Captain Martin Higgins received the Silver Star ten months after he had commanded the surrounded battalion in the Vosges Mountains and later escaped as a prisoner of war. Courtesy Michael Higgins
Lieutenant Colonel Alfred Pursall, commanding officer of the 3rd Battalion, greeted the 100th Battalion when it returned to Hawaii in 1946. U.S. Army
George Sakato’s Distinguished Service Cross was upgraded to a Medal of Honor in 2000. U.S. Army
(From left to right) 442nd Medal of Honor recipient George Sakato later met Eliel Archilla, one of the successful resupply aircraft pilots. Courtesy Elliot Archilla
WAR IS LONELY. THOSE WHO SURVIVE LEARN HOW TO FILET THE humanity out of their souls. Battle veterans viewed replacements as potentially dangerous rather than newcomers who deserved empathy. Replacements were potential threats to combat veterans because they were naive, anxious, and wholly unprepared for war’s horrors. The Germans a few dozen yards away were faceless threats to be eliminated as quickly and efficiently as a coyote threatening a herd of sheep or a rat infesting a family’s kitchen.
The killing and maiming among and by all three 442nd battalions throughout the day had become impersonal. Combat veterans in the 442nd had learned that sentiment and compassion could threaten their survival if either gave a man a moment of pause when aiming at the enemy. Yet sometimes humanity had crept into battle.
Earlier in the day, Company K’s Sergeant Ken Inada had been part of a four-company assault against German positions. Inada was a particularly reserved and resolute man. The twenty-one-year-old had been raised in an affluent Hawaiian family that quietly instilled Japanese values in their children. He spoke to his parents in Japanese and knew he was expected to become a man of integrity, one who could be trusted, and one who was sincere. He was not to become a disruption. Bringing shame to his family would be a grievous offense. He was taught the value of life and to value the interrelationships between people. Those values made killing even more difficult. To always remain dispassionate was impossible.
Inada had spotted German machine gunners firing off the side, pinning down an American unit. They didn’t see Inada approaching from the other direction. He slammed a new clip into his weapon, jumped up, unloaded it into the Germans’ position, and then dove to the ground. He waited. Silence. Almost a half hour later, his unit began climbing a hill toward the enemy’s foxholes. He remembered the machine gunners and broke away to make sure they were dead. The stench left no doubt. A freshly gutted human body has a cloying vegetal smell. There is a hint of unnatural sweetness. It’s a foreign smell, except, perhaps, to those soldiers who had grown up deer or elk hunting. The pungent aroma of death startled Inada. He stared at a dead German, sprawled on his back, his arms outstretched, his head thrown back, his mouth open.
When his unit was ordered to remain in place, he noticed a bulge in the German’s left breast pocket and violated a cardinal rule of combat: he looked inside. He wanted to know this German he had killed and made stink. Inada pulled out a worn photo of a very attractive woman in her early twenties. She stood next to a child. The little girl had to be this man’s daughter. A family that would never see him again, perhaps never know he had been killed by a stranger following orders. In one instant, this father had been firing his weapon; in the next, his body had been ripped apart, killed as he defended a patch of French forest. Inada had killed a father, a husband, and had ruined a family with a single clip of ammunition. He put the photo back in the dead man’s pocket. He sat next to the dead German, waiting for orders to climb out of the death pit and advance again toward more fathers and husbands. Inada never forgot the human destruction he had inflicted in a matter of seconds. “It was revolting to me. I killed this guy,” he recalled after the war.20
Not far away, radioman Rudy Tokiwa waited for orders for Company K to advance. He was already haunted by death because, for a brief moment, he had let humanity appear on the battlefield. He had spotted a German sniper about to ambush a patrol. Tokiwa shot him dead. Perhaps it was because the German was the first man Tokiwa had killed in combat. Perhaps because Tokiwa had not listened to the veterans who told him to turn cold toward men in battle, to never look at a man he killed. Tokiwa pulled the dead German’s wallet out of his pocket. He found a photo, this one of three small children between the ages of two and seven. Another father from a nameless German city or village had been killed. Tokiwa couldn’t know if the mother and her children were still alive, whether they had survived Allied bombing and possible starvation by that point in the war. He had learned only that he had killed the father of three small children and made their mother a widow. He said later:
I never should have went through his wallet [and] then I’d have never known he had these kids. . . . [I realized] I’m the one who took him away from them. . . . [W]hat I should have done was taken the picture out and see if I could find something with an address, because even today, once in a while, I think about it and think, I wish I can go back there and tell the kids, “I’m the one that killed your father” . . . apologize to them . . . and I try to tell myself that it was all part of the war. But I have children of my own and I know how it must be.21
But by now Tokiwa had steeled himself against compassion. At five feet eight, he was one of the largest Japanese Americans in the outfit. He was one of the few who could carry a radio so frontline units could stay in contact with Pursall. He approached a gully, about three feet wide and about the same depth. It was a natural drainage for two converging slopes. A German lay silently on his back in the bottom of gully, looking up at Tokiwa. “Just as soon as I saw him, I raised up my gun and put about four of five rounds into him and killed him right there. But that same guy—I’ve thought about this many times—I think [all] he wanted to do was give up. He probably threw his gun away but how [could] we know these things? He could have been shooting at us ten seconds before, see? And he was just lying there as quiet as—you know, but that’s war.”22
EVERYONE ON THE BATTLEFIELD WAS HUNGRY. SO WHEN FRONTLINE units of the 442nd dug in for the night, some men could not rest. Soldiers were selected to hike to the rear, where supply personnel had established temporary depots not far from the front line, and return immediately with the next day’s rations for their units. The trails between the foxholes and supply depots could become congested when the fighting stopped. Nightly traffic was universal, predictable, and easy targets for enemy artillery batteries. Heading out on a ration detail in the middle of the night could be as dangerous as confronting a machine-gun nest at midday. Sergeants Ken Inada of Company K and Shiro Kashino of Company I were ordered to select five men from each of their companies for a twelve-man ration detail.
It was as if the Germans were waiting. Perhaps they were. Their units had been in the area for weeks and knew the exact location of the logging road and paths that supply details would travel at night. They knew the routes that jeeps and stretcher bearers would take to aid stations and then to field hospitals in the rear. And their artillery units likely had precise coordinates. They waited. The day’s fighting was not yet over.
The twelve-man detail had walked only about two hundred yards when the forest flashed brilliant white and men were knocked onto their backs and bellies, yards from where they had stood moments before. Some were thrown against tree trunks, and others were hurled onto boulders, breaking bones and pulverizing organs. Shrapnel slammed into their bodies, and limbs turned slick with flowing blood. The direct hits decimated the detail.c
Those with minor wounds hobbled back to Companies I and K positions to get medical supplies for those more seriously wounded. Inada waited for Norman Kimura to return with medical supplies to where he lay, seriously wounded. The smell of blood, singed skin, and sulfur drifted in the night air. So, too, did a thin voice, one that haunted Japanese American soldiers when the shelling stopped and a young man knew he was dying.
“I listened to a most haunting and agonizing cry for his mother by a dying soldier,” Inada later recalled. “He kept repe
ating in Japanese ‘okaasan, okaasan.’ His voice became weaker and weaker and finally trailed into nothingness.”23 Isamu Minatodani had called for his mother as he lay on a cold, wet forest floor. For his mother to reassure him that, somehow, everything would be okay . . . or perhaps to praise him for facing death honorably. That he had placed honor before glory. That he had not brought shame to his family. Perhaps an honorable and shameless death was what he had sought most at that moment. But he bled to death, alone, on a moonless night. Seven men from Companies I and K died on October 28. They were among the 117 young men in the 442nd who would die and another 639 who would be wounded in only two weeks’ fighting in October 1944.
Although Higgins’s men had finally received some badly needed supplies, some of his wounded were becoming critical, and the overall health of his troops continued to ebb. Meanwhile, the price among the 442nd’s battalions paid to reach Higgins’s men had reached gut-wrenching levels. And for General Dahlquist, panic would soon supplant his anger and frustration.
a Yamashiro was posthumously awarded a Silver Star for his heroism at the roadblock.
b Takubo was posthumously awarded a Silver Star for his heroism.
c Postwar survivor reports vary as to how many were killed and how many were wounded.
CHAPTER 6
ABOUT TO DIE
“KEEP THEM MOVING AND DON’T LET THEM STOP. THERE’S A battalion about to die up there and we’ve got to reach them.”
“Yes, sir,” the field commander answered crisply.1
General John Dahlquist’s exchange with Lieutenant Colonel Gordon Singles revealed how dire Dahlquist considered Martin Higgins’s position to be on October 29. The third-generation West Point graduate who looked younger than his age knew better than to argue with Dahlquist. Apparently, Dahlquist didn’t think the previous day’s air and resupply missions to the 1/141 had bought the surrounded men much time. At the start of the fifth day of the rescue mission, Dahlquist wanted a full-court press, now that the 100th and 3rd Battalions were nearly a mile from Higgins’s men.
Both battalions had been stymied by a major logging-road roadblock and adjoining minefields at Col de la Croisette. The two battalions were abreast, with the 3rd on the north side of the road and the 100th to the south. Both remained vulnerable to German artillery from across the valley to the south. German artillery units knew the exact location of the 3rd and 100th, and the battalions’ excruciatingly slow advance made them nearly stationary targets. Jim Okubo and the other medics had faced casualties within minutes of jumping off shortly after daybreak. On the northern flank, George Sakato, Kelly Kuwayama, and others in the 2nd Battalion waited for Kats Miho’s artillery battery to stop shelling Hill 617. The hour was approaching for the major attack on Hill 617 that Hanley had carefully staged. Lieutenant Colonel James Hanley finally had his companies in position.
A few minutes after contacting Singles, Dahlquist called Lieutenant Colonel Alfred Pursall’s 3rd Battalion headquarters. For two hours, Pursall had been preoccupied by his men weaving their way through another German minefield. They had advanced only about 250 yards against enemy opposition. Pursall also needed tank support. A tank with a bulldozing blade on the front could clear the stacks of German-felled trees that blocked the road. Another tank or two could support the ground troops as well. The dense forest limited the American tanks’ mobility. They generally stayed on or close to the logging road and had to get close to the enemy to be effective against heavily fortified German tanks.
Dahlquist pressed home his sense of urgency with each of his 442nd battalion commanders. He repeated the same order to Pursall by radio. “Let’s keep them moving. Even against opposition. Get through to them. That battalion is about to die and we’ve got to reach them.”2
The interrogation reports from prisoners taken in recent days confirmed that a well-entrenched German force still separated Higgins’s men from the rescuers. At least three companies of the Germans’ 936th Grenadier Regiment—upwards of 200 men—and German artillery remained in the Americans’ path. New reports from the 36th Division’s intelligence section indicated a column of 250 Germans had been spotted marching toward the ridge. They were beyond American artillery range. Dahlquist and all three 442nd battalion commanders needed to know the status of the German positions in the forest as well as the location and progress of any approaching enemy reinforcements.
The 36th Division had a Strategic Services Section (SSS) team assigned to it from the day it had landed in southern France. It was a team of secret agents. It had infiltrated German lines during the advance toward the Vosges, coordinating French Resistance activities and recruiting residents as spies. Local employees of the Bureau of Water, Forests, Roads, and Bridges were especially helpful to the agents in mapping German-held territory and identifying targets for American artillery units.
The day before, three SSS agents had tried to slip through German lines and reach Higgins. The mission failed when they were caught by the Germans. The agents had hidden their incriminating radio equipment but now were on their way to German prisoner-of-war camps, where they would remain until the end of the war.
LIEUTENANT COLONEL HANLEY’S 2ND BATTALION WAS FINALLY ready to ambush the Germans holding Hill 617 on the left flank of the rescue mission. The hill gave the Germans a commanding view of the valley to the north, where Companies E and F had tried to cross in hopes of ambushing the enemy. Frightening losses from enemy mortars had forced both companies to mount trucks at night and swing farther to the north before turning south toward Hill 617. To the west, Company G had attempted to draw the Germans’ attention, but the result had been several days of casualties and almost no progress.
But now Hanley was ready. After a failed attempt at dawn, two Company G platoons attacked Hill 617, advancing up a narrow creek bed shortly before noon. Elevated German positions on both sides rendered the creek a killing zone. Bloodied, both platoons pulled back. It had been a diversion. George Sakato, Kenji Ego, and the rest of Companies E and F then attacked from the north. Company G simultaneously attacked again in force, against an estimated two hundred German soldiers on the west side of the hill. Enemy artillery pummeled the American battalion on both sides of the hill. Progress was measured by the distance between trees. The price was measured by the increasing number of casualties as the Americans slowly advanced uphill over the course of several hours’ fighting.
Medic Kelly Kuwayama had a unique view of the battle, peering over a boulder or from behind a tree. The intellectual Princeton graduate knew how to dissect a battlefield. Scan the scattered open areas where a man was more likely to be shot as he advanced. Watch for movement because when soldiers were moving, they were more vulnerable. Unconsciously run his hands around his belt, making sure medical-supply packs had not fallen off somehow. Look for stands of trees, mounds of rocks, and foxholes that might offer shelter if a man fell wounded and Kuwayama had to drag him to safety. The shorter the distance, the better. A medic couldn’t be searching the forest for a safe haven after he had reached a wounded soldier. Listen, especially between the mortar detonations. Men would call for help, most likely for buddies who had been wounded.
“Medic!”
Kuwayama saw a rifleman lying in the open, motionless. German mortars were landing dangerously close to the defenseless soldier. Kuwayama ran across bare ground, oblivious to the shrapnel and bullets splitting the air around him. The thud against his head must have felt like a heavyweight’s punch. Blood from the shrapnel gash nearly blinded the medic. He paused, dragged a shirtsleeve across his eyes, and then resumed his dash toward the wounded man. The first thing he did was to check the man’s eyeballs. If they didn’t move, Kelly would know he was dead. Not this time. They moved. He administered rapid-fire triage before dragging the man thirty yards across open ground and through wicked enemy fire. Litter bearers were nearby, ready for the wounded soldier. Kuwayama needed immediate treatment, too.a
Companies E and F finally reached the top of Hil
l 617, but it was clear the German units in the area were not defeated. Veteran combat soldiers had learned that a cleared enemy was not necessarily a vanquished enemy in the Vosges. Now the Germans had to drive the Americans off the hill. Trees exploded and the forest floor quivered as Company E’s George Sakato dove into a German foxhole. A solder from Company F joined him. George thought he recognized the man, despite the grime and exhaustion that coated his face.
“Hey, you’re Mas Ikeda from Mesa, Arizona,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“What have you heard about home?”3
In the middle of the raging battle, they shared tidbits of life a world away, where families endured barbed wire and armed guards. Caucasian America called it internment. Many Japanese Americans called it incarceration where their sons had volunteered to fight America’s war.
The artillery attack finally paused, and Ikeda left Sakato in search of more ammunition. Then Sakato spotted the lead elements of the enemy’s infantry counterattack. The onetime sickly boy named after a samurai had become a battle veteran whom replacement troops relied upon. Could the 2/442 hold the hill? A German approached Sakato, grenade in hand. Sakato grabbed a German Luger he had found days earlier and killed the German. Now he had only a few seconds to fill his Thompson submachine-gun clips. He had taped two together, giving him a forty-round capacity. As he did, Germans passed him on their way back up the hill. No one noticed the five-foot-four American in the bottom of the foxhole.
Not far away, Saburo Tanamachi led a squad through the trees. He had grown up on a family farm in Texas. He had run the business side of the farm, planning crop rotations and supervising crop deliveries to market. He had promised his sister, Yuri Nakayama, that he “would bring home Hitler’s moustache.”4 He and his squad faced four machine-gun nests and twelve German riflemen. An enemy squad advanced toward him.
Honor Before Glory Page 16