CHAPTER ONE

We’re in It Now

Pearl Harbor

On Sunday, December 7, 1941, the Japanese Navy launched an aerial sneak attack on the American military at Pearl Harbor and across the island of Oahu. On that day, the Japanese killed 2,400 American servicemen and fifty-seven civilians in an act of undeclared war.

SID PHILLIPS

December 7, 1941, was a Sunday afternoon, and I didn’t have anything to do. I went by the Albright drugstore in my hometown of Mobile, Alabama, where my friend W. O. Brown was the soda jerk (soda fountain attendant). I was sitting at the counter talking to W.O., and there were about twenty people in the drugstore. This lady burst through the side door and said, “Turn on the radio!” W.O. had a small radio and he turned it on. The news commentator didn’t give any specific information other than we’d been attacked and the casualties were heavy. Evidently he’d been instructed to give only that amount of information and nothing else. We switched from station to station, and they were all talking about the attack on Pearl Harbor. There was no music. Nothing but news. We just sat there and listened, shocked.

Everyone was puzzled, asking where Pearl Harbor was. I was the only one in the drugstore who knew it was in Hawaii and told everyone this. Pearl Harbor wasn’t a household name then. But my uncle Joe Tucker had been stationed there, and my mother had received letters from him.

After half an hour, I got on my bicycle and rode on out to my house on Monterrey Place. Everyone had heard about it by then. The news had traveled through the neighborhoods.

I went to enlist the day after Pearl Harbor. W.O. and I thought we’d be the early birds and get there before a crowd assembled. Our initial plan was to join the Navy. We got to the Federal Building about eight in the morning, and boy—the line for the Navy recruiting office was at least three hundred yards long.

I had to go to work, and W.O. needed to go to school, so we walked to the head of the line to see what was going on. I was seventeen but had graduated high school and landed a good job down at the U.S. Engineers office in downtown Mobile. My job was to carry maps over to the Federal Building, about two city blocks away, where the maps were duplicated and made into blueprints. It paid $90 a month, which was far more than I ever made in the Marine Corps (when I joined, I made only $21 a month in the Marines).

A Marine recruiter came up and started talking to me and W.O.

“Do you boys want to kill Japs?” he said.*

“Yeah, that’s the idea,” we said. “But we’re going to join the Navy.”

“Nah,” he said, “you don’t want to do that. You can’t get into the Navy if your parents are married. And anyway, all you’ll do in the Navy is swab decks. But I guarantee that if you join the Marine Corps, we’ll put you eyeball to eyeball with the Japs.”

There wasn’t any line at his office. So that’s the big reason why we joined the Marines—because the damn line for the Navy was too long. We were so stupid. We didn’t know anything about the Marine Corps other than what was on the recruiter’s posters. Years later, W.O. and I compared notes and we figured that just about everything that Marine recruiter told us was a lie—except meeting the Japs eyeball to eyeball.

What was our predominant motivation for enlisting? It was anger. Even more than duty, I’d say. The only information we had was that it was a sneak attack on Pearl Harbor. No warning at all. So the American people were really angry. It’s something that almost can’t be put into words—how infuriated we were as a country.

JIM YOUNG

On Monday morning, December 8, 1941, the day after Pearl Harbor was attacked, I was at work at the shoe factory in Mount Joy, Pennsylvania. I was twenty years old. I shut down my machine. The boss said, “What the hell are you doing?” and I said, “I’m sorry, but I’m leaving to join up.” It was then that I heard other machines being shut down and guys saying, “We’re going, too.”

I hitchhiked to Philadelphia and arrived at 1 P.M. at the recruiting offices. The sidewalks were lined up for blocks with guys wanting to enlist. I had decided to go in the Navy. After waiting in line for hours I finally got in the naval office, only to be turned down because some of my teeth needed to be filled. I had some cavities. When the war broke out, the military outfits had certain codes; you had to be in this and that shape. The war was so new they hadn’t had time to lower their standards.

Across from the naval office was the U.S. Marines office. As I started to walk away, some guy in the Marine line said, “Hey, Mac, what’s the matter?” I told him the Navy had turned me down. “Why don’t you try the Marines?” he said. I told him the office would be closed by the time I went out and got in the Marine line. He told me to just keep talking to him and keep moving with the line and that no one would even notice. Then when we got to the door we would just pop in. Well, it worked, and I became a U.S. Marine! They never even said anything about my teeth. I was told I could leave the next day or wait until after Christmas. I chose the latter so I could say my good-byes to my mother and friends.

My mother was sad to see me go. She was my role model. I worked for her in her little mom-and-pop store—groceries, fruit, and produce. I peddled the fruit to other towns for her. My stepfather was a state policeman and he wasn’t a good guy. He was very mean to my brother Phillip and me. I was kinda glad to be leaving.

ROY GERLACH

My parents were both Mennonites, pacifists, and didn’t approve of war. We lived on a farm in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and I had the choice of staying out of the service two ways, either by being a conscientious objector because of my parents’ religion, or by getting an agricultural deferment for working on a farm. But I didn’t quite agree with my folks about being pacifists. I can’t say I was right or not about it. I was twenty-one years old and it was my decision.

I went from work to Lancaster, and there was a big long line to join the Army. I didn’t have time for that. I found another long line, and that was to join the Navy. I didn’t have time for that neither. So I went down the hall and found the Marine Corps office. I went in there.

“What do I have to do to become a Marine?” I asked.

“Can you hear, talk, and see?” the sergeant said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Okay, you’re in.”

So I became a Marine because they had the shortest line.

They had a group leaving the 29th of December. So I thought, “Good, that will give me Christmas at home.” I didn’t tell my parents I had signed up until I was set to go.

Parris Island Boot Camp, December 31, 1941

SID PHILLIPS

We were so stupid, we’d never heard of Parris Island. I think that recruiting sergeant told us we’d have a short training program at a beautiful resort on the beach in South Carolina. When we arrived at the Marine Corps Recruiting Station at Parris Island, we soon realized it wasn’t even an island. There’s a causeway that connects it to the mainland. It’s just a name—Parris Island. That boot camp was rugged. Before Pearl Harbor, it lasted twelve weeks. But after Pearl Harbor they shortened it to just six weeks. Everything was intensified and sped up. It was wintertime when we arrived, December 31, 1941. And it was cold.

As you arrived, there with civilian clothes and long hair, all the guys who were already there would holler, “You’ll be sorry!” We were rapidly sorry within the first few hours that we were there. They had that pegged just right.

JIM YOUNG

A big Marine sergeant started yelling at us to line up so he could take roll call. When he finally called “James F. Young!” no one said a word, not even me. One of the guys I’d met said, “Didn’t you tell me that was your name?” I finally yelled, “Here, Sir!” The sergeant said, “Boy, we got us a real dumb ass here! Don’t even know his own name.” I was very embarrassed. My stepfather had always made me use his last name, which was Wolfe. No one had ever called me anything different, so my mind went blank when the sergeant called “James Young.” Anyway, it was my first goof in the Marines and I hoped it was the last.

Parris Island was something to see. Marines were drilling, and we wondered if we would ever be able to march as well as they could. The first night was kind of scary. The base was near to the ocean and open to attack from the sea so everything was under “blackout.” The drill sergeant made us take turns at guarding the area (with no guns). I guess we looked funny standing at the door of our Quonset hut wearing civilian clothes.

The following day we got our Marine clothes. When we got back to the barracks, there was a civilian with a Marine captain. The captain told us that the man wanted to purchase our civilian clothing. He said that we might as well sell because by the time the war is over, nothing would fit us anyway. Most of us sold everything we had. I think I got about $3 for the works, which included a suit, topcoat, shoes, and everything else.

We moved into a two-story barracks on the top floor. There was a zigzag stairway to come down to the drill field. Each day we were up at 4 A.M. to drill all day until we got it right. In the morning the drill instructor would stand down there and yell “Fall out!” Then he would time us. If we didn’t do it fast enough, he would make us do it again and again until it suited him. Well by the time we got it right, we were leaping over each other and over the stair rails. Those who were too slow ended up doing mess duty. We also got our rifles and were told that if we ever dropped ours then we would have to sleep with it.

SID PHILLIPS

They never let you wear enough clothing to be warm. We wore khaki pants and a sweatshirt. You didn’t complain about it being cold, because all that did was bring on more push-ups, more double-time jogging, and whatnot. So there wasn’t anything you could do except endure it, and gripe under your breath. But Parris Island was rough, and still is, and should be. And I’m glad it was. It teaches discipline to young men, and you need that to survive. You learn not to do anything except take orders, take orders, take orders. Do what you’re supposed to do.

JIM YOUNG

One Sunday afternoon while sitting on the barracks steps, a Marine was walking by eating ice cream. I asked him where he got it. He told me to just go straight across the drill field to the PX (base store). After thanking him, I went over and got a pint of vanilla-and-chocolate ice cream. I returned and had no more than started eating it when my drill sergeant came out of the barracks. He said, “Private Young, that looks real good, can I have a bite?” I said, “Yes, sir” and handed him the ice cream. He opened the pint box. “Wow, that’s really good,” he said. He then told me to take my hat off, and when I did, he took the whole box and set it upside down on my head and told me not to move. He mashed my hat down real hard and told me not to move until all the ice cream was melted. By this time, all the guys in the barracks were laughing. The sergeant then told me that no one was allowed to go anywhere—even if it was a Sunday—and especially not to the PX.

On another day the drill sergeant was upset with one of the guys because he was always getting out of step. He called the guy out of ranks and told him to hold his rifle over his head and run around the drill field until he was told to stop. Well, the sergeant stopped him after the third lap. The Marine was just a kid, about seventeen years old, and looked like he was about to cry. The sergeant told him that now he will think twice to stay in step. The sergeant asked him if he was all right and feeling better and the Marine said, “Yes, sir, I do.” The Sergeant then said, “Well that’s just great. Now get that rifle up and give me a couple of more laps.”

SID PHILLIPS

After finishing boot camp at Parris Island, we went to Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, for more advanced training. It wasn’t even named Camp Lejeune yet. It was still called “New River.” Thousands of acres. All the buildings were just framed, brand-new. Nothing was paved. It was far from any town and just a giant mud hole when it rained. The 1st Marine Division was being assembled there on the East Coast while the 2nd Marine Division was being formed along the West Coast.

W.O. and I were assigned to the 1st Marine Division. They called our division “the Raggedy-Assed Marines” because we were stationed out in the boondocks. We took pride in that name—it made us sound macho. The division had three regiments, the 1st Marines, 5th Marines, and 7th Marines. The regiments each had three battalions and each battalion had four companies—the company was what mattered. That was your home. Your friends. Who you identified with. A Company, B Company, C Company, and so forth. And, of course, there was a headquarters company of support people—clerks, cooks, messengers, and intelligence people.

They put W.O. and me in H Company of the 1st Marines. H Company was a heavy weapons company. Three platoons of .30-caliber machine guns. A platoon of 37mm anti-tank cannons. A platoon of .50-caliber machine guns (for anti-aircraft purposes), and a platoon of 81mm mortars. I wound up in the mortar platoon with W.O. and fellows like Jim Young and Roy Gerlach.

JIM YOUNG

Initially we trained with sticks because we had not received any real weapons yet. Maybe this was because the war came so fast. Real weapons arrived soon, and we were separated into riflemen, mortar men, or machine gunners. There were about seventy-five of us in H-2-1’s mortar platoon, all to service and defend four guns. “Hip pocket artillery” they called our mortars. We were all schooled on how the mortars were set up and fired. The sergeants told us they would see who could set up the gun the fastest and he would become the gunner and in line for promotion to corporal. Those with the second fastest time would be promoted to PFC. Well this was a big deal to all of us and also a lot of fun. Each man got three tries. The sergeants got a big kick out of watching us stumble over each other. As luck would have it, I was one of the four fastest guys.

A gun squad had six men. Being the gunner meant I carried the bipod, which weighed 46.5 pounds, and the gun sight. My sidearm was a .45-caliber automatic pistol, which was easier to carry than a rifle. The assistant gunner carried the mortar tube, weighing 44 pounds, and the third man carried the base plate that weighed 45 pounds. The others served as ammo case openers and carriers.

Battle training was now in high gear. We started to fire the real ammo and the noise was very loud and scary. To fire a mortar, a man added or subtracted bags of gunpowder (called increments) to the base of the shell, depending on how far he wanted the shell to go. Then, he dropped the seven-pound shell into the mortar’s 81mm-wide mouth. The shell slid down the mortar tube until it hit a firing pin at the bottom that triggered a loud explosion and fired the shell up and out, like a bullet. A man’s head was right alongside the tube after he dropped the shell. He would flinch. We always stuffed cotton in our ears, but it didn’t help much. There was a scary thing we had to do called “Remedy Misfire.” This took place if a round of ammo failed to go off and was still in the tube. You had to remove the mortar’s tube and slide the “hot” shell out from the bottom. But we got it down.

When we weren’t training, the nearest town was Jacksonville, and we were allowed to go to town every night unless we had duty watch. Jacksonville was a small town, but it did have a USO and pretty girls to dance with.

ROY GERLACH

We got $21 a month. Then the overseas pay was $5 more per month. That’s what all of us privates got, anyway. But you didn’t spend it on much except on cigarettes and gambling. They signed us up for life insurance, and that cost $11 per month, a big chunk of our pay. But you didn’t have a choice. You signed up whether you wanted to or not.

SID PHILLIPS

People ask me how well I knew one of our machine gunners, Bob Leckie, who later wrote a famous book about our time in the islands. I explain that H Company was a large company. There were sixty-five men in our mortar platoon alone. Nobody ever called him Leckie, he was “Lucky.” I’m not sure if anyone even knew his real name. Back then, Bob was not a famous writer. He was just another PFC like anybody else. I saw him all the time at roll call, and we’d say hi to each other. But, since we weren’t in the same squad, we didn’t have a whole lot of close time together, like you did with the men in your own platoon.

JIM YOUNG

One day the sergeants came to our Quonset huts and said, “This is it. We are moving out tomorrow. All leaves are canceled, no phone calls, and everyone is confined to their barracks.” We were all excited. No one had a clue as to where or how we were going. A lot of guys were upset because they could not contact their parents or girlfriends to say good-bye. We realized that many of us had seen our loved ones for the last time. Everything was frenzied, and no one got much sleep that night.

We were awakened about 4 A.M., ate chow, and marched a few miles to a railroad siding where a train waited for us. The train took us in Pullman cars from North Carolina and headed southwest. Someplace in the Midwest we stopped for coal and water. On the other side of the tracks was a large factory where a lot of girls waved at us and wished us luck. Soon a truck pulled alongside the train with box after box of sweet cider for the Marines on the train. The girls at the factory had all chipped in to buy us the cider. We all yelled our thanks to them, and they waved their hankies out the window at us as we pulled out of the station.

The train stopped in San Francisco. The sight of the Golden Gate Bridge was just awesome. While in San Francisco, I turned twenty-one years old on June 12, 1942. At the docks in San Francisco we boarded a ship called the George F. Elliott. It was a real old scow. The bunks were stacked five high. You could hardly move without hitting the bunk above you. We steamed out of San Francisco Bay.

While passing under the Golden Gate Bridge, I started to get seasick and so did many of the others. Guys were all along the rails of the ship throwing up. The wind from the ship’s forward motion would blow vomit over everyone in back of them. The forward decks were getting very slippery and it stank to high heaven. After we were out at sea, they finally told us where we were headed. Our destination was Wellington, New Zealand.

SID PHILLIPS

Life on a troop ship is miserable. As privates, our accommodations were just fold-up spring beds stacked up five high like loaves of bread. You chose one, and that was your space. You put all your gear on that rack. Even today I marvel at the fact that we all found our way around that ship. Nothing was marked or had any signs. In the military, you just learn to make the best of a lot of bad situations. To me, much of the misery of war is not the fighting. It’s the living conditions. On board ship, we were in a confined area with hundreds of other men. You’re shoulder to shoulder with other men all the time. There were no fresh water showers, only salt water, so you’re sticky all the time. We did everything by the numbers, whenever our unit was told. We went on deck and stood in a line four hundred yards long to wait two hours or more to get to the galley for a meal. Then we went down into the galley, which was hot, and got a steel tray and went through the line. They gave us a very small amount of food, which we ate standing up. A sergeant checked you off, so you couldn’t go through the chow line again. It was so hot in the galley, we were relieved when we got back on deck.

They made me captain of the officer’s head, which meant I cleaned the officer’s latrine. It actually turned out to be pretty good duty. I had freshwater facilities, and could take a freshwater shower and wash my clothes in freshwater, so it turned out to be a good thing.

JIM YOUNG

The trip was a nightmare for me because I was so seasick. To top it off, a Marine named Al Schmid (a real pain in the ass) had the bunk below me and would keep kicking the bottom of mine. He thought it was funny. He was a bully and was always picking on guys. Well, one day he pushed “Indian” Johnny Rivers, a former Golden Gloves boxer, a little bit too far. I guess he was an American Indian. He was dark and scrappy. But someone said he used to drive an Indian-brand motorcycle, too. Johnny told the lieutenant that he had had enough of Al. The lieutenant told Johnny to put up a boxing ring on the forward deck and to put an end to this bickering once and for all.

Al was pretty tough, but Johnny just cut him to pieces. Every time Al was knocked down, he would just get up again. Well, the lieutenant stopped the fight, and Al had a little better attitude after that, but not much.

After eighteen days at sea I started feeling a little better when we saw Wellington, New Zealand.

SID PHILLIPS

When we got to New Zealand, we were put into work parties. All the ships had to be unloaded completely, and then reloaded, because they had not been combat loaded (where the most essential equipment goes on top) when we left San Francisco. Work duty went on twenty-four hours a day—four hours on, four hours off—around the clock. You never did get a good night’s sleep. It was July, but that was New Zealand’s winter. It was sleeting most of the time, or drizzling, and we didn’t have any good winter clothing. So we were freezing and cussing and grumbling while loading mountains and mountains of ammunition and barbed wire and the like.

JIM YOUNG

Once loaded, we were under way again, this time to practice beach landings in Fiji. The captain wanted to send me and six other Marines back to the States because of our seasickness. We all refused. He said, “Well, it’s up to you boys if you want to stay.” On Fiji we began landing exercises. Several guys fell off the nets and broke arms and legs. It seemed to me we needed lots more practice. Everything that could go wrong, did. Some of the landing craft broke loose from the lines and hit the water. We made a run for the beach. No one had thought about coral reefs, and many of the boats ran aground. Some had the bottoms ripped open. The general called it a disaster and called the whole thing off. We never did get ashore on Fiji.

We were supposed to go back and train at Wellington, New Zealand, for three or four more months, but Washington got word that the Japanese were building an air base on one of the Solomon Islands. From there, it would be possible for them to bomb Australia. The island needed to be taken before the airstrip was completed. The island was named Guadalcanal, and we’d all soon get to know it really well.

* The Marines of WWII had grown up seeing a steady stream of newsreels and reports from China where the Japanese had brutalized the population—burying prisoners alive, beheading them, and even tossing babies in the air and catching them with bayonets. The image of a Japanese citizen—once thought to be someone who loved poetry, calligraphy, and gardening—changed into that of a brutal soldier with a penchant for sadism. The Japanese—both civilians and soldiers—became derisively known as “Japs” even before America entered the war.

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