by Dick Camp
Following the boat team training, Carlson concentrated on platoon, company, and then two-company tactical operations. “At this stage we practiced with all our equipment,” Peatross explained, “And as our training progressed, we began to concentrate on the seizure of specific tactical objectives ashore.” Even though they did not know the name of the objective, they used unidentified photomaps (“terra incognita”) of the target to lay out an outline using strips of target cloth to mark specific objectives. On 4 August, the Raiders conducted a successful rehearsal for Admiral Nimitz and several of his staff members. The event marked the end of their training; all that remained was the word to go. “We had no doubts as to our readiness to handle anything that might await us as the objective,” Peatross said. “And it was with feelings of great self-confidence and no little satisfaction that we broke camp and boarded trucks for the move back to Camp Catlin.” Lieutenant Wilfred S. “Frenchy” LeFrancois proudly proclaimed, “Behind us were days, weeks and months of the most strenuous, back-breaking, soul-trying preparations. … The unit had perfected itself in landing on beaches regarded as inaccessible, and traversing terrain considered as impassable. We had been taught bayonet fighting, how to handle grenades and Molotov cocktails, judo, knife work, unerring marksmanship, how to use rubber boats, how to camouflage our bodies, demolition techniques, and how to live off the country.”
Terra Incognita Plan
Initial intelligence reports indicated that three days after the Pearl Harbor attack, three hundred Japanese of the 51st Special Naval Landing Force (SNLF), sometimes called Japanese Marines (Rikusentai), and base personnel of the Yokohama Naval Flying Corps occupied the Makin Atoll and started construction of a seaplane base to extend Japanese air coverage over Allied territory. Just prior to the battalion leaving for the raid, the battalion intelligence officer, Capt. Gerald “Jerry” Holtom, learned from a native fisherman on Christmas Island that “the Japanese garrison comprised about forty-five to fifty Marines of the SNLF under the command of Warrant Officer Kanemitsu.” According to the fisherman, the Japanese garrison had started constructing defensive positions on the lagoon side of the island and, following American air raids preparations had been intensified. The native was able to point out the Japanese headquarters and communications center, barracks, and a small rifle range on a map and provide hydrographic information on the surf, tides, and coral reefs. He also told Holtom about a “half-breed” who he claimed was a Japanese spy. Altogether, the informant’s information gave the battalion a fairly comprehensive picture of the objective.
On 3 August 1942, Carlson issued Operations Order 2-42. In it he stated, “An enemy force, estimated to consist of not more than 250 officers and men, and possibly supported by seaplanes and one or two surface craft, occupies Butaritari.” He included the higher estimate despite Holtom’s information. The inflated Japanese strength estimate came close to disaster for the force during the operation. The Navy’s order (71-42) further expanded the enemy threat. “It is reasonable to believe that occasional destroyers and submarines put it there [Makin Atoll] … [and] that seaplanes are based there. The lagoon entrance … is reported (without confirmation) to be guarded by land-based guns … as the bulk of the commercial installations are at the town on the main southern island [Butaritari], it is believed that the enemy regards this as the vital area and that he has disposed his defenses accordingly.”
As set forth in the order, Carlson envisioned the battalion’s scheme of maneuver to be:
Company “A” (less one rifle section), under 1st Lt. Plumley [Merwyn “Plum”] will land at 0430 and will move rapidly north by east and secure the road junction. It will be responsible for the destruction of all enemy forces southward, inclusive of the entire Ukiangong Point area. Vital installations will be destroyed, documents and prisoners captured. Upon completion of this task this company will rendezvous in the vicinity of the road junction.
Company “B” (less one rifle section), under Capt. Coyte [Ralph] will land at 0430 and will move rapidly inland and secure the road. It will be responsible for the destruction of the enemy in the area west of this road. It will land one squad for the purpose of securing its left flank. The company will be prepared to move north-east through the area north of the main highway on order. Vital installations will be destroyed, documents and prisoners captured.
The order stated that, “the mission was to be completed and the troops withdrawn on the same day.” During the planning and workup for the raid, Carlson was trying to determine how to deal with a critical personnel issue: his executive officer, Maj. James Roosevelt, the president’s son. Both Carlson and Nimitz thought that it was unwise to expose Roosevelt to the possibility of death or injury … or even being captured … and discussed it with him. Roosevelt was unable to convince either man that he should be allowed to go on the operation … so he telephoned the Commander-in-Chief. President Roosevelt was said to have called the chief of Naval Operations, Adm. Ernest J. King, and told him politely, “Look, my son’s an officer in that battalion; if he doesn’t go, no one goes!” The issue was settled. Private Carson recalled, “We all knew that taking Roosevelt was a hell of a risk. The story among us privates was if he gets caught by the Japanese, he’d be pretty badly beat up. Once it was settled, though, nothing was said anymore.”
Underway
In the early morning hours of 7 August, working parties loaded the battalion’s supplies and equipment on board the two submarines. “Shortly after midnight on 8 August, the Raiders began loading onto trucks that would take them on a short ride to the submarine base,” George W. Smith wrote in Carlson’s Raid: The Daring Marine Assault on Makin. “They left camp under blackout conditions and as quietly as possible. There was no need to alert anyone else of their departure.” At 0900, 8 August 1942, the submarines pulled away from the pier at Pearl Harbor on the outward leg of their four thousand mile cruise. They steamed past Battleship Row where the blackened, twisted remains of the USS Arizona jutted above the water, Hospital Point where the Nevada, the only battleship to get underway during the Japanese attack, was beached, and out the channel to the open sea. A patrol plane swooped low over the pair and waggled its wings in a gesture of “Good hunting!” The escorting destroyer stayed with them until nightfall, after which the two submarines proceeded independently to the objective area. The Pacific Fleet after-action report noted, “No contact with enemy forces was had en route and almost the entire trip was made on the surface, thereby making the boats habitable despite the large number of men carried.”
The officer who wrote the Pacific Fleet’s report was not on board either of the submarines. “Sleeping space was at a premium,” Peatross explained. “Raiders and sailors slept all over the place, with many hot-bunking. The forward and after torpedo rooms on each of the submarines had been converted into troop billets by the simple expedient of removing the torpedoes, except those carried in the tubes [the submarines had been ordered, “do not attack enemy vessels unless a favorable opportunity is presented for attack on a carrier or other capital ship”], and replacing them with sleeping ‘racks’ built of 2-inch by 4-inch stock and canvas, stacked in five or six tiers with only 12 inches of vertical space between tiers. Each tier was about four racks long and three wide, but there was no horizontal space between individual bunks. The men who slept in back had to slide in before those in front; to turn over it was necessary to get out of the bunk, which required the cooperation of all.”
Sanitary conditions were primitive to say the least. There were no showers and the slightest bit of activity brought out instant sweat. Temperatures in the subs hovered over 90 degrees, with 85 percent humidity. “Crapper cops” made sure the men used the correct procedure in flushing the head. Turning the wrong valve would cause “old face-full” to erupt, splattering the noxious contents over the unfortunate victim and the telephone booth–sized space. “One of the unwritten laws on the trip was that Raiders in their bunks were not allowed to break wind, no matter w
hat,” Private McCall said in all seriousness. “Anyone that farted was threatened to be stuffed in the number four torpedo tube and shot out into the briny!” Many of the men had to fight off bouts of claustrophobia in the combined space. To help offset these anxiety attacks, the men were allowed topside twice a day—dawn and dusk—by boat teams for a ten minute period of physical training. “We were always glad to get on deck and not smell those body odors and other stuff that festered our sense of smell,” Private McCall said. “Sometimes it would smell so bad down below, it would gag a maggot.”
At one point just before surfacing, Lieutenant Commander Brockman authorized the smoking lamp to be lit. “Immediately all of the smokers dashed for their cigarettes,” Peatross recalled, “but it must have been at least five minutes before anyone could get enough fire from lighters or matches to light a cigarette because of the lack of oxygen.” The battalion surgeon, Lt. William B. MacCraken assured everyone that there was enough oxygen to maintain life but, Peatross said, tongue in cheek, “There sure wasn’t enough to burn a match.” The men were fed two full meals a day—morning and evening—as well as soup and crackers at noon; coffee was available at any time. “There were so many people to feed that when the cook made coffee it was so weak you could stand in a barrelful and still see your toes,” McCall joked. Each meal took three and a half hours to serve out of the tiny galley. There was no place to sit, so the men ate standing up wherever they could find a space. However, no one complained because they thought the food was excellent.
Two days from the objective, the Raiders practiced the debarkation procedure. “The rather complicated procedure required the boat teams to move from their billeting areas, scattered from stem to stern of the 381-foot-long submarine, fore or aft along the passageway to the middle of the submarine, climb a ladder, even-numbered teams to starboard, odd-numbered teams to port, move through a hatch onto the weather deck; get their boat out of storage and inflate it and carry it to the debarkation station corresponding to their boat team number,” Peatross explained. In addition, the men had to pick up various odds and ends of equipment, crew-served weapons and ammunition that was stored somewhere in the submarine and make their way to the ladder—not an easy proposition in the cramped passageway. Once on deck, the men had to retrieve their boat from the torpedo loading tubes, unlash it, and move it to the air hose for inflation. The plan called for the boats to remain on the weather deck and, when all was ready, the sub would submerge, leaving them afloat and ready to motor to the assembly area alongside the Nautilus.
Landing (L-Day)
“It was organized grabass.”
Private Dean Voight
The piercing blare of the klaxon, followed by “Prepare to Surface” added impetus to the Raiders’ preparations for debarkation. Peatross recalled, “At last the Nautilus surfaced, the hatches were opened, and cool fresh air poured in. … [A]s we moved out onto the deck, we were met by weather conditions for which the adjective ‘atrocious’ seems wholly inadequate.” The Navy’s after action report noted that the wind was “raising moderate swells.” The “moderate swells” were causing the submarine to roll and pitch. The heavily laden Raiders experienced a great deal of trouble trying to negotiate the slippery deck. “Rain was coming down in torrents,” Peatross said, “[and] a strong onshore wind was whipping up whitecaps all around.…” The Nautilus log noted, “The ship at the time was experiencing great difficulty in maintaining position due to a current of about one and one-half knots which set us continuously to the westward and in towards the reef. The surf line could be faintly seen in the darkness [and] existing landmarks indicated the ship was within five hundred yards of the reef and the commanding officer was forced to continually kick ahead to keep clear of it. As the boats were being put over [the side] at this time, it was impracticable to run out from the reef for any great distance.”
The men on deck struggled to retrieve the boats from storage and inflate them. One of the men failed to attach the air hose properly and it emitted a horrible screech from escaping compressed air, scaring hell out of the men who thought that it must have alerted the Japanese. The screech joined the loud rumble of the diesel engines, which Carlson hoped would be blocked out by the roar of the surf. The waves crashed into the submarine, throwing spray across the deck and making it nearly impossible for the men to fuel the outboard motors. Salt water mixed with gasoline, choking the engines. Many of the motors simply gave up the ghost and refused to start, while others sputtered for a few minutes and then died, forcing the men to paddle to the beach.
Because the submarines had to maneuver to keep from being carried onto the reef, the launch plans had to be abandoned. “The submarine was supposed to submerge and leave us in the water, but now we had to go over the side because of the swells,” Sgt. Kenneth L. McCullough recalled. “They’d raise four to five feet and then drop about ten feet.” The boat teams were experiencing a great deal of trouble, particularly the ones on the weather side of the submarine. They had to manhandle the four hundred-pound rubber boats over the side and hold onto lines to keep them from being swept away by the surging water. Two boats loaded with medical supplies and ammunition broke free and sailed off into the darkness. Wave action quickly filled the remaining boats up to the gunwales with water, forcing the men to jump into the pitching, water-logged craft that blended so well with the ocean some men wondered if there was anything there at all. “You had to jump into the boat when it was at its zenith,” Private First Class Brian Quirk recalled. “I remember when it came my turn to jump, and I thought, ‘If I miss the son of a bitch, I’m going down like a rock.’ ”
LANDING CRAFT RUBBER, LARGE
The World War II Landing Craft Rubber, Large [LCR(L)], was a sixteen-foot by eight-foot, four-hundred-pound manually inflatable rubber boat which could carry ten men. It was also known as the IBS (inflatable boat, small). Each boat came equipped with a two-cycle outboard motor, a five-gallon gas can, and a portable tank of carbon dioxide for inflating the boat when pressurized air was not available. The craft had a pointed bow and blunt stern for the attachment of a small outboard motor. A four-inch diameter “spray” tube ran around the outside of the craft, while three internal “spreader” tubes kept the sides from collapsing. Some boats were equipped with various devices for lashing down equipment. Crewman were assigned specific tasks: the senior man was the boat captain; others were assigned as the outboard motor mechanic, the coxswain, the fuel man, the inflator, and another in charge of the paddles. Each crewmember was cross-trained to handle the other’s assignment. Taller men were generally positioned in the bow, while the shorter men were placed in the middle or stern positions. This assignment was used because the boat was usually walked out to deep water, and the taller men at the bow could keep their heads above water longer, controlling the boat while the shorter men climbed aboard and started the motor or paddled. The “paddlers” sat astride the side tube with their outboard leg propped up on the spray tube to keep their foot out of the water. This position was hard to maintain for long periods of time.
Fortunately no one was lost and by 0410, all the boats were assembled at the rendezvous point near the Nautilus, except Carlson, who was still waiting for his boat from the Argonaut to pick him up. “As time crawled on and the debarkation seemed to be taking forever, tension on deck [of the Nautilus] increased noticeably,” Peatross said. “… [F]inally when the boat was twenty minutes late … [I] was motioned to take Carlson off in my boat.” Peatross took the battalion commander to the rendezvous point and transferred him to another boat. At this point the two companies were intermingled and had lost all tactical integrity. The boat captains were on their own, trying to keep some sort of formation as they struggled against the strong tide that was pulling them toward the reef. The darkness, foul weather, and failure of most of the engines made it impossible to organize the boats into company formations as had been planned.
Carlson soon realized that the initial landing plan had been overc
ome by events. The two companies would not be able to land on separate beaches so he decided to have them land on the same beach. “I signaled, as best I could, for all boats to follow me,” he said. Corporal John W. Potter’s boat had a working motor, so Carlson used him to pass the word. “Circle around and up and down to find as many boats as possible and send them straight to the beach.” Nautilus recorded that, “All boats were clear at the scheduled time and had been given the correct course allowing for the current to take them to their landing beach.” With the Raiders gone, the submarines moved four miles offshore, keeping contact with the landing force by voice radio.
The boats followed Carlson singly or in small groups depending on whether they had a functioning motor or whether they were being paddled. Those boats that had to depend on manpower had to be bailed out before they could proceed, as they were simply too full of water to paddle … and bailing with helmets took time. The men and equipment were soaked, which knocked out several radios and left much of the unit without communications. As the boats neared the breaker line marking the seaward edge of the submerged reef shelf, the men could see turbulent whitewater spilling down the face of the waves as the water raced for shore. The boat captains tried to time the wave sets but it was nearly impossible in the darkness and instead, they trusted to luck and their training. Several boats came a cropper as they struggled in vain to keep the bows headed toward the beach. “We were not prepared for the action those first rollers gave us,” Pvt. Ben Carson recalled. “The surf was running high and as our boat rode up the first wave we were turned sideways and ended up making a full circle before we headed down the leeward side of the wave.” A huge wave threw Carson and three others out of their boat. “I grabbed a mouthful of air and rapidly sank to the coral reef as I was quickly dragged toward shore … I finally struggled to shore [without his weapon and ammunition].”