CHAPTER EIGHT
From the standpoint of personal satisfaction I've always been glad that as long as we had to pull maneuvers somewhere in preparation for Peleliu and Okinawa, this training took place on Guadalcanal. The name of that island was embroidered in white letters down the red number One on our division patch of which we were all very proud. Guadalcanal had great symbolic significance. I was glad I got to see some of the areas fought over by the 1st Marine Division during the campaign and got some firsthand accounts on the spot of what had taken place from veterans who had participated in making that history.
During one period of maneuvers on Guadalcanal, we stayed ashore for two or three weeks and bivouacked in an area that had been the camp of the 3d Marine Division before its troops went into the hell of Iwo Jima. We strung our jungle hammocks and made ourselves as comfortable as possible. Each day for several days we went out into the hills, jungles, and kunai grass fields for training. And we enjoyed a cool shower each afternoon after coming in from the field.
Guadalcanal was a big base by early 1945 and had many service troops and rear-echelon units on it. Across the road from us was a battalion of “Seabees” (naval construction battalion). Late one afternoon three or four of us went over and eased quietly into the end of their chow line. Their cooks recognized us as Marines but didn't say anything. We loaded up on real ice cream, fresh pork chops, fresh salad, and good bread (all unheard-of delicacies on Pavuvu) and sat at a clean table in a spacious mess hall. It sure beat C rations in a bivouac area. As intruders, we expected to be thrown out any minute. No one seemed to notice us, though.
Next afternoon we returned along with other Marines who had the same idea and enjoyed another excellent supper. Next day we tried it again, easing quietly and slowly along to the chow line, trying not to attract attention. To my amazement a large neatly painted white sign with blue letters and blue border had been placed above the entrance to the chow line since the previous evening. I don't remember the exact wording, but it went something close to this, “Marines welcomed in this chow line after all CB personnel have been through.”
We were as embarrassed as we were delighted. Those Seabees had been fully aware of us all along and knew exactly how many Marines were slipping into their chow line. But they were willing and glad to share their extra chow with us as long as it lasted. The sign was necessary, because the Seabees knew we would spread the word and more hungry Marines would swarm over their chow line each day like ants.
We were elated and went through the chow line grinning and thanking the messmen. They were the friendliest bunch I ever saw and made us feel like adopted orphans. The sign may have been made earlier for 3d Division Marines who liked the Seabees’ food as much as we, or it may have been put up for our benefit. In any event we appreciated the good food and good treatment. It strengthened our respect for the Seabees.
The 3d Battalion, 5th Marines had been in the assault waves at Peleliu; therefore, in the Okinawa campaign we were assigned as regimental reserve. For the voyage to the island, consequently, we would be loaded aboard the attack transport ship USS McCrackeninstead of LSTs. Such APA transports sent troops ashore in LCVPs (small, open landing craft known as Higgins boats) rather than amphibious tractors.
One afternoon following landing exercises and field problems, our company returned to the beach to await the return of the Higgins boats that would pick us up and return us to the ship. Late afternoon sunlight danced on the beautiful blue waves, and a large fleet of ships stood offshore in Sealark Channel. Dozens of Higgins boats and other amphibious craft plied from the ships to shore, loading Marines and ferrying them out to the ships. It looked like some sort of boating festival except that all the craft were military.
One by one the Higgins boats picked up men (about twenty-five at a time) from our beach area. We waited as the sun sank low in the west. The ships formed up in convoy and moved past us, parallel to the beach. We had no rations or extra water, were tired from daylong maneuvers, and had no desire to spend the night on a mosquito-infested beach.
Finally, as the last ship showed us its stern, a Higgins boat came plowing through the spray toward us. We were the only troops left on the beach. The coxswain revved his engine, ran the bow of the shallow-draft boat up on the beach, and dropped the bow ramp with a bang. We clambered aboard and someone yelled the customary, “Shove off, coxswain, you're loaded.” We held on to the bulwarks of the boat as he raised the ramp, reversed engines, turned, and headed out at full throttle toward the disappearing ship.
The sea was rough. As usual Snafu started getting seasick, so he lay down on his side on the deck of the boat. We were crowded: two machine-gun squads and two 60mm mortar squads packed the Higgins boat, along with all our combat gear, small arms, mortars, and machine guns.
A Higgins boat, like any powerful motor-driven boat under full throttle, normally settled down at the stern end with bow elevated and moved easily over the water. But our boat was so loaded with men and equipment that, even though we crowded as far back in the stern as possible, the squared-off bow ramp wasn't elevated sufficiently to skip over the waves. It drove straight against some large waves, and water poured in through an open view port. Usually, this three-foot by two-foot panel rode well above water level. The coxswain yelled instructions to close the folding steel shutters on the panel, which we did as quickly as possible. But water still sprayed over the bow ramp and in through the cracks around the panel.
In the gathering twilight we could see the stern of a transport far ahead of us. It was the last ship in the convoy that had passed from view around the end of Guadalcanal. Our coxswain made as much speed as possible to catch the transport, and we shipped more and more water. If we didn't catch up with that transport before dark we didn't know when we would get back to our ship.
Water began filling the bilges below the floor decking, so the coxswain started the pumps to keep us afloat. We stood by to bail with our helmets, but by the time the water rose above the flooring where we could get at it, the boat would probably sink because of its heavy load. The situation was grim, and I dreaded the thought of trying to swim the couple of miles through rough water to the beach. What irony, I thought, if some of us should die after surviving Peleliu by drowning on maneuvers in Iron Bottom Bay.
Slowly we gained on the transport and finally drew alongside. Towering above us, the ship was packed with Marines. We shouted up to them for help. A navy officer leaned over the rail and asked us which ship we were from. We told him we had missed the McCracken and requested to come aboard or we might sink. He gave orders to our coxswain to pull in close under a pair of davits. He did so, and two cables with hooks were lowered to us. Just as the hooks were fastened to rings in the floor, our Higgins boat seemed to start sinking. Only the cables held it up. A cargo net was lowered to us, and we scrambled up and aboard the ship. We were all mighty relieved to be out of that small boat.
Several hours after dark, the ship arrived at the fleet anchorage. A signalman on the bridge went to work with his blinker light sending code to other ships. The McCracken was located, and we were soon back aboard.
“Where the hell you guys been so long?” asked a man in my troop compartment as we fell into our racks.
“We went to ’Frisco for a beer,” someone answered.
“Wise guy,” he replied.
After maneuvers were completed, our convoy sailed from the Russell Islands on 15 March 1945. We were bound for Ulithi Atoll where the convoy would join the gathering invasion fleet. We anchored off Ulithi on 21 March and remained there until 27 March.*
We lined the rails of our transport and looked out over the vast fleet in amazement. We saw ships of every description: huge new battleships, cruisers, sleek destroyers, and a host of fast escort craft. Aircraft carriers were there in greater numbers than any of us had ever seen before. Every conceivable type of amphibious vessel was arrayed. It was the biggest invasion fleet ever assembled in the Pacific, and we were awed by the sight of it.
Because of tides and winds, the ships swung about on their anchor chains, and each day the fleet looked new and different. When I came topside each morning, I felt disoriented. It was a strange sensation, as though I were in a different frame of reference and had to learn my surroundings anew.
The first afternoon at Ulithi a fellow mortarman said, “Break out the field glasses, and let's see how many kinds of ships we can identify.” We passed the mortar section's field glasses around and whiled away many hours studying the different ships.
Suddenly someone gasped, “Look over there at that hospital ship off our port bow! Look at them nurses! Gimme them field glasses!”
Lining the rail of the hospital ship were about a dozen American nurses looking out over the fleet. A scuffle erupted among us over who would use the field glasses first, but we all finally had a look at the girls. We whistled and waved, but we were too far away to be heard.
Aside from the huge new battleships and carriers, we talked most about a terribly scorched and battered aircraft carrier anchored near us. A navy officer told us she was the Franklin.† We could see charred and twisted aircraft on her flight deck, where they had been waiting loaded with bombs and rockets to take off when the ship was hit. It must have been a flaming inferno of bursting bombs and rockets and burning aviation gasoline. We looked silently at the battered, listing hulk until one man said, “Ain't she a mess! Boy, them poor swabbies musta’ caught hell.” Those of us who had lived through the blast and fire of Peleliu's artillery barrages could appreciate well the bravery of the sailors on the Franklin.
While we were anchored at Ulithi, we went ashore on the tiny islet of Mog Mog for recreation and physical conditioning. After some calisthenics, and to the delight of all hands, our officers broke out warm beer and Cokes. We had one of the most enjoyable baseball games I ever played. Everybody was laughing and running like a bunch of little boys. It was good to get off the cramped transport, stretch our legs, and relieve the monotony. We hated to board the Hig-gins boats at sunset to return to the ship and our cramped quarters.
At Ulithi we received briefings on the coming battle for Okinawa. This time there was no promise of a short operation. “This is expected to be the costliest amphibious campaign of the war,” a lieutenant said. “We will be hitting an island about 350 miles from the Japs’ home islands, so you can expect them to fight with more determination than ever. We can expect 80 to 85 percent casualties on the beach.”
A buddy next to me leaned over and whispered, “How's that for boosting the troops’ morale?” I only groaned.
The lieutenant continued, “We may have trouble getting over that cliff or seawall in our sector. Also, according to G-2 there is a large Jap gun, maybe 150mm, emplaced just on the right flank of our battalion sector. We hope naval gunfire can knock it out. Be on the alert for a Jap paratrooper attack in our rear, particularly at night. It's pretty certain the Nips will pull off a massive counterattack, probably supported by tanks,sometime during our first night ashore or just before dawn. They'll banzai and try to push us off the beachhead.”*
On 27 March the loudspeaker came on with, “Now hear this, now hear this. Special sea detail stand by.” Sailors assigned to the detail moved to their stations where they weighed anchor.
“Well, Sledgehammer, they're raising the hook, so it won't be long before we're in it again ole buddy,” a friend said.
“Yeah,” I said, “and I'm not in any hurry, either.”
“You can say that again.” He sighed.
The huge convoy got under way like clockwork. Just watching that host of different vessels kept my mind off what was ahead. As we proceeded I was conscious of how cool the weather had become. We had our wool-lined field jackets with us, and it was comfortable on deck, particularly at night. To those of us who had lived and fought in the sweltering tropics for months, cooler weather was very significant.
Most of our voyage from Ulithi was uneventful. Each night during the northward trip I had noticed the beautiful Southern Cross constellation slipping lower and lower on the starlit horizon. Finally it disappeared. It was the only thing about the South and Central Pacific I would miss. The Southern Cross formed a part of our 1st Marine Division shoulder patch and was, therefore, especially symbolic.
We had intense pride in the identification with our units and drew considerable strength from the symbolism attached to them. As we drew closer to Okinawa, the knowledge that I was a member of Company K, 3d Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment, 1st Marine Division helped me prepare myself for what I knew was coming.†
Okinawa is a large island, some sixty miles long and from two to eighteen miles wide. Like most islands in the Pacific, it is surrounded by a coral reef. But on the west coast that reef lies close to shore, particularly along the invasion beaches at Hagushi.
Through the center of the island runs a ridge rising some 1,500 feet in the wild, mountainous north. South of the Ishikawa Isthmus, the land levels out considerably but is cut by several prominent streams. In 1945, as it remains today, the southern portion of the island contained the bulk of the civilian population.
Of primary importance to the defense of the island were three east–west ridge systems crossing the southern part of the island. To the north and just below the invasion beaches lay the ridges of Kakazu and Nishibaru. In the middle, running west from Shuri Castle, was the most formidable of the ridges, cut by sheer cliffs and deep draws. Above the extreme southern tip of the island lay Kunishi, Yuza-Dake, and Yaeju-Dake. Together these ridges formed a series of natural defensive barriers to the American forces advancing from the north.
Into these natural barriers, Lt. Gen. Mitsuru Ushijima threw the bulk of his 110,000-man Thirty-second Japanese Army. Natural and man-made barriers were transformed into a network of mutually supporting positions linked by a system of protected tunnels. Each of the ridge lines was held in great strength until it became untenable; then the enemy withdrew to the next defense line. Thus the Japanese drew on their experiences at Peleliu, Saipan, and Iwo Jima to construct a highly sophisticated and powerful defense-in-depth. There they waited and fought to exhaust the will and the resources of the American Tenth Army.
Tension mounted on the eve of D day. We received final orders to move in off the beach as fast as possible. We were also reminded that although we were in regimental reserve, we would probably “get the hell kicked out of us” coming on the beach. We were advised to hit the sack early; we would need all the rest we could get.*
A predawn reveille ushered in Easter Sunday—April Fool's Day—1945. The ship seethed with activity. We had chow of steak and eggs, the usual feast before the slaughter. I returned to our troop compartment and squared away my ammunition, combat pack, and mortar ammunition bag. The ship's crew manned battle stations and stood by to repel kamikaze attacks.* Dawn was breaking, and the preassault bombardment of the beaches had begun. Above it I could hear the drone of enemy aircraft inbound to the attack.
I went into the head to relieve my distressed colon, cramped by fear and apprehension. On the big transport ships the toilet facilities consisted of a row of permanent wooden seats situated over a metal trough through which ran a constant flow of seawater. There were about twenty seats—no limited facilities here with Haney to delay us as at Peleliu.
Most of the men in my troop compartment had already been to the head and by then had donned their gear and moved out on deck, so I was about the last one in the head. I settled comfortably on a seat. Next to me I noticed a cagelike chute of iron mesh coming through the overhead [ceiling] near one of the 40mm antiaircraft gun tubs. It extended down, through the deck, and into the compartment below.
Startled out of my wits by an incredibly loud sound of clattering, clanking, scraping, and rasping metal, I sprang up with a reflex born of fear and tried to bolt out of the head into the troop compartment. I knew a kamikaze had crashed into our ship right above me. My trousers around my ankles hobbled me, and I nearly fell. As I reached to pull them up, the loud clanking and clattering—like a thousand cymbals falling down stone steps—continued. I looked over at the iron mesh chute and saw dozens of empty brass 40mm shell cases cascading down from the guns above. They clattered and clanked through the chute to some collecting bin below decks. My fright subsided into chagrin.
I got on my gear and joined the other men on deck to await orders. We milled around, each man sticking close to his buddy. Higgins boats would take us to rendezvous areas and transfer us to amtracs that previously had delivered the assault waves of infantry across the reef to the beach.
The bombardment of the beach by our warships had grown in intensity, and our planes had joined in with strafing, rockets, and bombing. Japanese planes flew over the fleet at some distance from us. Many of our ships were firing at them.
An order came for all troops to go below (this was to prevent casualties from strafing enemy planes). Loaded with our battle gear, we squeezed our way back through the doorlike hatches into our compartment. Packed like sardines in the aisles between the racks, we waited in the compartment for orders to move back on deck. Sailors on deck dogged our hatches [sealed the doors by turning U-shaped handles positioned all around them]. Like men locked in a closet, we waited and listened to the firing outside. The compartment wasn't large, and the air soon became foul. It was difficult to breathe. Although the weather was cool, we began to sweat.
“Hey, you guys, the blowers [electric ventilating fans] are off. By God, we'll smother in this damn place!” yelled one man. I was next to the hatch, and several of us started yelling at the sailors outside, telling them we needed air. They yelled back from the other side of the steel door that it couldn't be helped, because the electricity was needed to operate the gun mounts. “Then, by God, let us out on deck!”
“Sorry, we've got orders to keep this hatch dogged down.”
We all started cursing the sailors, but they were following orders, and I'm sure they didn't want to keep us locked in that stuffy compartment. “Let's get the hell outa here,” a buddy said. We all agreed it would be better to get strafed on deck than to suffocate in the compartment. Grasping the levers and moving them to the unlock position, we tried to open the hatch. As fast as we turned each lever, the sailors outside turned it back and kept it dogged down. Other desperate Marines joined us in trying to unclamp the hatch. There were only two sailors outside, so with our combined efforts, we finally got all the clamps open, shoved open the hatch, and burst out into the cool, fresh air.
About that time other Company K men poured out of a hatch on the other side of the compartment. One of the sailors got pushed over and rolled across the deck. In an instant we were all outside breathing in the fresh air.
“All right, you men, return to your quarters. No troops topside. That's an order!” came a voice from a platform slightly aft and above us. We looked up and saw a navy officer, an ensign, standing against the rail glaring at us. He wore khakis, an officer's cap, and insignia bars on his collar, in stark contrast to us dressed in green dungarees, tan canvas leggings, and camouflaged helmet covers, and loaded with battle equipment, weapons, and gear. He wore a web pistol belt with a .45 automatic in the holster.
None of our officers was in the area, so the navy ensign had it all to himself. He swaggered back and forth, ordering us into the foul air of the troop compartment. If he had been a Marine officer, we would have obeyed his order with mutterings and mumblings, but he was so unimposing that we just milled around. Finally, he began threatening us all with courts-martial if we didn't obey him.
A friend of mine spoke up, “Sir, we're goin’ to hit that beach in a little while and a lot of us might not be alive an hour from now. We'd rather take a chance on gettin’ hit by a Jap plane out here than go back in there and smother to death.”
The officer spun around and headed for the bridge—to get help, we assumed. Shortly some of our own officers came up and told us to stand by to go down the nets to the waiting boats. As far as I know, our breakout of the troop compartment for fresh air was never mentioned.
We picked up our gear and moved to assigned areas along the bulwarks of the ship. The weather was mostly clear and incredibly cool (about 75 degrees) after the heat of the South Pacific. The bombardment rumbled and thundered toward the island. Everything from battleships down to rocket and mortar boats were plastering the beaches along with our dive bombers. Japanese planes, their engines droning and whining, came in over the huge convoy, and many ships’ antiaircraft fire began bursting in the air. I saw two enemy planes get hit some distance from our ship.
We were all tense, particularly with the intelligence estimate that we could expect 80-85 percent casualties on the beach. Although I was filled with dread about the landing, I wasn't nearly so apprehensive as I had been at Peleliu. Perhaps it was because I was already a combat veteran. I had survived the Peleliu landing and knew what to expect from the Japanese, as well as from myself. Climbing down the cargo net to the Higgins boat, I was still afraid; but it was different from Peleliu.
In addition to the invaluable experience of being a combat veteran, the immensity of our fleet gave me courage. Combat vessels and armed transports ranged as far as we could see. I have no idea how many of our planes were in the air, but it must have been hundreds.
We climbed down the net and settled into the Higgins boat. Someone said, “Shove off, coxswain, you're loaded,” as the last Marine climbed into our boat. The coxswain gunned the engine and pulled away from the ship. Other boats loaded with Marines from ⅗ were pulling out all along the side of the ship. I sure hated to leave it. Amphibious craft of every description floated on the water around us. The complexity of the huge invasion was evident everywhere we looked.
Our boat ran some distance from our ship, then began circling slowly in company with other boats loaded with men from our battalion. The bombardment of the Hagushi beaches roared on with awesome intensity. Sitting low in the water, we really couldn't see what was going on except in our immediate vicinity. We waited nervously for H hour, which was scheduled for 0830.
Some of the ships began releasing thick white smoke as a screen for the convoy's activity. The smoke drifted lazily and mingled in with that of the exploding shells. We continued to circle on the beautiful blue water made choppy by the other boats in our group.
“It's 0830 now,” someone said.
“The first wave's goin’ in now. Stand by for a ram,” Snafu said.
The man next to me sighed. “Yeah, the stuff's gonna hit the fan now.”
* Ulithi Atoll lies about 260 miles northeast of Peleliu on the western edge of the Caroline Islands. It was captured by an element of the 81st Infantry Division as a part of the Palau Islands operation. Ulithi consists of about thirty islets surrounding an enormous lagoon some nineteen miles long and five to ten miles wide. It became the major U.S. fleet anchorage in the Central Pacific.
†During carrier raids on Japan (18-21 March), Japanese suicide planes had crashed into the American carriers Wasp, Yorktown, and Franklin. The Franklin was the most heavily damaged of the three; her loss was 724 killed and 265 wounded. That the ship was saved at all and later towed some 12,000 miles to New York for repairs was a tribute to the bravery and the skill of her crew.
* By this time in the Pacific war, official unit designations recognized the prevailing system of task organization for combat where supporting elements reinforced the infantry. Such units became regimental combat teams (RCT) and battalion landing teams (BLT); hence official designations were 5th RCT or 3d BLT. But the rank and file infantryman never forgot who he was. Throughout the war I never heard a Marine infantryman refer to his unit by other than its base name. We were always “K/⅗,” “3d Battalion, 5th,” or “5th Marines.”
†Our planners still hadn't realized that this costly large-scale suicide charge tactic had been abandoned for good. The Japanese had shifted to the defense-in-depth tactic as the best means of defeating us. This tactical shift had prolonged our fight on Peleliu and had been repeated with the same murderous results against the Marines on Iwo Jima.
*Three/Five was scheduled to land after the 1st and 2d battalions of the 5th Marines on the extreme right of the regimental beach. It would form the right flank of the III Marine Amphibious Corps and link with the U.S. Army's XXIV Corps landing to the south.
* Manned suicide planes that dived into American ships. Faith in the kamikaze's (“divine wind”) ability to cut off the American fleet's support of the landing force ashore was an important element in the Japanese defensive scheme.