Thin Red Line, the

They are the men of C-for-Charlie company—“Mad” 1st Sgt. Eddie Welsh, Pvt. 1st Class Don Doll, Pvt. John Bell, Capt. James Stein, Cpl. Fife, and dozens more just like them—infantrymen who are about to land, grim and white-faced, on an atoll in the Pacific called Guadalcanal. This is their story, a shatteringly realistic walk into hell and back.
 
In the days ahead, some will earn medals, others will do anything they can dream up to get evacuated before they land in a muddy grave. But they will all discover the thin red line that divides the sane from the mad—and the living from the dead—in this unforgettable portrait that captures for all time the total experience of men at war.
 
Foreword by Francine Prose
 
“Brutal, direct, and powerful . . . The men are real, the words are real, death is real, imminent and immediate.”—Los Angeles Times
 
“A rare and splendid accomplishment . . . strong and ambitious, spacious, and as honest as any novel ever written.”— Newsweek
 
“[A] major novel of combat in World War II . . . reminiscent of Stephen Crane in The Red Badge of Courage.”—The Christian Science Monitor
 
“ The Thin Red Line moves so intensely and inexorably that it almost seems like the war it is describing.”—The New York Times Book Review


From the Trade Paperback edition.

The two transports had sneaked up from the south in the first graying flush of dawn, their cumbersome mass cutting smoothly through the water whose still greater mass bore them silently, themselves as gray as the dawn which camouflaged them. Now, in the fresh early morning of a lovely tropic day they lay quietly at anchor in the channel, nearer to the one island than to the other which was only a cloud on the horizon. To their crews, this was a routine mission and one they knew well: that of delivering fresh reinforcement troops. But to the men who comprised the cargo of infantry this trip was neither routine nor known and was composed of a mixture of dense anxiety and tense excitement.

Before they had arrived, during the long sea voyage, the cargo of men had been cynical--honestly cynical, not a pose, because they were part of an old regular division and knew that they were cargo. All their lives they had been cargo; never supercargo. And they were not only inured to that; they anticipated it. But now that they were here, were actually confronted with the physical fact of this island that they had all read so much about in the papers, their aplomb deserted them momentarily. Because though they were from a pre-war regular division, this was nevertheless to be their baptism of fire.

As they prepared themselves to go ashore no one doubted in theory that at least a certain percentage of them would remain on this island dead, once they set foot on it. But no one expected to be one of these. Still it was an awesome thought and as the first contingents came struggling up on deck in full gear to form up, all eyes instinctively sought out immediately this island where they were to be put, and left, and which might possibly turn out to be a friend's grave.

The view which presented itself to them from the deck was a beautiful one. In the bright, early morning tropic sunshine which sparkled off the quiet water of the channel, a fresh sea breeze stirred the fronds of minute coconut palms ashore behind the dun beach of the nearer island. It was too early yet to be oppressively hot. There was a feeling of long, open distances and limitless sea vistas. The same sea-flavored breeze sifted gently among the superstructures of the transports to touch the ears and faces of the men. After the olfactory numbness caused by the saturation of breath, feet, armpits and crotches below in the hold, the breeze seemed doubly fresh in their noses. Behind the tiny cocopalms on the island masses of green jungle rose to yellow foothills, which in turn gave place in the bright air to hulking, blue-hazed mountains.

"So this is Guadalcanal," a man at the rail said, and spat tobacco juice over the side.

"What the fuck you think it was? Fucking Tahiti?" another said.

The first man sighed and spat again. "Well, it's a nice peaceful morning for it."

"Jeez, my ass is draggin," a third man complained nervously. "All this gear." He hitched up his full pack.

"Mor'n your ass'll be draggin soon," the first man said.

Already little bugs which they recognized as LCIs had put out from shore, some circling scurryingly about, others heading straight out for the ships.

The men lit cigarettes. Slowly they assembled, shuffling about. The sharp cries of junior officers and noncoms cut through their nervous conversation, herded them. Once assembled, as usual they waited.

The first LCI to reach them circled around the leading transport about thirty yeards off, bouncing heavily on the wavelets under its own power, manned by two men in fatigue hats and shirts with no sleeves. The one not steering hung on to the gunnel to keep his balance and looked up at the ship.

"Well, look at what we got here. More cannonfodder for the Nips," he shouted up cheerfully.

The tobacco-chewing man at the rail worked his jaws a moment, ruminating, and then without moving spat a thin brown stream down over the side. On the deck they continued to wait.

Down below in the second forward hold the third company of the first regiment, known as C-for-Charlie company, milled about in the companionway and in the aisles between its allotted bunks. C-for-Charlie had chanced to be assigned as the fourth company in line to go over on the third forward cargo net on the port side. Its members knew they had a long time to wait. They did not as a result feel as stoical about it all as the first wave already up on deck, who were getting off first.

In addition to that it was very hot in the second forward hold. And C-for-Charlie was three decks down. Also there was no place to sit. Tiered in fives, and sometimes even sixes where the ceiling was higher, the bunks were all strewn with items of infantrymen's equipment ready to be put on. There was no place else to put it. So there was no room on them to sit; but even had there been, the bunks were unsittable anyway: hung on pipes bolted to deck and ceiling they barely left room for one man to lie below another, and a man attempting to sit on one suddenly would find his rump sinking into the canvas laced over the pipe frame, with the result that the base of his skull would come up sharply against the frame of the bunk above. The only place left was the deck strewn with nervous cigarette butts and sprawled legs. It was either that or be left to wander in and out through the jungle of pipes that occupied every available inch, picking a way over the legs and torsos. The stench from the farts, breath and sweaty bodies of so many men suffering from the poor elimination of a long sea voyage would have been brain-numbing had not the nostrils mercifully deadened themselves to it.

In this dimly lighted hellhole of exceedingly high moisture content, whose metal walls resounded everything, C-for-Charlie scrubbed the sweat from its dripping eyebrows, picked its wet shirts loose from its armpits, cursed quietly, looked at its watches, and waited impatiently.

"You think we'll catch a fucking air raid?" Private Mazzi asked Private Tills beside him. They were sitting against a bulkhead clutching their knees up against their chests, both for moral comfort and to keep them from being trampled on.

"How the goddam hell do I know?" Tills said angrily. He was more or less Mazzi's sidekick. At least they often went on pass together. "All I know, them crew guys said they dint catch no air raid last time they made this run. On the other hand time before last they almost got blew up. What do you want me to tell you?"

"You're a big help. Tills: nothin. Tell me nothin. I'll tell you somethin. We're sittin out here on this great big wideopen ocean like a couple big fat fucking ducks in these here boats, that's what."

"I already know that."

"Yeah? Well, brood on it, Tills. Brood on it." Mazzi hugged himself tighter and worked his eyebrows up and down convulsively, a gesture of nervous release which gave his face an expression of pugnacious indignation.

The same question was uppermost in all of C-for-Charlie's minds. Actually C-for-Charlie was not the last in any line. The numbers ran up as high as seven and eight. But this did not give consolation. C-for-Charlie was not concerned with the unlucky ones that came after it; that was their problem. C-for-Charlie was concerned only with the lucky ones who came before it, and that they should hurry, and as to just how long it itself was going to have to wait.

Then there was another thing. Not only was C-for-Charlie fourth in line at its assigned station, which was resented, but it also happened for whatever reason to have been set down among strangers. Except for one other company far away in the stern C-for-Charlie was the only company of the first regiment to be assigned to the first ship, with the result that they did not know a single soul in the companies on either side of them, and this was resented too.

"If I'm gonna get blown-fucking-up," Mazzi mused gloomily, "I dont wanta ged my guts and meat all mixed up with a bunch of strangers from another regiment like these bums. I had much ruther it's be my own outfit anyway."

"Don't talk like that!" Tills cried, "for fuck's sake."

"Well--" Mazzi said. "When I think of them planes up there maybe right now...

"You just aint a realist, Tills."

In their own way other C-for-Charlie men coped with the same imagination problem as best they could. From their vantage point against the companionway bulkhead Mazzi and Tills could see the activities of at least half of C-for-Charlie. In one place a blackjack game had been started, the players indicating whether they would hit or stay between peerings at their watches. In another place a crapgame proceeded in the same oscillating fashion. In still another Private First Class Nellie Coombs had pulled out his everpresent poker deck (which everyone suspected--but could never prove--was marked) and had started up his near-perennial five-card stud game, and was shrewdly making money off the nervousness of his friends despite his own.

In other places little knots of men had formed, and stood or sat talking earnestly to each other with widened, consciously focused eyes while hardly hearing what was said. A few loners meticulously checked and rechecked their rifles and equipment, or else merely sat looking at them. Young Sergeant McCron, the notorious motherhen, went along personally checking each item of equipment of each man in his squad of nearly all draftees as if his sanity, and his life, depended on it. Slightly older Sergeant Beck, the professional martinet with six years service, occupied himself with inspecting the rifles of his squad with great preciseness.

There was nothing to do but wait. Through the locked glass of the portholes along the companionway a few faint sounds of scrambling and some shouts came in to them, and from up on the deck a few even fainter still, to let them know tha...