Peleliu
As the training phase of our next operation completed
we we~ informed about our intended target isle Peleliu in the Palau
Islands. This was to be a base of operations for bombers to go just
a few hundred miles to soften up the Philippines for General MacArthur's
dramatic return, walking on the water, correction, wading IN the water
into Luzon.
We were shown a plaster model of the island which
was kinda' cute, about six foot long. Actually it was very pretty painted
in tropical green foliage with white sand beaches and roads plus an
airfield in the middle.
This toy mockup was made from aerial photographs and
sub marine views from water level. These photos did not begin to show
the veritable fortress completely underground, chiefly in caves and
bunkers. Later explorations revealed that most all big guns were in
caves with metal doors to open as needed. The myriad of caves and tunnels
housed thousands of troops in cool underground comfort while we uninvited
guest suffered in the hundred plus temperatures on glaring white coral
rubble. They had even provided a complete hospital underground with
stores of medical supplies.
Nearing the island on "D" Day morning we
saw an entirely different scene than our model had led us to believe.
It was a smudge of gray brown smoke punctuated by red flashes of bombs
or shellfire and was a dismal, foreboding sight; NOT inviting!
Our ships slowly edged forward and individual objects
came into view such as our carrier planes diving, strafing and bombing
the beach and airfield. It was thrilling to watch as stuttering puffs
of white smoke revealed the machine gun fire of the diving planes and
occasionally a plane was hit and burst into a fireball ending an American
life in agony.
This sight gave us pause to consider just what was
going on before our eyes. It became vividly clear that this was not
some Hollywood extravaganza created to entertain us! This was real!
Those people are out for blood, our blood!
Our pre-invasion naval bombardment had played havoc
with the flora on the island but the 'fauna' was safely underground
when the Admiral announced that they had "run out of targets!"
Marines could now stroll ashore safely due to the auspices of the United
States Navy.
It is safe to assume that 80% of the ten thousand
enemy troops were untouched by bombing or shelling and were primed and
ready to welcome the Yankee imperialist pigs properly.
The men who planned this operation were certain that
this would be another 'quickie', fierce but fast fight to be done in
three days...as Tarawa was. On day four we would congratulate each other
for being alive and return to our Guadalcanal camp.
This three-day campaign went on agonizingly for many
weeks and cut the Marine infantry units to ribbons. Some units had up
to 70% casualties. Later, uncharacteristly, the Marine Corps had to
ask the U.S. Army to come fill in the depleted ranks on the front line.
The normal procedure for a Marine invasion is to land
the infantry hard noses first and let them clear the beach area and
move inland as the fight progresses. The next phase is to land the fire
support units such as artillery and let them ease the burden of putting
down enemy resistance with additional support. This plan always looks
good on paper but rarely do events follow the script.
When our APA troopship dropped anchor about a mile
offshore we lined the rails, gaping in disbelief at the sheer pandemonium
erupted on the first waves of amphibious tractors assaulting the beach.
One after another they exploded with direct hits from the big guns hidden
in caves. Horrible sight, like watching a plane go down in flames only
worse with so many men disintegrating with each blast.
The Palaus had Japanese occupants there for over twenty
years and their expansion plans were no secret. These islands were to
be their line of defense and for all those years the men on Peleliu
planned their programs well. The beach area was mined, of course, and
then gunners on charts registered the area in so accurately that one
need only say, "Drop one in square 22-Z on the chart", and
that shot hit the mark exactly. This was the classical 'shooting ducks
in the pond' scenario.
As our time at bat came up our artillery battalion
climbed down those hairy rope ladders, jumped into flat bottom landing
craft bouncing up and down on the choppy waves. This part was always
great sport dangling around loosely, weighted down with fifty or sixty
pounds of equipment on each man trying to step into a boat high one
minute...low the next. Great sport, many legs were broken in this maneuver
throughout the war.
As each boat filled up they were directed to a specific
area several hundred yards away and told to idle in a circle to await
'hit the beach' instructions.
Slaughter on the beaches went on for many hours and
as the infantry crawled inland fighting for every yard it became evident
that the massive collection of dead and wounded on the beach plus many
wrecked and burning vehicles would not permit any more troops ashore
this day.
Our battalion had been tossed around on rough seas
for hours and the sickening sight on shore added to the misery of churning
stomachs under the searing sun. The beach master sent a signal out for
all troops floating offshore to return to their respective ships and
await further instructions.
Most of us prided in the fact that we never got seasick but this day
was an exception and many 'cookies were tossed' as the men puttered
back to reboard our ship.
Once along side they had to struggle with all their might to just drag
themselves back up that horrible rope ladder and they were a very angry
bunch of guys.
The weary men spent another night in the 'oven' below and during the
night air raid alerts sounded several times but we were to exhausted
to be concerned about such trivials.
Twenty-six amtracs took direct hits in the first ten
minutes and sixty damaged or destroyed in the first two hours. I think
that each amtrac carried a crew of two and twenty passengers.
As we waded through the rubble strewn water we saw many Marine bodies
still floating amid myriads of equipment, life vests, blasted amtracs
and general flotsam and jetsam. Someone called our attention to a scene
in the cockpit of an amtrac, still smoldering. We climbed up and looked
in to the both drivers locked in death's embrace. They hugged each other
tightly as they were incinerated and those cremated corpses burned an
impression in my memory. If it had been photographed it would have made
a great 'anti war' poster.
The horrible carnage on the island continued all day
and many small boats and amphibious tractors made steady circuits to
and from the beach loaded with many wounded Marines bringing them to
the ship for medical treatment.
The ships cargo crane lowered a pallet down into the
boat and several stretchers were placed on it and carefully hoisted
back up to the deck. Then they were rushed into sickbay and an emergency
hospital set up in the ships officers quarters. Many beds were needed
for the mass influx of wounded men.
We observers stood well back so as not to interfere
with the hurried movement of the medics. In sickbay the medics cut off
all bloody clothes and equipment and came out to toss it all over the
rail into the deep blue sea.
Vividly red American blood began to color the water
with ever increasing stains and we stood staring down at that sad sight
all day waiting for our call to go in to whatever.
The day following 'D' day found us again trying to
gain the beach with our cumbersome big 155 howitzers and most of the
day was spent in that tedious endeavor.
Late in the afternoon it was my turn to go down the
rope ladders and go ashore to enter the fracus. Stepping into that undulating
boat required acrobatic poise but I managed to get on board and we set
out for the beach. Our coxswain said that since the tide had receded
he wouldn't be able to cross the reef and we would have to walk about
five hundred yards to the beach.
As our boat crunched against the coral the coxswain
lowered the ramp and cheerfully called out, "All ashore thats going
ashore." We scowled at his humor and stepped off the ramp into
water about chest deep tugging at all of our heavy equipment strapped
to us. Knowingly we held rifles and ammo belts high and, hopefully dry.
Finding our footing carefully we then began to see
the mess before us and noted occasional enemy shell burst in the water
and thought to get ashore as quickly as possible out of our exposed
position on the wide open, flat, treeless ocean.
Struggling along under weight of soaked gear we soon
began to discover deep shell craters which were deep enough to cover
us entirely. I was walking along behind a buddy, Barney Foreman who
was about six foot three and when he disappeared under water I courteously
stood to wait until he resurfaced and I would walk around his shell
hole and he led me all the way into the beach providing this service
which I greatly appreciated.
Approaching the cluttered beach it was a horrible
frightening sight to behold. We passed several Marine corpses floating
among rubble and gear blasted out of amphibious tractors. The gathering
of all the dead took several days and most efforts were directed to
helping the living wounded. Sloshing along up onto the beach we skirted
burning vehicles and made our way toward our proper position on the
beach.
Moving down the beach we traversed an obstacle course
of dead and wounded amid scattered rubble and pushed on to join our
battalion before dark and the searing sun was sinking into the ocean
behind us.
There was a small island in the bay, about one acre
in size and it was a mound of coral rock pockmarked by many dark cave
openings. Moving along the beach we saw several Marines flat on the
sand avoiding rifle fire from a sniper in one of those caves.
When he shot a puff of smoke gave our guys a target
and then his next puff of smoke came from another opening. As his bullets
whined in pretty close I flopped down beside the tread of a trailer.
Hearing a clink on the metal frame I glanced up to see what the trailer
was loaded with. BOXES of MORTAR AMMO!
With fresh inspiration and renewed vigor I jumped
up and sprinted the last hundred yards to our assigned position. As
I happily rejoined my friends I noticed that they had squatters rights
to a long trench formerly occupied by Japanese troops. I tried to crowd
my way in and they were packed in like sardines and I found that 'there
was no room for me at the inn'!
One of them tossed me a small pick ax and pointed
to the rocky surface at my feet. Noting the sun sinking into the sea
I began to chop away at near solid rock grumbling about comrades in
arms and stuff.
Records vary on the actual temperature on Peleliu
that day but it was between one hundred and twelve and fifteen, whatever
it was miserably hot and our two canteens of water were supposed to
suffice for a WEEK! We teased our tongue with drops of warm water in
an effort to conserve water. We were told that any water found on the
island would probably have been poisoned.
About dusk the firing increased as Japanese tried
to evict the intruders and our beach location was about a hundred yards
away from much of the shooting. As the sun set I tossed the ax aside
and settled my buttocks into my 'foxhole' which was about two feet deep
and three feet wide. My feet and legs were above ground and my helmet
rested on the other end. My wallet and other 'valuables' were safely
below ground level.
I remember most vividly one an F4F that bellied in
on the Jap held airfield on Peleliu while we were landing. When I saw
it a day or so later the American pilot was slumped over just as he
died, being shot on touchdown......In those years it was vogue to wear
aluminum watch bands or bracelets made from material torn off crashed
aircraft...ours or theirs. Some of the guys, usually Seabees were very
talented at etching pretty patterns into the shiny metal.
This was the second night for Marines on the beach
and the fighting all night long was close, intense and very noisy. In
a state of stuporous exhaustion I fell into a deep sleep and gave no
thought to survival. At this point sometimes we thought that death would
be a respite from this misery.
During this long traumatic night the explosions and
shots whizzing overhead woke me and I saw spider webs of tracers flying
so close above that I think I could have raised a hand and caught a
few bullets. In disbelief I snuggled closer into my 'grave' and sank
back into oblivion into deep sleep.
As the gray dawn illuminated the miserable scene around
I returned to reality I was a bit surprised to see that this really
was a nightmare....not a dream after all.
Our people were very proud of their prowess as heavyweight
marksmen. They often boasted of the fact that they could drop round
three in a rain barrel at nine miles if given two shots to register
in on target.
The first few nights on the island found the fighting
very close with both attackers and defenders mixing it up in a sparse
few acres of swamp and jungle. The Seventh Marine Infantry group were
assigned this end of the beach and made slow progress with fanatical
resistance among those seeking a glorious death.
The company in our sector were dug in facing a bay
with the enemy firing from jungles beyond the water. We set up our howitzers
in a depression near the beach and set to work with infantry troops
at our elbows.
The word howitzer means a cannon that delivers shells
at a high trajectory. With this enemy about two hundred yards away across
the bay we found a direct fire situation with no elevation to our guns.
Our gunners 'bore sighted' by opening the breech and looking directly
at the target through the barrel. As our shells burst so near by sprinklings
of debris fell on us in our gun pits.
This was a unique situation for heavy artillery pieces
to be firing along side infantry rifles and machine guns. We gained
a new respect for one another and appreciated the part each unit played
in this business of making war.
It was a noisy night and not many people slept soundly
in this area. At this point in time we were 'introduced' to Marines
wearing black skin. Our first encounter with newly acquired black troops
who had been assigned to menial tasks with bigoted ideas that they were
unfit to be 'real fighters'. Accepting their fate by force of habit
they set out to prove themselves in whatever endeavor put upon them.
They became 'carriers', hauling ammunition to the
front as needed and on the return trip they carried stretchers bearing
the many wounded on this hectic night.
We had been assigned a three day 'password' to be
used by all units was made simple for all to remember. Thinking that
the Japanese had difficulty pronouncing the letter 'L' we were to name
any automobile of American make. Especially those with the letter mentioned.
Our black Marines had endured some derisive remarks
aboard ship and stories were told of their having explained their dark
skin to the 'Aussie' girls by saying they had been inoculated with a
darkening agent to enhance their stealth by night. They were 'nightfighters'!
On this hellish night on Peleliu bigotry faded away
among many who had a grudging respect for the men carrying ammo up and
wounded back amid intense firing from both sides. All night long amid
the sounds of battle we could hear these brave men on their mission
of mercy with wounded in hand, calling out, "Plymouth, Ford, Plymouth,
Ford, nightfighters coming through!" Thereafter these were considered
fellow MARINES by all.
The supposed three-day battle for the island of Peleliu
raged on for many bloody days and most enemy forces withdrew into the
tunnels and caves of the Umurbrogol pocket in the coral ridges along
the central part of northern areas.
Only a few miles away our howitzers could deliver
the goods to there or any part of the island from our beach position
and so remained stationary. We had front line observers in the ridges
with infantry units as well as our hotshot Navy pilot flying around
close overhead. As usual our enemy, the Japanese, were invisible and
afforded few targets for our 'eye in the sky'.
On one occasion they gave a fire order placing shells
on a little road by a swamp. We fired into proscribed area and they
said "Down one hundred, fire for effect!" (four guns) Then
they said to raise one hundred, then down one hundred! Our Colonel got
on the radio asking what the hell we were shooting at. Our airborne
freaks said, "Hay, Colonel, we've got two Japs running back and
forth on this road, really confused!"
Our daily routine became very boring and the stench
of death settled on us oppressively with many enemy corpses rotting
in the searing heat.
In our Godless little acre there were probably fifty
or sixty dead enemy soldiers ripening in the tropical oven. Huge flies
were the benefactors of this mess and settled on our food as we tried
to dine. The rations we were served would have been difficult to stomach
while sitting in the cool shade of a gazebo in Granny's rose garden
but in this odorous setting near impossible. It became a sport to see
how few flies actually rode a spoonful of food into our mouth while
we fanned frantically. Some did and buzzed for release and we spit out
a curse.
About day three we called up a bulldozer to gouge
out fifty-foot trench to bury the corpses in our immediate area. Of
course the stench of many hundreds beyond our perimeter were out of
our control and permeated the air and some pilots later told us that
the death smell of Peleliu was noticed up to ten thousand feet above
the island.
As our own casualties mounted alarmingly the dead
Marines were interred in a temporary mass grave for sanitary reasons.
We had set aside an area between the airfield and the beach and one
of the saddest sights I saw in the war was these guys in familiar green
fatigues, bloodstained, having a dog tag tied to a canteen which was
wired to a foot for later identification. Before sand was shoveled in
to cover them they were sprayed with DDT poison to control the flies
which covered them. This was a far cry from scenes of funerals at Arlington
National cemetery.
Our morale was dragging bottom about that time and
we felt useless in our effort to the fight. Feisty little Colonel Evans
sensed our mood a suggested that those who desired could go fire a shot
at the enemy on one of our fire missions. As I pulled the lanyard I
shouted, "Take that, you little yellow bastards!" I did feel
better about it all and stalked back head high.
As the endless days dragged on we suffered under the
oppressive heat rationing our meager water supply until 'fresh' water
arrived in oil drums that had not been thoroughly cleaned and it was
a rust colored oily tasting mess but had to be used. We began to see
a mirror image of those around us, filthy, grimy and bearded, certainly
not recruiting poster Marines.
We didn't even consider shaving in brackish slimy
salt water but we did immerse our miserable carcasses in the warm water
of the bay each evening. Flotsam and jetsam from debris of war floated
in at high tide as well as one bloated enemy body. We called him Oscar
and cursed him while flinging rocks to try to force him back out to
sea.
A few minutes of this 'bath' and we sat on rocks in
direct sunlight fostering sweat to rinse off the slimy salt water. We
were a seedy looking bunch and began to get very testy with one another.
Forced togetherness can become stiflingly oppressive
at times and often familiarity breeds contempt under circumstances such
as these in this 'hobo' jungle.
My buddy, Joe, and I were beating our gums about our
sad plight one day and both very irritable. I said, "Joe, I am
so tired of all these seedy stumblebums with the same old jokes and
same old stories about nothing! Slobs! Dummies! I'm bored!"
Joe said, "Hay, got an idea, lets go check out
that sniper road we've been hearing about." Great idea! We got
a jeep and Joe drove us across the airfield on down near the shore where
the road began where we paused and looked it over. The shore was on
the left and about a hundred yards inland was the gray ragged mass of
limestone cliffs with many dark cave 'eyes'.
Joe looked a question mark at me and I said, "Go
for it!" As we drove out on to the bumpy gravel road at about twenty
miles an hour we soon learned that the rumor was true as bullets began
to whiz overhead. We pulled in our necks a bit more and Joe kicked it
up to about forty miles per hour, hitting only the high spots.
This road, about a mile or so long, leads to the site
of an old mill of some sort that had been blasted into a big pile of
rubble. One of the longest miles of my life was accompanied by many
zing, zip, twang and clanks from hostile people up in those ridges.
Joe skidded the jeep into cover behind the mill's
rubble and we sat quietly thinking, 'That sniper road rumor is true!'
Catching our breath we discussed the possibility of finding another
way to go back and Joe said that if we had a boat we could go out and
make a wide detour around the bay.
Poised for the return drive, he looked at me and nodded
which I assented reluctantly. Again we roared back out on the road bouncing
along at almost fifty miles an hour trailing a huge dust cloud behind.
It seemed that even more spoilsports and joined in as many more whiz-zing-clanks
were heard while we did our terrapin impersonations with necks pulled
down.
When we finally did reach the roads end and out of
sight of those ridges we slowed to a normal speed and drove back to
our battalion bivouac. Entering there we waved and smiled to familiar
faces and slowed to a halt, each thinking, 'How great it was to be back
in the close, comforting companionship of all of our dear, dear friends'.
Thoughts from an unknown author: 'One cannot possibly
describe the sense of community which joins a group of men whose destiny
is held together by mutual support.'
Those menacing ridges we drove by were filled with
enemy troops bent on attrition and trying decimate the invading force.
The Japanese battle strategy changed completely on Peleliu. No more
suicidal Banzai charges which were often a useless loss of manpower
with minimal gains.
Starting with this campaign the Japanese soldiers
were ordered to do as much damage as possible from concealment and avoid
exposure to enemy fire above ground. Of course they did institute some
counter attacks and many did come out of holes and caves to fight, often
hand to hand.
The First and Fifth Marine Regiments of infantry were
suffering excessive amounts of casualties and the men became exhausted
from days of fighting in the intense heat while the Japs remained cool
in shady caves and bunkers.
One battalion of infantry suffered about seventy per
cent casualties and word came down to us that volunteers were needed
to fill the badly depleted ranks of those up in the ridges.
Those of us who went up from my outfit coined a new
word, 'Infantillery', and some time later this was mentioned in the
'Humor in Uniform' segment of Readers Digest.
Trucks took us over across the airfield and left us
at the main trail going up into the hellish ridges. We had our own equipment
and weapons but were required to carry two five gallon cans of water
up to where it was sorely needed.
Entering this valley of death there wasn't a breath
of air stirring and the oppressive heat and death stench almost gagged
us as we passed many blackening corpses of enemy dead. As we struggled
up the incline weighted down as we were, we met stretcher-bearers carrying
wounded back down the trail. This was our first glimpse of the torture
of this horrible war in the inferno of Umurbrogol's hell on earth.
The sights, smells and sounds experienced in any twenty
four hour day in this place could fill a book if told in detail but
this report will try to just hint at some of the misery.
Finally arriving at our place on the 'front lines',
we found no line at all but a scattering of piled rocks along the trail.
No foxholes in this solid rock mess, only a little rock fortress for
each of us to try to hide behind. In my selected wall of rocks I rooted
out some lose rocks for more depth than later that night regretted it
trying to sleep on jagged points of coral and limestone.
Wartime blackout conditions were a necessity in combat
situations like these and many of us wore leather watch bands with a
flap to cover our luminous dials for in this close proximity even that
little glow could make a target for the enemy.
Although most of us smoked cigarettes in those days,
smokes came with our rations, on this ridgeline exposure we didn't dare
light up a much needed nicotine 'fix'.
All during the night sporadic rifle fire and machine
gun burst were constant , punctuated with mortar or hand grenade thumps
could be heard all along the little valley separating the 'good guys'
from the 'bad guys'. Background 'music' making needed sleep almost impossible.
In the emptiness of total darkness our eyes became
accustomed to the vague vision of the contours and shapes of the miserable
landscape before us and then someone imagined movement down below and
fired off a flare for illumination.
Our hearts jumped at the familiar sound of pop and
then hiss as the garish light of the parachute flare cast an eerie blue
white brilliance over the area. Our heretofore-dilated pupils retracted
quickly as we squinted into the basin looking for movement and fearing
infiltrators. The Japanese troops were very familiar with the terrain
and moved about easily and often with a preference for night attacks.
As our bright flare slowly descended among skeletal
trees denuded of all foliage ever widening eerie shapes and shadows
climbed the ridges with distortions of psychedelic imagery and often
caused hallucinations fostering many shots at nothing.
As our flare fizzled out on the ground the enemy often
sent up one of their own to respond to see if ours had marked the go
signal for an attack.
Japanese flares did not illuminate in the same brilliant
glow caused by ours but had a softer, candle light luminance that gave
another degree of weirdness to the area. It too produced the strange,
ever increasing shadows all around as it descended.
One of the predominate miseries of combat in the islands
was the 'vocational' hazard of diarrhea most everyone suffered at various
degrees. Up in these hairy ridges the simple fact of relief was a major
problem. Never could anyone soil their foxhole and always tried to move
out some distance away for needed relief.
As this need became urgent we notified a near neighbor
that we had to 'go', and carefully moved over and below the ridge to
crawl down into areas of soft soil and debris. If a flare was fired
while we moved along we had to freeze in any position, standing walking
of 'stooping', for movement of any sort would possibly be seen by our
adversaries.
In this frightening position as we froze our skin
crawled as if any minute it would be punctured by hot lead. Helpless
feeling and very traumatic and over half a century later my visions
in memory still reviews the horrifying scenes of the flares making those
terrifying shadows all around.
If no flare interrupted our endeavors we finished with a quick swipe
and began our scary climb back up whispering the password and our name
to those on guard above.
One of the most disgusting features of all the islands
in the south Pacific were pesky little varmints known as land crabs
which crawled all over us, especially in mating seasons when they swarmed
in mass to the sea for their orgies. Often they covered the ground like
pavement and driving through this mass movement caused the tires to
crunch them by the hundreds.
In these ridges our gunfire had demolished many structures, often wood
with corrugated metal roofing. Just below our position on this ridge
there were piles of this material and all night long the bastardly land
crabs scurried up and around on these metal sounding boards and kept
our hearts pounding.
All good things must come to an end and finally the
haggard Marine infantry were relieved by the Army who took over those
positions to sweat out the final defeat of the fanatical Japs. Raggedy-assed-marines
is a common metaphor often used to describe~ bunch of the guys in the
Corps and it suited this 'stragglihg remnant of an infantry regiment
as they stumbled ~own the trail out of the inferno of the Umurgrogol
ridges.
These haggard faces revealed the spiritually drained
faces of old men, some still in their teens, with what became known
as 'the thousand yard stare'! I stood beside the trail, watching them
walking along single file and go aboard boats to take them away from
their ordeal. This vision of victors, totally defeated emotionally made
a life time impression on me.
After about six weeks of the Peleliu 'adventure',
we too were relieved and struck camp to return to our base camp on Guadalcanal.
As we boarded troopships, again up those friggin' rope ladders, we too
struggled in the effort of climbing up. I didn't see it but heard that
several guys fell back between the boat and ship and sank like a rock
under the weight of all their equipment. Some, they said, were overloaded
with souvenir rifles or light Nambu machine guns. Unnecessary deaths!
Marines are 'married' to their precious rifles and
this fact is instilled in boot camp training. For punishment for dropping
a rifle the boots had to sleep on four or five piled on their bunk.
They got the message and became thoroughly attached to their weapons.
As some of these thoroughly 'pissed off' marines tried
to climb the hated rope ladders so heavily encumbered several jerked
their rifles off their shoulders and flung them into the ocean. A cardinal
sin in the Marine Corps but no one dared reprimand this wild-eyed bunch
of people.
Our return to our wonderful camp at Guadalcanal was
like a homecoming and we relished the many creature comforts provided
there. Good food, behind screens, showers, movies, etc. Home!
Part 1 | Part 2 |
Part 3 | Part 4 |
Part 5 | Part 6 |
Part 7 | Part 8 | Part
9 | Part 10
