Reyburn Philip Haddock
Company G, 143rd Infantry

When I was at Benning the motto of the Infantry School was, "Follow Me". I didn’t realize until I had been in a position where people depended on me, just what this meant—so I have written a few pages on the situation from the small unit leader’s view-point

Second Lieutenants and Sergeants all face the problem, and it is much greater for the higher unit commanders, though not so personal—I’ll pass it along to you.

It is mid-winter, and as bitter as winter gets, a sleetish mist is falling. The men have been alerted since noon, and it is now almost midnight. Twelve hours of living on nerves—twelve hours during which each individual has relived his life, and during which time he has been able to reconcile himself somewhat to the fate which is to be his in the coming event—a thing that will reach into the very depths of his soul, calling upon him to check the fear and anguish that has been the lot of a combat soldier since time immemorial.

Animal emotions have long since over-ridden those finer, gentler emotions that are natural to these boys.

When the whispered order comes down that they are moving out on the attack, the men are mentally dulled and physically alerted to meet the situation. Then comes the beginning of the differentiation between those being led and the leaders. They quietly move out, disappearing in the mist like ghosts, seeming to realize that at dawn life ends for them. Each one of those led is alone with himself and his thoughts—fleeting glimpse of his past; familiar faces, loved places and remembered moments stand out as the men move noiselessly into the inferno of battle. Occasionally death looms up, takes his toll and moves on down the line, interrupting a reverie here and there.

Not so with the leader. Upon him rests the responsibility for these men who now are dependent almost totally upon him to diligently conduct them through this descent into hell. As the men calm their minds with glimpses of another life, the leader must busy himself with things that allow no time for reveries. The line must be kept closed, the interval has to be exact; there is a new kid who is frightened and cannot be depended upon even to protect himself, an "old man" experienced in battle to the extent of becoming careless; a man is hit and must be evacuated.

The problems grow until they almost drown the din of battle—he has little time for personal fears, therefore, somewhere in his subconscious mind they mount until some lull when the leader must sit like these being led, alone and without responsibilities for the moment, then they descent upon him, and he is once again almost human—filled with fears he should have experienced hours ago. It is then that the leader’s strength is tested. His job and the responsibilities entailed keep him too busy during the worst of it to be more than a machine; but every ember of body and soul is rent when remembrance creeps up on him during these quiet times. Then he must break from the strain unless he can tell his soul, "Be still, I did a good job!"