SNIPER'S BULLET

Auckland Star, Volume LXXV, Issue 181, 2 August 1944, Page 3

SNIPER'S BULLET

FINDS ITS TARGET GRIM DAYS IN THE JUNGLE By S.-SGT. GERALD A. WAINDEL NEW BRITAIN. The Marine platoon threaded through the jungle, the men well spaced, observant, cautious. A single shot punctuated the silence. A sniper. An officer passed the word: "Tell Osborne to come up here." He was asking for Private, Firstclass, Floyd Osborne, 18, an Indian" youth from Fort Hall, Idaho, an expert scout. The officer waited. "Where's Osborne?" he whispered hoarsely. The message came up to him, passed from man to man: "That was Osborne the sniper got. Right between the eyes."

The commanding officer is small, almost fragile-looking. His tight lips and keen eyes contrast with his appearance of extreme youth. He is Major Harold T. A. Richmond, 27, of Yonkers, N.Y. He strides jauntily among the young giants who are his corporals, sergeants and lieutenants.

The men have implicit confidence in Major Richmond. Most of them remember him as one of the most successful rifle company commanders on Guadalcanal- and Tulagi. A Japanese machine-gun slashes the undergrowth, driving command post personnel to cover. Major Richmond is still sitting up, still answering questions.

"Hobby? Yes, I have a hoppy. I collect reptiles." Somehow it didn't seem incongruous at all. The darndest conversations take place in battle. Bradshaw's Evening Swim Private, First-class, Charles C. Bradshaw, 18, of Indianapolis, learned to swim at the Y.M.C.A. He liked to swim—but this time was different.

It was growing darker. They were giving wounded Marines morphine and plasma. They were burying the dead.

P.F.C. Bradshaw shivered in the sharp sea breeze. He was naked except for a cord around his waist and the two hand grenades that hung there. His clothes, battletorn, sweatstained, lay in a heap at his feet, in his foxhole at the edge of the river.

Marines had to cross the river. But first someone had to swim across and reconnoitre. Bradshaw was silent, like the men who covered his crossing with automatic fire. He slipped into the dark, sullen waters of the Natamo.

The Japanese on the other side didn't open fire. They were waiting for more Marines. But the Marine column didn't cross that night. Bradshaw had signalled them back before drifting downstream to safety, away from the Japanese machine-gun he had discovered. Another Day's Fighting The night ended suddenly with the burst of dawn that heralds a tropic day. The day's fighting started with the casualness of a morning stroll. Major Richmond is eating breakfast with his staff, hot black coffee and a can of cold meat and beans, as the firing starts ahead. Major Richmond pauses only long enough to point with his spoon. "Get going," he directs the nearest mortar officer. He is FirstLieutenant James' W. Slack, of Zanesville, Ohio. He calls Corporal Joseph J. Caruso, 20, of Norwood, Mass., a mortar section leader. Caruso's mortar lobs a half dozen shells over the lines while Lieutenant Slack watches the bursts through his glasses. Slack: Up one notch. That's right. Up twenty-five yards. Now to the right. Once over lightly. An infantry officer cuts in: Fan the area from left to right. Traverse fifty yards. Caruso: Sorry, sir! To his men: Why can't they make up their minds?

Slack: Bring it left now, Joe, left. More left, Joe. Caruso (proudly): I'll bet we're giving them a beating. Come on, baby doll. Slack: Now you're right o.n! Twelve rounds right there. Hey, Joe, that's good.

Caruso: Hurry up with that ammunition there, we got shootin' to do.— Auckland Star and N.A.N.A.