“Our Flag Is Still There”
Foxholes, Dugouts, and Trenches
The men on Wake could not celebrate for long, for a Japanese air raid could be expected at any time. By inflicting the first humiliation of the war on the Japanese, the Wake Islanders only gave the enemy more reason to seek redress. Sooner or later, a second Japanese assault force, equipped with additional men and guns and fueled by vengeance, would come knocking on their door. This one would not be so easily deterred.
Servicemen performed their duties with an extra jaunt in their step and with the attitude that they could withstand anything the enemy hurled at them. After all, they had just pounded a superior force into submission. Imagine what they might do once they strengthened their defenses. Besides, by the time the enemy reappeared off Wake, reinforcements from Pearl Harbor would certainly have taken their place beside the veterans of December 11. Tokyo might send more troops, but more would be on hand to greet them.
December 11 injected such renewed optimism into the Wake defenders that Marines joked with each other over their accomplishment, and Lieutenant Barninger thought his men looked forward to another encounter with the Japanese. Corporal Marvin heard Marines from Texas boasting, “This is the Alamo of the Pacific.”1 Marvin joined in their fun, but he saw something ironic, almost ominous, about being compared to the famed 1836 battle. At the Alamo, every Texan died after staging an heroic defense.
The military, helped by civilians, took immediate steps to improve the atoll. They placed additional sandbags inside and around the edges of foxholes and gun positions, inserted pieces of lumber to fortify bunker roofs, cut down branches from the brush to camouflage their positions, and moved 3-inch guns to different locations almost nightly.
On Wake, Lieutenant Poindexter organized a group to dig foxholes and construct dugouts near Camp 1. To fashion the dugouts, bulldozers scraped out trenches, across which were placed twelve-inch-by-twelve-inch pieces of wood. Men then shoveled coral rocks and sand on top of the wood to a depth of four or five feet to absorb the shock of bombs. These shelters, though hastily improvised, could withstand anything but a direct bomb hit.
On Wilkes, Corporal Johnson directed his men in fashioning a rude shelter near their machine guns. The finished product, complete with wooden slabs covered with a layer of sand, may not have matched the Marine manual for correctness, but under the circumstances it served the purpose. Johnson would later recall with a grin that one civilian complained they made the entrance to the shelter too small, but in the very next air raid he handily dashed inside before anyone else.
Lieutenant Kinney faced enormous problems in piecing together remnants of broken aircraft to fashion usable ones, but a group of civilians helped by creating a partially underground aircraft hangar out of an old shelter. They dug a ramp leading below the airfield’s surface, then placed steel beams across the ramp, and covered them with wood and cloth. With this hangar, Kinney and his assistants could work in relative safety, and the enclosed hangar also allowed them to repair aircraft around the clock without worrying about enemy bombers spotting their lights.
“What the Hell Am I Doing Here?”
Having endured a December 8 attack and then repelling a landing attempt three days later, Americans on Wake now entered a twelve-day span in which hopes of rescue alternated with fear of death or capture, joy alternated with hunger, comradeship alternated with weariness. The Siege of Wake had begun.
In the early days of the siege, the men faced the situation with a buoyant optimism that eased the strain. Everyone, military and civilian alike, blissfully unaware that the fleet in Hawaii, and with it their hopes, suffered a near-catastrophic blow, expected reinforcements to arrive from Pearl Harbor to strengthen the military and evacuate the civilians. The workers around Murray Kidd, for instance, claimed the U.S. Navy would arrive within a few days to remove them from danger. “That raised our spirits, but then every day we waited and waited.”2
Even though the Japanese scheduled most of their bombing raids around noon, the men could not relax the rest of the day. Sometimes enemy aircraft materialized later in the day, during the night or, on a few occasions, not at all. The men, shorthanded already, had to maintain a constant vigilance. Jittery guards posted on the water tower sometimes added to the confusion by sounding “Air raid!” when all they actually spotted was a flock of birds or shadows in the clouds. Even though the alarms proved false, the men still had to rush to their dugouts, which could in some cases be a distance away. Over a period of time these supposed sightings irritated the weary defenders, who had better things to do than scamper into hiding from phantom attackers.
In the early phases of the siege, heady with their December 11 triumph and certain of quick help, the burden appeared small, but as the days wore on, the men grew weaker and more fatigued. “We could never be certain if they were going to come at other times, as well, so we were in a constant state of alert,” wrote Pfc. Jacob R. Sanders of Battery E. “It was nerve-racking. We worked long hours and then stood long hours of watch. As this was before radar, they would have us just staring at the horizon and sky looking for enemy planes. I got so used to just staring at the sky I was even able to see stars during full daylight.”3 Other men told of gazing so many hours into the tropical sun that they suffered momentary periods of blindness.
Daily bombing raids rivaled the December 11 naval bombardment for sheer terror. During the attacks, the men—like Private First Class Gatewood—fired at the aircraft until they spotted the bombs falling, raced for their dugout or foxholes, then jumped back on the gun again as soon as the bombs exploded. Corporal Marvin had to navigate fifty yards to reach the dugout from his gun, but he handled the distance with ease. “I was never fast on my feet, but I fell down twice and I was still the first one there!”4
Bombs screeched downward; roofs of dugouts rattled from near-hits; gritty coral sand sifted through the cracks; dust particles flew around and lodged in men’s eyes, noses, and ears; flames leapt from demolished structures, and men gasped for air in the thick acrid smoke. Concussion waves knocked men off their feet and smacked them so hard to the ground that they felt as if they had become part of the surface. “We mashed into the sandbags in that hole like we was part of ’em,”5 said Private Laporte of his efforts to avoid the bombing on Peale Island. Some men compared the ordeal of a bombing raid to being inside a huge steel kettle while someone pounded on the outside.
A handful of men panicked under the strain. Pfc. James O. King waited out one attack with a group of servicemen and civilians. In the midst of the bombing, a civilian started shouting, “They’re gonna kill us! They’re gonna kill us!” Already frightened by the thought that an enemy projectile could viciously end their lives, the Americans did not need any further burdens. Sgt. James W. Hall walked over to the terrified construction worker, looked straight at him, and yelled in a booming voice, “Shut the fuck up!”6 The tactic worked, as the civilian remained silent, although scared, for the remainder of the raid.
To divert his attention from the bombs during one raid, John Rogge flattened himself at the bottom of his dugout and stared at another creature struggling to remain alive. “We were close to the lagoon and when the high tide came in, some water’d get in our dugout. I watched this fly come into our dugout, and then he got into the water and was flopping like a fly does, trying to get free. I watched him for a little bit and then thought, ‘You poor little bastard! If you want to live half as bad as I do, I’ll help you out.’ So I took my finger and lifted him out and threw him out the hole. Any other time he’d be dead.”7
Corporal Johnson claimed the worst part of the bombing on Wilkes Island was the inability to fight back. He could do nothing, since his machine guns could not reach high enough to affect the enemy bombers. Across the channel separating Wilkes from Wake, Lieutenant Hanna waited out the attacks in similar fashion:
“You’re trying to make yourself as small as possible. You know there’s not anything you c
an do because you have nothing that can reach that high. I’ve never felt more helpless in my life. It’s the luck of the draw. You couldn’t be on an island like that, with those circumstances, and not have been scared, but you don’t dwell on it. Those people who say they were never scared in battle—they’re damn liars!”8
Most admitted they could not allow themselves to think of home. Corporal Marvin claimed he was too busy surviving to worry about his family, and Lieutenant Hanna only sporadically wondered how Vera and Erlyne were doing in between the attacks. The men had to keep their minds on the battle, and thoughts of loved ones made that harder.
On Wake, prayer was a popular occupation. Some of the men explained they were too frightened or occupied to pray, but most stated the bombings provided extra incentive to turn to a higher power. Forrest Read needed little prodding; he looked to what had always been a source of strength and inspiration—God. His nephew, J. O. Young, drew comfort from a patriarchal blessing he and Pearl Ann received from their minister before he left for Wake. “He said I would safely return. That helped me during the bombardments. I knew I was coming back. It calmed me down. Pearl knew I would be home, so it helped her, too.”9
George Rosandick repeatedly beseeched God to let him survive the next bombing raid, while others thanked the Lord that at least their families were safe back home. At Devereux’s command post in one bombardment, someone heard radioman Corporal Brown mumbling. “What the hell are you doing, Brown?” asked the Marine. Brown retorted, “I’m praying, you God-damn fool!”10
With their world disrupted due to the battle, animals wandered about, dazed, or ran into dugouts. Rats, rattled by the bombing, scampered into foxholes and crowded into dugouts. One terrified rat crawled across Commander Cunningham’s face, and another scurried into a foxhole, bit a Marine’s nose, and held on while the repulsed Marine beat it to death. Birds meandered about the beaches, and crabs interrupted the men’s sporadic attempts to sleep. Thousands of animal carcasses littered the atoll, forcing weary Marines to waste precious time burying them to prevent diseases from spreading.
Once a bombing raid ended, men shook off the dust, looked around to see who else survived, and then realized that they had made it through another attack. Major Devereux wrote that men gazed about them, “as though they could not quite comprehend, and then it was like a great weight lifting from your chest. You wouldn’t die today. Not this morning, anyhow.”11
Major Devereux was the image of fearlessness. He usually stood on top of his dugout, watching the raid—as if his presence in the open could reassure his men that all was well. Marines close to Devereux claimed he showed no fear whatsoever, though the officer had to tremble inside. Private First Class King, stationed at Devereux’s command post, had numerous opportunities to observe the major. “One day they were bombing and strafing up the beach and I could hear them coming. Devereux stepped out of the dugout, watching the bombs come, and I knew the next one was going to hit us. A bomb hit so close that I had to grab him to prevent him from falling onto me. As soon as that bomb hit, he was back outside watching. He was one calm Marine.”12
In between raids he visited as many men as time warranted, believing they appreciated their commander emerging from his command post to check on their well-being. At one spot he chatted with a Marine who had safely endured a particularly heavy bombing attack. The pair stared at the many bomb craters that dotted the area and remarked on the good fortune that no one was killed. Then, after a few moments, the Marine mentioned to Devereux, “We’re sure gonna run out of luck quick if we keep using it up at this rate.”13
The bombings intensified to the extent that Devereux eventually had to move his command post to a safer location. On December 14, he abandoned the dugout near Camp 1 and shifted into the concrete magazine next to Cunningham’s at the eastern edge of the airstrip. All four concrete structures now housed men—Dr. Shank’s civilian hospital occupied the northernmost one, followed by Cunningham’s and Devereux’s command posts, then Kahn’s military hospital at the southernmost bunker.
After each bombing, Lieutenant Hanna communicated by phone with each position under his command to check on casualties. After relaying the information to Devereux, he visited his fifty men, believing they received a boost from his physical presence. Hanna made a point of talking to each individual for a few moments to relax him, then moved on to the next foxhole along Wake’s southern beach.
Captain Platt did the same on Wilkes Island, emerging from his dugout almost before the final bomb hit to see how his men fared. Nineteen-year-old Pfc. William F. Buehler later recalled a conversation with Platt following a raid. “He came by my foxhole and asked if anyone wanted a cigarette,” mentioned Buehler. “He was very calm and said, ‘If you get into the foxhole, you’re pretty safe. There isn’t much else we can do, so take cover and stay in there until the all-clear. Unless you get a direct hit.’ He sort of looked off in the distance, and he said, ‘I guess if you’re that unlucky, perhaps goddammit, you’re supposed to die.’”14
The daily bombings offered a mixed menu of terror, courage, and humor. The civilians manning the gun at Battery D, who had earlier incurred Johnalson Wright’s wrath for ineptness, now made it a point of honor to remain at their gun until every Marine had departed. One time Sgt. Raymon Gragg, who wore earphones as captain of a 3-inch gun, raced to the dugout as bombs exploded, but was jerked to the ground only five feet from the entrance. In the excitement he had forgotten to remove his set of earphones, and a balky cord slammed him down.
Joe Goicoechea, who spent his time on both Wake and Peale Islands, crept over to where his friend, George Rosandick, huddled, intending to visit his buddy. “I snuck over there, and a goddamn raid came over. One guy went crazy. I just dove under a little bush, and I told George I’d never come back because of that crazy civilian. I saw another guy do the same—go nuts. One Marine lost it, too. Most men held their own pretty good, though.”15
Some went to extreme measures to provide for their safety. John Rogge was walking near a warehouse one day when he thought he saw a head sticking out of the sand. When he veered over to investigate, he recognized the civilian dentist. The man had dug a hole in the dirt so deep that only his head showed.
During raids, Pfc. Verne L. Wallace often thought of a 1940 day in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, when he and a friend discussed joining the Marines. His friend claimed Wallace was too small to be a part of such a heralded outfit but Wallace, fortified with a few beers, bet the bulkier man he could do it. The pair walked over to a recruiting station, where the Marine officer accepted Wallace into the Corps while rejecting Wallace’s friend. Now, in the middle of bursting bombs and shrapnel, Wallace wondered if he had, indeed, won the bet. He remarked to a Marine next to him, “Every time I’m under fire I keep thinking, ‘What the hell am I doing here? I ought to be in Philadelphia!’”16
One constant sight reassured those in the immediate vicinity of Battery D—during every raid, in spite of every bomb, Sgt. Johnalson Wright stood outside the dugout near his gun, squeezing the lucky dollar from Nicaragua. The hefty Marine claimed that the dugout cramped his style and was too crowded, but his men knew the real reasons—he did not want to take up so much space in an already-congested dugout, and he had trouble squeezing through the opening. If anyone tried to entice the sergeant inside, Wright told him to mind his own business. His lucky dollar would pull him through.
Magicians at the Airfield
Little except miracles and earnest wishes appeared to help at the airstrip, where Lieutenant Kinney and a handful of mechanics, including civilians Fred S. Gibbons and his son George, labored to keep the remaining two aircraft flying. Kinney understood what the fighters meant to the men on Wake—as long as the aircraft rose to meet the enemy, the Japanese first had to barge through them before attacking the atoll. He and the others worked ceaselessly to repair damaged aircraft or to fashion workable planes out of spare parts.
As was true of most men on Wake, Ki
nney had to improvise to keep an air force going. He borrowed an air compressor from the former Pan Am facility to help dislodge sand buildups in engines. He scrounged for parts in wrecked Wildcats that he could use in operating planes. He so often patched together aircraft that some wondered how the makeshift planes could even fly.
One day the supply of oxygen for the aviators ran out, meaning the pilots could no longer fly at the higher altitudes demanded to meet Japanese bombers. Lieutenant Freuler solved the dilemma by arranging a manner of switching welding oxygen from their storage cylinders to the smaller containers used by VMF-211. The aircraft may not have won any contests for their appearances, but as far as the military and civilians were concerned, those two Wildcats were true beauties.
Putnam and other officers heaped praise on Kinney and his crew. Major Walter L. Bayler, who worked in communications, called them “magicians” whose efficient work must have made the Japanese think “we were turning out planes from some assembly line concealed in the woods.” Major Putnam bestowed even higher accolades, calling their work the “outstanding event of the whole campaign.” In a report after the war, Putnam stated, “With almost no tools and a complete lack of normal equipment, they performed all types of repair and replacement work. They changed engines and propellers from one airplane to another, and even completely built up new engines and propellers from scrap parts salvaged from wrecks. They replaced minor parts and assemblies, and repaired damage to fuselages and wings and landing gear; all this in spite of the fact that they were working with new types [of aircraft] with which they had no previous experience and were without instruction manuals of any kind.”17
Despite their labors, Lieutenant Kinney and the others could not compete against repeated enemy attacks, a lack of spare parts, and increasing damage. On December 17, an accumulation of coral sand ruined the engine of one Wildcat, temporarily reducing Wake’s air arm to one fighter. The day they could no longer field an air force had almost arrived.
Pacific Alamo Page 15