by E. B. Sledge
During our training we were told that we would have to climb over a seawall or cliff (exact height unknown) to move inland during the coming battle. Several times we practiced scaling a sheer coral cliff (about forty feet high) across the bay from the division's camp on Pavuvu. We had no more than two ropes to get the entire company up and over the cliff. Supposedly we would be furnished rope ladders before D day, but I never saw any.
While we stood at the foot of the cliff during those exercises, waiting our turn and watching other men struggle up the ropes to the top of the cliff with all their combat gear, I heard some choice comments from my buddies regarding the proceedings. The company officers (all new except First Lieutenant Stanley, the CO) were rushing around with great enthusiasm urging the troops up the cliff like it was some sort of college football training routine.
“What a fouled-up bunch of boot lieutenants if I ever saw any. Just what the hell do they think them goddamn Nips are gonna be doin’ while we climb up that cliff one at a time?” grumbled a veteran machine gunner.
“Seems pretty stupid to me. If that beach is anything like Peleliu, we 'll get picked off before anybody gets up any cliff,” I said.
“You said that right, Sledgehammer, and them Nips ain't gonna be sittin’ around on their cans; they're gonna bracket that beach with mortars and artillery, and machine guns are gonna sweep the top of that cliff,” he said with melancholy resignation.
Our new mortar section leader was a New Englander out of an Ivy League college. Mac was blond, not large, but was well built, energetic, and talkative, with a broad New England accent. He was a conscientious officer, but he irritated the veterans by talking frequently and at great length about what he was going to do to the Japanese when we went into action again. We sometimes heard such big talk from enlisted replacements who were trying to impress someone (mostly themselves) with how brave they would be under fire, but Mac was about the only officer I ever heard indulge in it.
Whenever he got started with, “The first time one of our guys gets hit, its gonna make me so mad that I'm gonna take my kabar between my teeth and my .45 in my hand and charge the Japs,” all the veterans would sit back and smirk. We threw knowing glances at each other and rolled our eyes like disgusted schoolboys listening to a coach brag that he could lick the opposing team single-handed.
I felt embarrassed for Mac, because it was so obvious he conceived combat as a mixture of football and a boy scout campout. He wouldn't listen to the few words of caution from some of us who suggested he had a shock coming. I agreed with a buddy from Texas who said, “I hope to God that big-mouth Yankee lieutenant has to eat every one of them words of his when the stuff hits the fan.” The Texan's wish came true on Okinawa, and it was one of the funniest things I ever saw under fire.
Before the next campaign, we had to take the usual inoculations plus some additional ones. Our arms were sore, and many men became feverish. The troops hated getting injections, and the large number (someone said it was seven) before Okinawa made us crotchety. The plague shot burned like fire and was the worst.
Most of our corpsmen did a good job of making the shots as painless as possible, and this helped. But we had one arrogant corpsman who was unfeeling about other people's pain.He wasn't popular, to say the least. (I hasten to add that he was the one—and only—U.S. Navy hospital corpsman I knew in the Marine Corps who didn't conduct himself in an exemplary manner. All other corpsmen I saw were probably more highly respected by Marines—as a group, and as individuals— than any other group of people we were involved with.)
Directly in front of me as we lined up for shots was a buddy who was a Peleliu veteran. In front of him were several new replacements. The more new men “Doc Arrogant” stuck with the needle, the worse he became. He was just plain mean by the time he got to my buddy. “Doc Arrogant” was in a hurry and didn't look up to recognize my buddy as the latter stepped up to the table. It nearly cost Doc dearly. He held the needle like a dart, plunged it into my friend's arm, depressed the plunger, and said, “Move out!”
My friend didn't flinch from the painful shot. He turned slowly, shook his fist in the corpsman's face, and said, “You sonofabitch, if you want to do some bayonet practice, I'll meet you out on the bayonet course with fixed bayonets and no scabbards on the blades, and then see what you can do.”
“Doc Arrogant” looked shocked. He was speechless when he realized that the arm he had punctured so roughly wasn't attached to a meek replacement but to a seasoned veteran.
Then my friend said, “If you ever give me another shot like that, I'll grab you by the stacking swivel and beat you down to parade rest. I'll whip your ass so bad you won't even be able to make this next blitz, because they'll hafta award you a Purple Heart when I finish with you, wise guy.”
“Doc Arrogant” changed instantly into “Doc Meek.” When I stepped up for my shot, he administered it with a gentleness that would have done credit to Florence Nightingale.
We started packing up our gear. Soon we got word that we would have more maneuvers on Guadalcanal, then shove off for our next fight—Okinawa.
* This is a naval slang word referring either to water coolers aboard ship or to rumors. Perhaps the double meaning derived from a habit of sailors and Marines of swapping rumors when gathered around a water cooler for a drink.
* A nonprescription, all-purpose painkiller containing aspirin and caffeine, among other ingredients.
†Landing craft, infantry: a sort of miniature LST that carried about a company of infantry plus a few vehicles.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Prelude to Invasion
From the standpoint of personal satisfaction I've always been glad that as long as we had to pull maneuvers somewhere in preparation for Peleliu and Okinawa, this training took place on Guadalcanal. The name of that island was embroidered in white letters down the red number One on our division patch of which we were all very proud. Guadalcanal had great symbolic significance. I was glad I got to see some of the areas fought over by the 1st Marine Division during the campaign and got some firsthand accounts on the spot of what had taken place from veterans who had participated in making that history.
During one period of maneuvers on Guadalcanal, we stayed ashore for two or three weeks and bivouacked in an area that had been the camp of the 3d Marine Division before its troops went into the hell of Iwo Jima. We strung our jungle hammocks and made ourselves as comfortable as possible. Each day for several days we went out into the hills, jungles, and kunai grass fields for training. And we enjoyed a cool shower each afternoon after coming in from the field.
Guadalcanal was a big base by early 1945 and had many service troops and rear-echelon units on it. Across the road from us was a battalion of “Seabees” (naval construction battalion). Late one afternoon three or four of us went over and eased quietly into the end of their chow line. Their cooks recognized us as Marines but didn't say anything. We loaded up on real ice cream, fresh pork chops, fresh salad, and good bread (all unheard-of delicacies on Pavuvu) and sat at a clean table in a spacious mess hall. It sure beat C rations in a bivouac area. As intruders, we expected to be thrown out any minute. No one seemed to notice us, though.
Next afternoon we returned along with other Marines who had the same idea and enjoyed another excellent supper. Next day we tried it again, easing quietly and slowly along to the chow line, trying not to attract attention. To my amazement a large neatly painted white sign with blue letters and blue border had been placed above the entrance to the chow line since the previous evening. I don't remember the exact wording, but it went something close to this, “Marines welcomed in this chow line after all CB personnel have been through.”
We were as embarrassed as we were delighted. Those Seabees had been fully aware of us all along and knew exactly how many Marines were slipping into their chow line. But they were willing and glad to share their extra chow with us as long as it lasted. The sign was necessary, because the Seabees knew we would spread
the word and more hungry Marines would swarm over their chow line each day like ants.
We were elated and went through the chow line grinning and thanking the messmen. They were the friendliest bunch I ever saw and made us feel like adopted orphans. The sign may have been made earlier for 3d Division Marines who liked the Seabees’ food as much as we, or it may have been put up for our benefit. In any event we appreciated the good food and good treatment. It strengthened our respect for the Seabees.
The 3d Battalion, 5th Marines had been in the assault waves at Peleliu; therefore, in the Okinawa campaign we were assigned as regimental reserve. For the voyage to the island, consequently, we would be loaded aboard the attack transport ship USS McCracken instead of LSTs. Such APA transports sent troops ashore in LCVPs (small, open landing craft known as Higgins boats) rather than amphibious tractors.
One afternoon following landing exercises and field problems, our company returned to the beach to await the return of the Higgins boats that would pick us up and return us to the ship. Late afternoon sunlight danced on the beautiful blue waves, and a large fleet of ships stood offshore in Sealark Channel. Dozens of Higgins boats and other amphibious craft plied from the ships to shore, loading Marines and ferrying them out to the ships. It looked like some sort of boating festival except that all the craft were military.
One by one the Higgins boats picked up men (about twenty-five at a time) from our beach area. We waited as the sun sank low in the west. The ships formed up in convoy and moved past us, parallel to the beach. We had no rations or extra water, were tired from daylong maneuvers, and had no desire to spend the night on a mosquito-infested beach.
Finally, as the last ship showed us its stern, a Higgins boat came plowing through the spray toward us. We were the only troops left on the beach. The coxswain revved his engine, ran the bow of the shallow-draft boat up on the beach, and dropped the bow ramp with a bang. We clambered aboard and someone yelled the customary, “Shove off, coxswain, you're loaded.” We held on to the bulwarks of the boat as he raised the ramp, reversed engines, turned, and headed out at full throttle toward the disappearing ship.
The sea was rough. As usual Snafu started getting seasick, so he lay down on his side on the deck of the boat. We were crowded: two machine-gun squads and two 60mm mortar squads packed the Higgins boat, along with all our combat gear, small arms, mortars, and machine guns.
A Higgins boat, like any powerful motor-driven boat under full throttle, normally settled down at the stern end with bow elevated and moved easily over the water. But our boat was so loaded with men and equipment that, even though we crowded as far back in the stern as possible, the squared-off bow ramp wasn't elevated sufficiently to skip over the waves. It drove straight against some large waves, and water poured in through an open view port. Usually, this three-foot by two-foot panel rode well above water level. The coxswain yelled instructions to close the folding steel shutters on the panel, which we did as quickly as possible. But water still sprayed over the bow ramp and in through the cracks around the panel.
In the gathering twilight we could see the stern of a transport far ahead of us. It was the last ship in the convoy that had passed from view around the end of Guadalcanal. Our coxswain made as much speed as possible to catch the transport, and we shipped more and more water. If we didn't catch up with that transport before dark we didn't know when we would get back to our ship.
Water began filling the bilges below the floor decking, so the coxswain started the pumps to keep us afloat. We stood by to bail with our helmets, but by the time the water rose above the flooring where we could get at it, the boat would probably sink because of its heavy load. The situation was grim, and I dreaded the thought of trying to swim the couple of miles through rough water to the beach. What irony, I thought, if some of us should die after surviving Peleliu by drowning on maneuvers in Iron Bottom Bay.
Slowly we gained on the transport and finally drew alongside. Towering above us, the ship was packed with Marines. We shouted up to them for help. A navy officer leaned over the rail and asked us which ship we were from. We told him we had missed the McCracken and requested to come aboard or we might sink. He gave orders to our coxswain to pull in close under a pair of davits. He did so, and two cables with hooks were lowered to us. Just as the hooks were fastened to rings in the floor, our Higgins boat seemed to start sinking. Only the cables held it up. A cargo net was lowered to us, and we scrambled up and aboard the ship. We were all mighty relieved to be out of that small boat.
Several hours after dark, the ship arrived at the fleet anchorage. A signalman on the bridge went to work with his blinker light sending code to other ships. The McCracken was located, and we were soon back aboard.
“Where the hell you guys been so long?” asked a man in my troop compartment as we fell into our racks.
“We went to ’Frisco for a beer,” someone answered.
“Wise guy,” he replied.
After maneuvers were completed, our convoy sailed from the Russell Islands on 15 March 1945. We were bound for Ulithi Atoll where the convoy would join the gathering invasion fleet. We anchored off Ulithi on 21 March and remained there until 27 March.*
We lined the rails of our transport and looked out over the vast fleet in amazement. We saw ships of every description: huge new battleships, cruisers, sleek destroyers, and a host of fast escort craft. Aircraft carriers were there in greater numbers than any of us had ever seen before. Every conceivable type of amphibious vessel was arrayed. It was the biggest invasion fleet ever assembled in the Pacific, and we were awed by the sight of it.
Because of tides and winds, the ships swung about on their anchor chains, and each day the fleet looked new and different. When I came topside each morning, I felt disoriented. It was a strange sensation, as though I were in a different frame of reference and had to learn my surroundings anew.
The first afternoon at Ulithi a fellow mortarman said, “Break out the field glasses, and let's see how many kinds of ships we can identify.” We passed the mortar section's field glasses around and whiled away many hours studying the different ships.
Suddenly someone gasped, “Look over there at that hospital ship off our port bow! Look at them nurses! Gimme them field glasses!”
Lining the rail of the hospital ship were about a dozen American nurses looking out over the fleet. A scuffle erupted among us over who would use the field glasses first, but we all finally had a look at the girls. We whistled and waved, but we were too far away to be heard.
Aside from the huge new battleships and carriers, we talked most about a terribly scorched and battered aircraft carrier anchored near us. A navy officer told us she was the Franklin.† We could see charred and twisted aircraft on her flight deck, where they had been waiting loaded with bombs and rockets to take off when the ship was hit. It must have been a flaming inferno of bursting bombs and rockets and burning aviation gasoline. We looked silently at the battered, listing hulk until one man said, “Ain't she a mess! Boy, them poor swabbies musta’ caught hell.” Those of us who had lived through the blast and fire of Peleliu's artillery barrages could appreciate well the bravery of the sailors on the Franklin.
While we were anchored at Ulithi, we went ashore on the tiny islet of Mog Mog for recreation and physical conditioning. After some calisthenics, and to the delight of all hands, our officers broke out warm beer and Cokes. We had one of the most enjoyable baseball games I ever played. Everybody was laughing and running like a bunch of little boys. It was good to get off the cramped transport, stretch our legs, and relieve the monotony. We hated to board the Hig-gins boats at sunset to return to the ship and our cramped quarters.
At Ulithi we received briefings on the coming battle for Okinawa. This time there was no promise of a short operation. “This is expected to be the costliest amphibious campaign of the war,” a lieutenant said. “We will be hitting an island about 350 miles from the Japs’ home islands, so you can expect them to fight with more deter
mination than ever. We can expect 80 to 85 percent casualties on the beach.”
A buddy next to me leaned over and whispered, “How's that for boosting the troops’ morale?” I only groaned.
The lieutenant continued, “We may have trouble getting over that cliff or seawall in our sector. Also, according to G-2 there is a large Jap gun, maybe 150mm, emplaced just on the right flank of our battalion sector. We hope naval gunfire can knock it out. Be on the alert for a Jap paratrooper attack in our rear, particularly at night. It's pretty certain the Nips will pull off a massive counterattack, probably supported by tanks,sometime during our first night ashore or just before dawn. They'll banzai and try to push us off the beachhead.”*
On 27 March the loudspeaker came on with, “Now hear this, now hear this. Special sea detail stand by.” Sailors assigned to the detail moved to their stations where they weighed anchor.
“Well, Sledgehammer, they're raising the hook, so it won't be long before we're in it again ole buddy,” a friend said.
“Yeah,” I said, “and I'm not in any hurry, either.”
“You can say that again.” He sighed.
The huge convoy got under way like clockwork. Just watching that host of different vessels kept my mind off what was ahead. As we proceeded I was conscious of how cool the weather had become. We had our wool-lined field jackets with us, and it was comfortable on deck, particularly at night. To those of us who had lived and fought in the sweltering tropics for months, cooler weather was very significant.
Most of our voyage from Ulithi was uneventful. Each night during the northward trip I had noticed the beautiful Southern Cross constellation slipping lower and lower on the starlit horizon. Finally it disappeared. It was the only thing about the South and Central Pacific I would miss. The Southern Cross formed a part of our 1st Marine Division shoulder patch and was, therefore, especially symbolic.