by Hugh Ambrose
FROM THEIR HILLTOP OP WEST OF THE LUNGA RIVER, SIDNEY AND HIS SQUAD could see Henderson Field. "Everywhere you looked was jap planes." The marines watched the proceedings wearily, having been up most of the night expecting to be called to help the 1/7 at any moment. They had heard the shit hitting the fan up in Sector Three, even as it had rained so hard one had to seek shelter just to "have room to breathe." All night long the sound of the 1/7's machine guns, 37mms, and 81mm mortars had carried to them. The battle the night before had followed days of watching the infantry and the airplanes fight the IJA along the Matanikau. In the past few days U.S. planes and artillery had loosed a furious barrage beyond the river. Reports had come to Sid's squad that "the dead are hip deep high over a 5 mile area . . . [the] whole beach covered with dead japs."
The morning of the twenty- fifth, however, U.S. planes were very late taking off from Henderson. It looked like the enemy planes circling over it were waiting for permission to land. From their vantage point, Sid and Deacon watched as, at last, the dogfights finally broke out. "All over the heavens . . . plane after plane came down. Zeros burst in midair and blew up before hitting ground. The ground AA riddled the bombers and several Zeros . . . they were dropping like flies. Three Japanese destroyers entered the harbor. We watched them sink a [U.S.] transport and a gun boat." Then the three enemy warships started shelling Kukum and the airfield. "God," Deacon prayed, "please give us more victories and peace."
THE WILDCATS HAD BEEN HARD AT WORK FOR HOURS, CLEARING THE SKY OF raiders, before the first strike of dive bombers took off at one p.m. Five dive-bombers went chasing after the three destroyers that had parked off Lunga Point earlier that morning and shelled Kukum and the airfield. They found one cruiser, one light cruiser, and two destroyers. The Dauntlesses later reported one sure hit, on the cruiser, and a couple that were at least near misses. Another strike followed. Bombing Six got its turn around three o'clock. The four planes led by Ray Davis scored two near misses. Mike flew on the fourth strike, with three other dive-bombers, a few Wildcats and four P-39s. Up the channel they went, searching for the destroyers and any other members of the Tokyo Express scurrying up the slot. They found their targets at about four thirty. The four runs of the dive-bombers resulted in one near miss on the light cruiser. The pilot of the P-39, however, upstaged them with a direct hit on the cruiser, the largest and most important warship in the group. The Japanese continued to flee, the two largest ships trailing oil. The mission took just under two hours and then they were back at the field, watching the furious fighter battles in the sky. One of the fighter pilots, Captain Joe Foss, shot down four Zeros that day.
Mike had no sense of victory, only grave doubt. The total number of flyable Dauntlesses was a dozen, with about the same number of Wildcats ready for action. The field was still in poor condition, there were shortages of everything, and the enemy's 150mm artillery fired at them at will. Just as he rarely showed his anger, though, so too did Mike keep his concern to himself. When Bombing Six's skipper, Ray Davis, evaluated the men in his command, in Lieutenant Micheel he saw a pilot who, "with utter disregard for his own safety . . . carried out all missions unflinchingly."174
Before bed, they learned Enterprise and Hornet had steamed into the area. The appearance of U.S. task forces usually meant that the Imperial Fleet carriers had also returned. The tired Cactus pilots enjoyed a night free of the shells from Japanese ships. The next morning in the ops tent, pilots heard reports of the battle raging between the carriers just five hundred miles away. They also received reports of carriers, battleships, and every other enemy ship nearing their position. Mike and two others spent the morning bombing and strafing an area south of the fighter strip, what the marines called Sector Three. Reports of enemy warships continued to pour in. None of the strike missions, however, located these ships. By the late afternoon they heard that the Japanese dive-bombers had hit both carriers and that the U.S. pilots had gotten some hits, too. Sometime the following day the news came that the Big E was now the only U.S. carrier in Pacific Ocean. USS Hornet had been sunk.o
The Cactus Air Force could expect some more relief to show up soon--whatever was left of the Hornet's former planes and pilots. On occasions like this, the squadron doctor opened a big bottle of whiskey in the ops tent and allowed his pilots to take a few snorts. This wasn't the "medicinal brandy" issued by the navy. The doctor had found a Seabee who had a supply of whiskey and a crazy desire for airplane parts. The doc arranged to have instrument panels and other interesting items snapped off the scrapped planes. Asked what the guy wanted them for, the doc said that, as he understood it, the Seabee intended "to build an airplane after the war was over." A few tips of the glass ended Navy Day, 1942.
IN THE RAIN ON MONDAY, OCTOBER 26, A THOUSAND POWS PREPARED TO WALK out of Cabanatuan POW Camp Number One. First they had to say good-bye to their friends. The strong, who were leaving, would look at the weak and wonder if they would live long. Those staying behind would wonder if the group was sailing for Japan, a destination that ruled out escape, made liberation seem remote, and probably meant death. Each side, though, wanted desperately for someone to survive, for someone to tell the story of Cabanatuan to the world, and most of all for someone to tell their individual fates to their respective families back home.
On the hike to the train depot, Shifty carried a bag filled with all his equipment and the provisions he could purchase. What he jokingly called a deluxe car--eighty men to a boxcar--carried them slowly along. "At one of the frequent train halts . . . a group of Filipino children tested the jap guards on our boxcar and found out they did not understand English. The children then sung God Bless America." The train took them to Manila.
They spent only one night in Bilibid, marching down to the docks the next day and boarding a ship, formerly a U.S. ship, SS Erie, and now Erie Maru. Loading one thousand men into an eight-thousand-ton freighter already full with barrels of aviation gasoline led to the usual orders for the POWs to squeeze themselves into tight confines belowdecks. When the ship pulled away from the dock, the guards relaxed. Shifty and his friends Mike Dobervich and Jack Hawkins worked their way back on deck. They climbed onto the top of large rice sacks, with fresh air and a modicum of room. It was immediately decided that one of them would remain there at all times to protect the space from other POWs. They had found a space that improved their chances of survival ever so slightly. They would fight to keep it.
THE BATTLES RAGED DAILY AROUND THE #4 GUN SQUAD. TO THE SOUTH, THE ARMY had fought off another banzai attack and killed sixty- five, capturing one POW. To the west, at the Matanikau, the marines had killed eight hundred to nine hundred and taken no prisoners. This latest struggle for the Matanikau had, according to Deacon's calculations, nearly equaled in ferocity their Battle of Hell's Point, but it had only lasted eight hours, whereas the 2/1 had fought for sixteen hours. Shells from the big artillery guns on both sides swished over their heads by the hour.
Sid Phillips and Deacon hiked to the wreckage of a downed Zero. They "dug out part of the pilot's body." Deacon took the pilot's cigarette case. Sid found a coin in his pocket. It wasn't much of a haul, but it had been something to do other than waiting and watching. Mail call came that day. The return of a fairly regular mail service encouraged all of them to write home more. It was around this time that Sid wrote his friend Eugene Sledge back in Mobile. "Don't join anything," Sid advised him, "not even the Boy Scouts or the Salvation Army."
A working party went to the airfield and the beach and returned to the #4 gun squad with a load of chow, chocolate, and gossip. The navy boys at the field had boasted of sinking "three battlewagons, fourteen destroyers, two transports, six cruisers, two aircraft carriers and one aircraft tender." More mail was expected, more IJN ships were expected, and the First Marines were departing November 11. After reading his copies of the Mobile newspaper, Sid let the others read them. Everyone was in a good mood because they were going home soon.
MICHEEL RESPONDED TO THE CON
STANT TENSION BY EATING. "I MADE THE MESS hall every chance I could get because I was losing weight like mad. I had the trots. It's amazing I could make the flights and never have any problem, but the minute I get out of the airplane I had to run." He kept his strength up by eating, but the combination of physical and mental exhaustion dropped his weight to 127. He found himself hoping he'd get off Cactus soon and back on a carrier.
It was about this time that Dick Mills, who had gone down near Russell Island, returned. Mike took one look at his friend and realized Dick looked better than he did. "So I asked him how he gained so much weight. He said, 'I had chicken every day.' " Whatever concern Mike had had for him evaporated. Dick had obviously been well cared for. At the ops tent, Dick advised his friends that if they went down, not to kick off their boots as they had been told. They would need their boots to climb out of the rocky shoals. Dick said he had cut his feet. Having endured three weeks of constant strain on the Canal, Mike had lost about twenty pounds. He just could not take this advice too seriously. He started teasing Dick about his crash, telling everyone Dick had gone "cuckoo and . . . shot off all his prop."
Of all of the pressures Bombing Six faced, the enemy's artillery drove them crazy. It had become known as Pistol Pete, even though the IJA had several big 150mms. Pistol Pete could fire at them at all times, day and night. Although "he" dueled with the marine artillery and sought out troop concentrations, Pistol Pete obviously enjoyed shooting at planes during their most vulnerable moments, during takeoff and landing. The sporadic fire and excellent camouflage had so far prevented anyone from locating the gun, but a five-inch field piece was too big to be ignored.
One of the Bombing Six pilots came up with an idea. "Let's see if we can get that guy to shoot at us. We'll take a plane up there and circle over the top like you're looking for him, see if he'll shoot at you, and then we'll have the attack airplanes over here watching. As soon as he fires, they've got him spotted, they'll attack him." It was worth a try. Mike agreed to be the decoy. As he had done for some time, he took whichever rear seat gunner agreed to go. Airman Spires volunteered. When the other airplanes got in position, Mike started making passes over the general area, west of the Matanikau River. It worked. "Every time I'd come at him it was okay and then as soon as I'd turn away, POW! He'd let go. My rear gunner would say, 'He's shooting at us! He's shooting at us!' " Each time, Mike got on the radio to his friends and asked, "Did you see that?" and each time came the reply: "No . . . try it again." Mike had been circling up there almost an hour when he finally heard, "We've got him." Mike cleared out and the others bombed and strafed the area. When he landed, the rear seat gunner told him he quit. "I'm not flying anymore! You're making a guinea pig out of me!" As it turned out, Spires did not mean it. He flew again. As for Pistol Pete, he was out of commission for about five days.
Bombing Six had the watch one evening in early November when word came of another ship unloading in the Japanese area. The pilots and their leaders had had it with the Tokyo Express avoiding them by sneaking in at night and getting away before dawn. Dauntlesses had begun to attack the Tokyo Express at night by glide bombing--making an approach decidedly less steep than a dive--when possible. A few days before, on November 2, three Dauntlesses had taken off at dusk to chase three enemy destroyers, which the IJN used to bring in men and supplies because of their speed. None of the aircraft had returned.175 Ray Davis decided it looked possible on this night, and to prove it, he would make the first run.
As Mike checked out his Dauntless, preparing to make the second run, he looked into the dark sky above him. He had flown night missions before, one just a few days previously against a destroyer near Russell Island.176 He had had some training in night flying, and had flown through plenty of bad weather. These missions depended on visibility. With a bright moon over a clear sky, he could see the horizon. Even with good light, a pilot had to rely more on the plane's instruments than on his own perception. Relying upon the altimeter, the airspeed indicator, the compass, and a few other key instruments to stay on course took concentration, experience, and steady nerves.
Flying on a night like this, though, when there was no light, scared Mike. A black sky meant no horizon, and no horizon, Mike told himself, meant "you'd get vertigo real easy. You figure you're turning, the seat of your pants tells you you're turning and you look at your gauges and you're going straight ahead." Reconciling one's senses with one's gauges often led to panic, or worse, dizziness. Lieutenant Micheel eased the plane along the taxiway and out to the end of Henderson Field. He waited for Ray to return, his engine idling.
Landing at night on a carrier demanded great skill, but glide bombing at night--on a dark night--came close to impossible. Trying to drop a bomb "on top of a black object and pull off of a black object" caused vertigo in even the most experienced pilots. Executing such a maneuver at high speed, as the pilot coped with spinning dials, sweeping needles, and the powerful impulses of his own perception, just demanded too much. In the past, men had hung flares over the target and these had made it easier to hit it, but the flares also caused the pilot to lose his sight. A flare made pulling up and flying home an even bigger challenge.
Ray's plane landed at the far end of the great runway. It rolled toward Mike, not turning onto the taxiway, until he stopped within a few feet. Ray's gunner jumped out and ran over and jumped up on Mike's wing and yelled over the idling engine, "Skipper says cancel the flight. Don't go." A wave of relief hit Mike. His guardian angel had landed on his shoulder. The two airplanes taxied back to their hardstands. Walking back to the operations tent, Ray said he had flown over the target at five thousand feet, yet "it was so dark you couldn't see the ship from the air. . . ." He concluded "it wasn't worth risking aviators. . . ." No one back at the tent questioned the decision.
ALONG WITH THEIR COMMANDING VIEW OF MUCH OF THE BATTLE, SID AND HIS friends heard all about it. The movements of units, the body count, and the number of rounds expended--a great deal of it rumor, they knew all too well. The army over in Sector Three had killed enemy troops by the thousands and had not only pulled German Lugers and Samurai swords off the bodies, but the doggies were supposedly holding fencing duels with the Japanese sabers. The marines' shortwave radio had picked up enemy transmissions and it had been deduced that the enemy planes that had flown in so low a week earlier had been sent to land on the empire's new airport--Henderson Field. The news was met with hoots and catcalls of "Too bad, Tojo." Transcripts of the interrogation of four Japanese POWs were circulating, though. These prisoners stated that they "wanted to quit the war and especially fighting the 'bloodthirsty' marines." Out in the harbor, the #4 gun squad could see increasing numbers of U.S. ships. On November 2, working parties unloaded seven 155mm guns, known as Long Toms; the word was the Long Toms could fire a shell ten miles.
All of the ships arriving off Lunga Point also meant that the Eighth and the Twenty-second marines were landing soon. "Rumors are we leave Sun or Mon for Tulagi--have a chemical bath--shots--New Zealand." They waited for the next big push by the enemy, who continued to send air strikes. Attempts by the Tokyo Express to reinforce its troops were now often turned back. So many Japanese ships had been sunk, Deacon joked, that Prime Minister Tojo needed "a diving bell to inspect his navy now." For the enemy troops already on the island, "Our planes run those japs crazy over on the other point, strafing and bombing." On November 7, a number of new squadrons landed at the field, including not just more Wildcats and dive-bombers, but also B-17s. The word was Guadalcanal would soon become the United States' biggest B- 17 base in the Pacific. When the radio broadcast from San Francisco announced the plans for relieving the 1st Marine Division off of Guadalcanal, it sounded to the jaded marines of the #4 gun squad "too good to be true." Another marine told them he had heard that Admiral Nimitz had been relieved of duty. Sid's squad didn't know what to believe.
THE ORDER TO MOVE OUT CAME IN THE LATE AFTERNOON ON NOVEMBER 3. THE 2/7 had encountered a large number of enemy a few
miles east of the perimeter. Sergeant Basilone distributed ammo and rations, his men grabbed their gear and heavy machine guns, and they walked down from Bloody Ridge.177 Instead of waiting inside the perimeter for an attack, the 1/7 would help the 2/7 take the offensive.178
More than a dozen Higgins boats met the marines at Lunga Point just after six p.m. They motored eastward, toward Koli Point. The shore ran along to their right, monotonously dark. Hours passed. The officers obviously were having trouble locating the landing spot. They saw lights onshore but could not tell if it was the enemy or the 2/7. Chesty and his other officers knew they had to get out of the boats before they ran into an enemy sub or even one of the navy's torpedo boats. All the landing craft went back to Lunga Point to get reorganized. The officers radioed the 2/7 and agreed upon a light signal to give one another. The 1/7 motored back to Koli Point. Around midnight, the landing craft dumped the 1/7 on the beach near a river. After posting the guards, everyone slept on the beach.179
The landing made for an inauspicious start to what Manila later called the Seventh Marines' "jap hunt."180 The 1/7 and 2/7, joined by battalions of the army, spent almost three weeks chasing the enemy through the swamps and across the rivers east of Koli Point. It began with destroying the abandoned weapons and equipment they found and progressed into brief, intense firefights. They chased the IJA so far east that they walked off the maps they carried. Not having a map didn't bother Chesty in the least, so it didn't bother his men. In one of the latter skirmishes, the shrapnel from the shell of an enemy field cannon cut into the indefatigable Colonel Puller, who had been up near the front as usual, and he allowed himself to be evacuated after the crisis had passed. It was not a severe wound and it did not affect the outcome. The U.S. forces slowly boxed in the enemy force. The marine artillery, miles away inside the perimeter, ignited a firestorm inside the box. Most of the enemy escaped due to the difficulties imposed by the terrain and--according to the marines--the inefficiency of the army units.