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Woe Is Me, Woe Is Me

by R. Coleman

123 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #01-0043; ISBN 1-55212-641-2; US$15.50, C$17.50, EUR13.00, £9.00

A small, captivating work of illustrated non-fiction that presents a series of unique incidents and those colorful characters involved during the late 40's and early 50's in the U.S. Marine Corps.

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about the book      about the author      Prologue      catalogue info

About the Book This is a non-fictitious trip of nostalgia. Recollections emanate from the mind of an individual Marine while alone in a tavern. As drinks are consumed, his thoughts become labored to capture events in a proper sequence and perspective. Determinedly he recalls them all. These accounts of extremely rare occurrences present odd humor amid the tough circumstance of the Marine Corps. This book is personally illustrated by the author to utmost factuality, giving true clarity to the entire story and those individuals portrayed.

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About the Author A desperate, highnoon birth in a small house on a West Virginia hillside, now gone, begat a sweet faced beggar of pennies for Saturday movie shows ten years hence. The movie theater is gone, so is the mill town in Maryland where the same young lad graduated from a razed high school. The steel mills, Marine Corps, and Air Force further tempered the multi-faceted, artistic fellow into a person desirous of putting some parts of a life into words and drawings to entertain and enlighten. "I had better hurry, at 72 my world is fast disappearing!"

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Prologue

They flounder past...their eyes a glaze.

Rank after rank, four abreast. Humpers, strapped into bouncing backpacks. Canteens and weapons cavort to a wild dancing...of slap, flail, jiggle...

Legs pump to the rhythms of frightful gasps.

Labored hearts pound, hammer...as the waves of crimson, slackened faces distort in anguish.

"NO STOPS!"

A half-mile...on, on...another half mile....

"NO STRAGGLERS!"

Tortured muscles quiver to an exhausted ache. Eardrums thump. The throbs deafen.

"RUN! Keep up, keep up, you bastards."

Clink, slog, clank, slog. An unending, mechanical, dogged unison.

"RUN!", Bawls the platoon Sergeant in a fierce menace.

"RUN, damn you RUN!", He rails, "Anyone falls out gets an ass kickin!"

Numb, rubbery feet stomp a chain-gang tune.

...Onward....

Wheezy, dry breaths rasp. Lungs sear, throats parch. Run...stumble, run...falter, yet, run on..."'Cause if we stop, we're gonna' die...so let's all die on the go....

...Woe is me, woe is me...."

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Catalogue Information

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