The sub., 1944-02-17

The following article was written Dy sailor aboard U. s. warship in the South Pacific, and first appeared in his home city newspaper, "The Muncie Qnd) Press"
 I want to show you a bit of hal lowed ground-it is the Arlington Cemetery of the South Pacific; it is the Valhalla of American ser vice men. I'm going to. show you this bit of ground, but it will be done the hard way. Come with me up Sealark Channel at dawn of day in August.
 Yes, MT. Striker, I want you 10 stand at the rail with these men, nerves drawn as taut as a violin string-mouths dry, eyes strained to the breaking point, breath com ing in short gaSps of fear-that awful feeling of nothingness in the pits of their stomachs. The Objec- tive comes into view, the time has come for these men to step out on the stage, and they know full well that death plays the leading role in this theater.
 There they go over the side of the big transport-Tom Jones, Dick Brown and Harry Smith. Hand-over- hand they crawl down the cargo nets into their small craft that is to take them to a rendezvous with that death. You know it's death-it is in the des- tiny of these men.
 The first objective is reached the grove at the waters edge. Men are down never to rise again, other men move up to take the places of the fallen. The main ob- jective is ap airfield beyond that fringe of trees, and as though God himself has pulled the curtain on this brutal stage, their movements become vague and finally obliter ated and these movements De- come lost to you. The uncertainty, the utter feeling of helplessness leave the element of time suspend ed in the hellish hot sun of the tropics.
 Close your eyes, MT. Railroad Worker, close them tight; it is an- other day, in another month; your hands are gripping another rail, the inevitable cocoanut tree rail that separates the living from the dead in these areas of war. You can open your eyes now, Mir. Coal Miner, open them wide. Yes, the seeds that have been planted have grown into bloom; the bloom is the row upon row of white crosses that meet the eye. These men have paid the price in full for just seven small acres of ground, but seven of the most important acres of ground over owned by Uncle Sam.
 Restful, isn't it, peaceful and quiet-yes, quiet and eternal peace. Read the epitaphs, MT. Labor Leader, they tell the story in them- selves-America, the Land of the Free. There's Star of David be- side a pair of rosary beads owned by some Irishman. A captain of marines and a colored boy sleep side by side-a lieutenant from h. diana, a sailor from North Dakota, an aviator from Ohio, from here, from there, from every star in the flag. a cross in the ground. It's their home now, some 1000 miles from home. These men were mak- ing $50 a month, MT. Striker, $50 a month, room and board
 When you were a kid, MT. Strik- CT, you studied about the Ameri- can heritage of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness" s." Well. read it again and then again; stu dy it; delve back into the pages of American history and show me anything in the American creed of living that will justify your wartime strikes.
 Come out here with us in these South Pacific waters and stay a while. Eat our chow, sleep in our shacks, watch us work, help us fight these jungle flies, help us kill malaria bearing mosquitoes. Walk with us through the mud and the slime of the Swamps of these jun gle islands; walk with us in the sweltering, steamy heat of noon-