon ran out of candy and started tossing hardtack biscuits to them. They begged for more. Then a sergeant
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