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pg.22
As we moved towards the airfield which we soon learned was at the front lines, the number of vehicles decreased, and more foxholes were evidence inhabited by men who peered warily and curiously at our little group riding serenly along in an open truck which bucked and staggered along the top of an exposed ridge. Past batteries of netted, camauflaged Marine artillery spewing incessant shells we rode and were finally deposited in a slightly open area boasting the only upright tent on the island.
I wandered around a bit amid the din of rifle, artillery and mortor fire. Alan Soskin and I paired up and started to dig a foxhole using the wing of a damaged Jap plane as a roof. As we were putting the finishing touches to it and admiring our handiwork, a platoon of Marines came up and stated combing through the wreckage of the Jap planes strewn around us. When we asked curiously what they were looking for a Marine sergeant answered laconicaly, "Snipers," At this Alan and I prudently and hurriedly packed up our gear and moved further back to another area. There we dug another foxhole, covered it with some canvass, nibbled out D ration chocolate bars and crawled inside to sleep.
The first night in the foxhole was one hell of a night. It rained all night and no matter which way I turned or twisted in that cramped narrow hole,