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Men sleep with their jobs—gunners with their guns, drivers with their trucks and jeeps. Mosquito nets are a necessity against anopheles. It rains almost every night—weepy tropical rain that soaks into the bedrolls and seeps through tarpaulin. The nights are passed in wet chill and discomfort and the days in mud and filth that the Marines, who have been too busy fighting, have not had time to clean up. The Marines deal with filth on their clothes and bodies in the Unga River, which runs miraculously swift and clear through the occupied area. The swim in the Unga is one of the daily necessities on Guadalcanal. Many of the men drive mud-covered jeeps and trucks into the shallow, pebbly stream and wash themselves, vehicles and clothes all at one session.
There are still only two meals daily. They are generous meals, however, and a typical menu includes steak, beans, bread and butter with jam, canned peaches and coffee. The men supplement regular meals with coconuts and occasional local tangerines. There are no natives around to climb trees and get them coconuts, but high winds have solved this problem by breaking off tops of trees and bringing down a bonanza of nuts.
Many of the men still are smoking captured Japanese cigarets and eating captured Japanese peppermint candy, which is not so bad as wearing Japanese underwear. There is a thriving black market in Japanese souvenirs, which range all the way from fencing shields to occupation bank notes.
Life is reduced to essentials and Guadalcanal's greatest pleasure is just in still being alive, in mail from home, in nighttime camaraderie around radio programs from home, in group singing of all songs that have become American folk music.
Marines take it all with sardonic cheerfulness, with a smile or wisecrack. When the Japanese fail to provide excitement Mother Nature steps in. Last night there was an earthquake shock to spice the routine.