This is the machine-gun platoon of Hq. Co. -- the boys to whom the lead-flinging typewriter, cal. 30, M-1, water-cooled, belt fed, recoil operated is nothing more than a 'brother' to clean, to carry and to shoot. We are the largest platoon in the company with thirty-four enlisted men and one officer, four gun squads making two sections and a headquarters section to administrate and communicate. Our transportation consists of three over - crowded half-tracks, our 'home on wheels'. The platoon became a platoon when men from the farms, the junk-yards, the gin-mills and the schools of greater New York (east of the Mississippi) traded in their overalls, zoot-suits, and choir robes for the customary OD at --

Camp POLK, Louisiana -- It would be asking too much of our befogged and dulled minds to recall all the events that happened here, so let us relax and recollect those hectic days of Polk, P. C. (Packing and Crating). 'Tis a safe bet that above the hubbub and melee of loading our six foot equipment in five foot boxes, the sixty-four dollar question was that of how to get the contents of the foot-lockers and clothes rack into an all-too-small duffel bag. It was here that the omnipotent seven pounds -- yes, S-E-V-E-N -- limit of personal items became the challenge to the users of 'Dixie Peach Pomade' (adv.) and other various and sundry lotions or notions. Henegar saw no reason why a hot-water bottle couldn't be packed instead of the steel water cans and it was Taylor who suggested a soft and sanitary 'V' mail. These and similar 'ferments of the imagination' were quelled by the C. O.'s daily inspections of our personal bundles, which on completion saw every mothers' son dashing to the trash pile or acrobatically clamoring into the attic to retrieve the cherished non-essentials that somehow got there. When the mad rush was over and first-aid administered to the lacerated and bruised, we'd put that 'white' towel or the pair of brown oxfords back with our now over-weight pile and satisfied and happy await the morrow's repeat performance. You do not think it was rugged? Well, besides the numerous shock cases, Pat Devaney, the jovial Irishman whose equipment was all 'bran nuw', and Dave 'Oh my back' Reinhart aggravated their physical ailments to such an extent that they were in no shape to fight -- Arnold broke his glasses, Hill had a sore wrist, Wits on hurt all over and T/Sgt. Lauterbach was seen swallowing raisins whole and reading up on the symptoms of stomach ulcers -- it was Rust and Stolt who drowned their sorrow of having perfect health at the local PX each night. However, our pleas were in vain and by order of rank we loaded intact for --

Camp KILMER, POE--Where Henegar filled his pockets with razor blades, an unnecessary item for Batina, Culp and other 'peach fuzzed' individuals, and all extra space was stuffed with soap, chewing gum, candy and 'OCS literature'. Also several members of the platoon (you'd be surprised) were involved in that highly secretive 'Taxi Cab Run' to New York City and return. Nothing short of the third degree would gain further information of those eventful evenings and names would be unfair to the married men. And that close order drill in the fog -- two consecutive orders of 'to the rear - March' and the platoon had to be located by radar. It worked and all hands were on deck when the sails were finally unfurled aboard the --

Censored -- Regardless of its true name, to us it was a nightmare of crowded men, heaving decks and long days spent wondering when a meal would stay down long enough for at least partial, assimilation. Ask Cal Seitz, he weathered the voyage underneath a table lying on deck, his gills a nice shade of green, faring pretty badly to say the least. Gold, Elmer T. found the trip an excellent opportunity to lie in the sick bay and let his wants be ministered by the experienced -- hardened medics. They say it is an 'ill wind that blows nobody good', so naturally someone benefitted from the squeamish feelings of the majority. It was Michaud, Poudrette and Bigby who got 'fat' those first three days and we always suspected them of sabotage when their meal-time conversation were of snails, raw oysters and the like. All recovered enough, however, to enter either into the 'we're broke' bridge club presided over by Sgt. Gilmur, sitting in that one seat and soundly cursing Batina's misplays, or else tried their luck at the inevitable 'gaming' tables though no huge fortunes were won or lost (it's just a friendly game). Then with the ruffle of the cards and the click of the cast die -- even Kerzner's poetry {well he tried) -- were forgotten when we sighted land once more and a feeling of relief swept clean the tension and unconscious fear of our minds for the long trip was really over. It was with the traditional fog hanging low over the water like a welcome mat that we disembarked in order of rank at --