Meanwhile, on the Rock the Marines worked and sweated. Bill McCormack was one of them. Gradually they grew lean, hard, sun bronzed and tense working under the tropical sun. The lines of tension under their eyes were etched deep from sleepless nights and hours of strain. They seemed to take on the look of the island about them and the lush, fulsome loveliness of Corregidor was slowly dying. Heavy tropic verdure was burned away, great tress were splintered and scorched, and the earth showed the raw pockmarks from thousands of bombs which had chewed craters of all sizes on the island.