A Marine who fought at Guadalcanal and Peleliu writes of his experiences at an elementary level- with perhaps a single connective, reflective vein. This is war without suspense or unmerciful violence, sex is minimal, drink random and a matter of opportunity, foul language almost unnoticeable; war without loved ones at home, exchanges of sentimental memories, philosophizing. This is the machinery by which the Marines grind down initiative and individuality. This is how the men buddy up and take on nicknames, respond to injury and the death of comrades, pilfer grub, hate the incessant rain, officers, insects. This is the day by day process of life in combat, on passes, in the brig, at the hospital, or awaiting new orders. The author is doubtless gifted- but he has stripped away too much to get at too little.