World War II Pacific: Battles and Campaigns from Guadalcanal to Okinawa 1942-1945 (WW2 Pacific Military History Series)

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World War II Pacific: Battles and Campaigns from Guadalcanal to Okinawa 1942-1945 (WW2 Pacific Military History Series) Page 9

by Daniel Wrinn


  This was when things started to go wrong.

  Admiral Hill, the amphibious task force commander, realized the transports were in the wrong anchorage. He directed the fire support ships to immediately shift to the correct site. While the landing craft bobbed away along in the wake of the ships, several Marines were halfway down the cargo nets when the ships unexpectedly weighed anchor. Choppy seas made matching the exact LVTs with their assigned assault teams dangerous in the darkness.

  Few tactical plans survived the opening rounds of execution in this amphibious operation. The D-Day plan was for the H-Hour assault wave to start at 0830. A fast carrier strike would initiate the action with a thirty-minute bombing raid at 0545. After that, the fire support ships would bombard the island from a close range for the next two hours. The planes would then return for a final strafing run, five minutes before H-Hour, and then shift to inland targets while the Marine Corps stormed ashore.

  None of this went according to plan.

  The Japanese were alerted by the predawn activities offshore and initiated the battle. Their garrison opened fire on Task Force 53 with big naval guns at 0505. The Maryland’s and Colorado’s main batteries returned fire at once, and several 16-inch shells found their mark. A huge fireball signaled the destruction of an enemy ammunition bunker at one of the Japanese’s gun positions. After other fire support ships joined in, Admiral Hill ordered a cease-fire thirty-five minutes later. He’d expected the air attack to begin. A long silence and no air assault.

  The carrier air group changed plans. They postponed the strike by thirty minutes. Their modifications were never relayed to Admiral Hill. Hill’s problems were aggravated by the communication loss on his flagship after the ship’s main battery’s initial crushing salvo. The Japanese coastal defense guns were damaged, but still dangerous. This mistake gave the Japanese almost thirty minutes to adjust and recover. Admiral Hill was frustrated at every turn and ordered his ships to resume firing at 0605. At 0610, carrier fast attack planes appeared. They bombed and strafed the island for the next few minutes. Throughout this confusion, the sun rose into a macabre background of thick, black smoke.

  The destroyers, cruisers, and battleships of Task Force 53 bombarded Betio for the next few hours. The shock and awe of the shelling was a vivid experience for the Marines. A combat photographer, Staff Sergeant Hatch, recalled: “We really didn’t see how we could do anything but just go in there and bury the Japanese. This wasn’t even going to be a fight. Surely no mortal man could live through this destroying power. Any Japs on the island would have to be dead by now.”

  Staff Sergeant Hatch was proved wrong by a geyser of water fifty yards to the starboard side of his ship. The Japanese resumed fire and targeted the vulnerable troop transports underway for the second time that morning.

  General Smith and Admiral Hill onboard Maryland struggled to get information throughout the long day. Their best source of information was from a Kingfisher observation aircraft, launched by the battleships. Admiral Hill asked the pilot if the reef was covered with water and received a negative answer. The first wave of LVTs, with over seven hundred embarked Marines, left the assembly area and headed toward the departure line.

  The embarked Marines in the LVTs had a difficult, long morning. Cross deck transfers were dangerous in choppy seas while 8-inch shells exploded around them. They began a long run to the beach—ten miles away. The LVTs started on time but fell behind schedule quickly. The LVT-1s of the first wave failed to maintain the 4-knot speed of advance due to a strong westerly current. This, combined with the weight of the improvised armor plating, reduced the buoyancy. A psychological factor was also at work. Colonel Edson had criticized the LVT crews for landing five minutes early during the rehearsal. He had made it clear that early arrival was inexcusable and preferred a late arrival. The three struggling columns of LVTs would not make the beach by the intended hour of 0830. This caused H-Hour to be postponed twice to 0900. All hands did not receive this information.

  Two destroyers, Dashiell and Ringgold, entered the lagoon, following the minesweepers to provide close fire support. Once in the lagoon, the minesweeper Pursuit became the primary control ship and directly took a position on the departure line. The Pursuit turned her searchlights seaward and provided the LVTs with a beacon of light through the thick smoke and dust. At 0825, as the first wave of LVTs crossed the line, they were still 6,000 yards away from the target beaches.

  Minutes after, carrier aircraft roared over Betio, right on time for the original H-Hour but unaware of the new times. Admiral Turner specifically provided all of the players in Operation Galvanic with this warning: “Times to strafe the beaches regarding H-Hour approximate. The distance of the boat from the beach will be a governing factor.”

  Admiral Hill called them off. The assault planes remained on station with depleted ammunition and fuel levels.

  The LVTs chugged shoreward in three long waves. They were separated by 300-yard intervals. Wave One contained forty-two LVT-1s, followed by Wave Two with twenty-four LVT-2s, and Wave Three with twenty-one LVT-2s. Behind these tracked vehicles were Waves Four and Five of Higgins boats. Each of the assault battalion commanders were in Wave Four. Astern, the Ashland ballasted down and launched fourteen LCMs (or Landing Craft Mechanized), all carrying a medium Sherman tank. Four other LCMs trailed, transporting light tanks with 37mm guns.

  Just before 0800, Colonel Shoup and elements of his tactical command post debarked and headed to the line of departure. A bulky sergeant stood close to Shoup and shielded the radio from the salt spray. Of all the communication failures and blackouts on D-Day, Shoup’s radio remained functional longer. It served him better than radios of any other commander—Japanese or American—on the island.

  At 0854, Admiral Hill ordered a cease-fire, even though the assault waves were still 4,000 yards out from shore. Colonel Edson and General Smith objected. Still, Admiral Hill considered the enormous pillars of smoke unsafe for overhead fire support. After the bombing ceased, the LVTs made their final approach into the teeth of long-range machine-gun fire and artillery airbursts. The artillery could have been fatal to troops crowded into the open-topped LVTs, but the Japanese had loaded the projectiles with high explosives instead of steel shell fragments, which only doused the Marines with “hot sand.” This was the last tactical mistake the Japanese made on D-Day.

  The aborted airstrike returned at 0855 for five minutes of ineffective strafing along the beaches. The pilots followed their wristwatches instead of the progress of the lead LVTs. Two naval landing boats started toward the end of the long pier at the reef’s edge. 1stLt. Hawkins and his Scout Sniper Battalion with a squad of combat engineers charged out. They made quick work of Japanese gun placements along the pier with their flamethrowers and explosives.

  The LVTs of Wave One struck the beach and crawled over the reef. These parts of Colonel Shoup’s plan were executed flawlessly. The bombardment, as extraordinary as it had been, failed to soften the Japanese defenses. Little of the ships’ fire had been directed against the landing beaches.

  Admiral Shibasaki vowed to defeat the amphibious assault units at the water’s edge. The well-protected Japanese shook off the sand and manned their guns. The curbing of all naval gunfire for the first thirty minutes of the assault was a fateful mistake for Admiral Hill. This gave the Japanese time to shift their forces from the southern and western beaches to reinforce the northern positions. The Japanese defenders were stunned and groggy from the naval pounding and sight of the LVTs crossing the barrier reef. However, Admiral Shibasaki’s killing zone was still intact. The Japanese met the amphibious assault waves with a steady volume of combined arms fire.

  The first wave of LVTs approaching the final 200 yards of beaches Red One and Red Two were the most challenging. Well aimed fire from anti-boat, 40mm, and heavy and light machine guns hammered the Marines. The assault team fired back with their .50-caliber machine guns mounted on each of the LVT-1s, firing over 10,000 rounds. Th
e exposed gunners were easy targets, and dozens were cut down. The LVT battalion commander, Drews—who worked with Shoup to make this assault possible—took over a machine gun from a fallen crewman and was killed instantly by a bullet through his eye. One of Major Drew’s company commanders mentioned later he saw a Japanese officer standing defiantly on the seawall, waving his pistol, “just daring us to come ashore.”

  The LVTs pushed through. The touchdown times staggered at intervals of ten minutes on each beach. The first LVT to land was a vehicle nicknamed “My Deloris,” driven by PFC Moore. My Deloris was the right guide vehicle on Red Beach One and hit the beach squarely on “the bird’s beak.” PFC Moore tried to drive his LVT over the 5-foot seawall, but the vehicle stalled in a vertical position while Japanese machine guns riddled troops inside. PFC Moore reached for his rifle and found it shot in half. He later recalled what happened next on the LVT: “The sergeant stood up and yelled, ‘everybody out!’ but as soon as the words left his mouth, machine-gun bullets ripped the top of his head off.”

  PFC Moore and a handful of others escaped the LVT and destroyed two machine-gun positions a few yards away. All would either be killed or injured during the assault . Few of the LVTs could negotiate the 5-foot seawall. While the LVTs stalled on the beach, they were vulnerable to howitzer and mortar fire, as well as hand grenades thrown into the troop compartments by Japanese troops on the other side of the barrier.

  One crew chief of the vehicle, Corporal Spillane, a baseball prospect with the St. Louis Cardinals before the war, caught two Japanese grenades barehanded in midair and tossed them back over the wall. He caught a third grenade that exploded in his hand and fatally wounded him.

  Maelstrom on Betio

  Waves Two and Three of the LVT-2s were protected by a 3/8 inch boilerplate hastily installed in Samoa. These waves suffered even more intense fire. The large-caliber anti-boat Japanese guns destroyed several of the LVT-2s. Machine gunner PFC Baird, aboard one of the embattled LVTs, recounted what he saw: “After we were 100 yards in, the enemy fire was awful damn intense and only getting worse. They were knocking us out left and right. A tractor would get hit, stop, and burst into flames. Men jumped out like torches.”

  PFC Baird’s LVT was hit by a shell and killed many of the troops. He recalled: “I grabbed my carbine and an ammunition box. I stepped over a couple fellas lying there dead and put my hand on the side to roll over into the water. I didn’t want to put my head up. The bullets poured over us like a sheet of rain.”

  The LVTs executed the assault according to General Smith’s expectations. Eight out of the eighty-seven vehicles in the first three waves were lost in the assault. Fifteen others were so damaged and riddled with holes that they sank when reaching deep water while seeking to shuttle more troops to shore. Within ten minutes, the LVTs landed over 1,500 Marines on Betio’s north shore. While a brilliant start to the operation, the problem was sustaining the momentum of the assault. The neap tide predictions were accurate. No landing craft could cross that reef on D-Day.

  Colonel Shoup hoped that enough LVTs would survive to permit a wholesale transfer operation with the boats along the edge of the reef. It would not work. The LVTs suffered more casualties. Several vehicles, afloat for only five hours, ran out of gas. Others needed to be used immediately for the evacuation of wounded Marines. The already flawed communications deteriorated even more as the radio sets suffered water damage from enemy fire. The surviving LVTs continued on. But after 1015, most troops had waded ashore from the reef, crossing distances of 1,000 yards, under well-aimed fire. The Marines of the 3/2 were walloped on Red Beach One. Company K suffered casualties from the stronghold on the left. Company I crossed the seawall but paid a high price—losing their company commander before he could even debark from his LVT. Both units lost more than half of their men within the first two hours.

  Major Michael Ryan’s Company L was forced to wade ashore when their boats grounded on the reef, taking over 35% casualties. Major Ryan spotted one lone trooper through the fire and smoke scrambling over a parapet on the beach to the right, marking a new landing point. When Company L finally reached the shore, Major Ryan looked back over his shoulder, and all he could see were heads with rifles held over them. He ordered his men to make as small of a target as possible. Ryan assembled the various stragglers in a sheltered area along Green Beach.

  In the fourth wave, Major Schoettel remained in his boat with the remnants of his Marines. He was convinced that his landing team had been destroyed beyond relief. He had no contact with Major Ryan. Schoettel received fragmented reports that seventeen of his thirty-seven officers were combat ineffective casualties.

  In the center, the 2/2 Marines were thumped hard coming ashore. The Japanese strong point in the re-entrant between the two beaches created turmoil among the Marines scrambling over the sides of their stalled and beached LVTs. Five out of six of Company E’s officers were killed. Company F took 50% casualties getting ashore and negotiating the seawall to seize a foothold. Company G barely clung to a crowded stretch of beach along the seawall in the middle. Two infantry platoons and two machine gun platoons were driven away from their beach. They were forced to land on Red Beach One, joining “Major Ryan’s orphans.”

  When Lieutenant Colonel Amey’s boat ran against the reef, he hailed a passing LVTs for a transfer. After that, Lieutenant Colonel Amey’s LVT became hung up on a barbed wire obstacle several hundred yards off Red Beach Two. Amey drew his pistol and shouted for his men to follow him into the water. As he got closer to the beach, Colonel Amey turned to encourage his men: “Come on! These bastards can’t beat us.”

  A machine gun fire burst hit him in the throat—killing him instantly. His XO, Major Rice, and another LVT landed far to the west behind Major Ryan. Lieutenant Colonel Walter Jordan was the senior officer present with the 2/2. He was one of the several observers from the 4th Marine Division, and only one of a handful of survivors from Amey’s LVT.

  Lieutenant Colonel Jordan did what any Marine would do under the circumstances: he took command. Jordan tried to rebuild the pieces of the landing team into a cohesive fighting force.

  The only amphibious assault unit that got ashore without significant casualties was the 2/8 on Red Beach Three, east of the pier. This good fortune was attributed to the continued direct fire support the 2/8 received, throughout its run to the beach, from the two destroyers in the lagoon. The fire support from the two ships provided a preliminary fire from such a short-range. It kept the Japanese defenders on the island’s eastern edge buttoned up. As a result, the 2/8 only suffered less than 25% casualties in the first three LVT waves. Company E made a significant penetration by crossing the barricade and the taxiway. Still, five of its six officers were shot down in the first ten minutes ashore. The 2/8 was fighting against one of the most sophisticated defensive positions on the islands. These fortifications to their left flank would keep the Marines boxed in for the next forty-eight hours.

  Major “Jim” Crowe was the commander of the 2/8 Marines. A former enlisted man, gunner, distinguished rifleman, and star football player, he was a tower of strength through the battle. He carried a combat shotgun cradled in his arm. With his trademark red mustache, he exuded professionalism and confidence that were sorely needed on Betio that day. Major Crowe ordered the coxswain of his Higgins boat to “put the god damn boat in.” The Higgins boat hit the reef at high speed, sending Marines sprawling. Crowe quickly recovered and ordered his men over the sides and then led them through hundreds of yards of shallow water. They reached the shore intact only four minutes behind the last wave of LVTs.

  Crowe was accompanied by a combat photographer who recalled the major clenching a cigar in his teeth and standing upright, growling at his men: “Look, these sons of bitches can’t hit me. Why do you think they can hit you? Get your asses moving. Go!”

  Red Beach Three was in capable hands.

  By 0945 on Betio, Major Crowe was well-established, with a penetration to the air
field. A distinct gap existed between the 2/8 and the survivors of 2/2 in small clusters along Red Beach Two under Colonel Jordan’s command. It was a dangerous gap because of the Japanese fortifications between Beaches One and Two. Only a few members of 3/2 on the left flank and a growing collection of Marines under Major Ryan were on Green Beach.

  Major Schoettel was floating beyond the reef. Colonel Shoup was likewise in a Higgins boat, but starting his move toward the beach. Other Marines waded ashore under increasing enemy fire. The tanks were forced to unload from the LCMs at the reef’s edge, searching for recon teams to lead them ashore.

  Communications were a nightmare. The TBX radios of Crowe, Shoup, and Schoettel were still operational. But there was either dead silence or complete havoc on the command nets. No one on the flagship knew of Major Ryan’s successful debark on the western end, or of Colonel Amey’s death and Colonel Jordan’s assumption of command. An early report from an unknown source flashed over the command nets: “Have landed. Unusually heavy opposition. Casualties 70%. Can’t hold.”

  Colonel Shoup ordered the 1/2 regimental reserve to land on Red Beach Two and work west. This would take time because the men were still awaiting orders at the line of departure, but all were waiting embarked in boats. Colonel Shoup assembled enough LVTs to transport companies A and B. The 3rd Infantry Company and the Weapons Company had yet to wade ashore through this chaotic assault. Most of the LVTs were destroyed en route by anti-boat guns. Japanese gunners now had the range down pat. Five vehicles were driven away by the intense fire and landed west at Major Ryan’s position, giving him another 113 troops to add to Green Beach.

  The rest of companies A and B stormed ashore and penetrated several hundred feet, expanding the perimeter. Other troops sought refuge along the pier and tried to commandeer a passing LVT. Many of the regimental reserve 1/2 troops did not complete the landing until the following morning. It was typical for an LVT driver and his gunners to be shot down by enemy machine gun fire. The surviving crewmen would get the stranded vehicle started again, but only in reverse. The vehicle would back wildly through the entire impact zone before breaking down again, causing several men to not reach the shore until sunset.

 

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