Tipped back and cocked at a jaunty angle, the black hat was emblazoned with a title only 211 men in U.S. Marine Corps history could claim. But after 78 years, “Makin Raider” belonged to an honored few. At 97 years old, Ben Carson, formerly of the legendary Carlson’s Raiders, was believed to be one of the last living veterans of the 17–18 August 1942 commando raid on the island of Makin during World War II.
In the spring of 2019, relaxed in his favorite chair at his home just outside of Portland, Oregon—replete with a pair of matching Marine Corps sweats—Carson shared a story unclouded by time. Clearing his throat and sitting back, he began: “We went to shore like a bunch of wild Indians . . .”
From Minnesota Farm to Pacific Combat
In the early morning hours of 17 August 1942, Private First Class Ben Carson was a 19-year-old Marine rifleman with the elite 2nd Marine Raider Battalion, christened “Carlson’s Raiders” after their colorful commander, Colonel Evans F. Carlson. They were among the Marine Corps’ best: physically fit, mentally sharp, industrious youth from the heartland of America.
Hailing from the farmlands of Minnesota, Carson was a natural prospect, well-versed in the outdoors with an unusual threshold for suffering due to a childhood defined by the Great Depression. Of small stature, he was lean, steely eyed, with a slick of blonde hair. The men around him were of similar constitution: poor, hardworking, determined; all united by a desire to avenge the 7 December 1941 Japanese sneak attack on Pearl Harbor. Now, after months of grueling training, retaliation was at hand.
On 7 August 1942, U.S. forces commenced landings on the islands of Tulagi and Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands for the first major ground offensive for the United States in the Pacific. With the crack 2nd Raider Battalion unengaged in Hawaii, military planners devised an assault to divert Japanese attention north, toward the Gilbert Islands, away from the main thrust in the Solomons. Their target would be the island of Butaritari—a tiny pile of sand better known to the Marines as Makin. The voyage would require nine days of travel via WWI-era submarines USS Argonaut (SM-1) and Nautilus (SS-168) before launching in a series of small motor-powered rubber boats. Their mission was to destroy and kill—a specialty of the Raiders.
Carson’s first sight of Makin Island arrived on 16 August. Passing through the command room, a Navy officer manning the periscope noticed the meandering Marine and called, “Hey Raider, wanna take a look? There’s where you’re going tomorrow morning.” Eager to steal a glance, he pressed his eye to the lens: far in the distance, between splashes of water, palm trees swayed in the wind.
Through the Rough Surf
The following morning, hours before first light, nervous men loaded with equipment emerged on deck to prepare the boats. Initially, leaving the vessel’s interior was a relief after weeks of physical confinement in the coffin-like depths of the submarine. But the pleasure soon faded, washed away by 10- to 15-foot Pacific swells that battered the boat like a toy in a bathtub.
Drenched by seawater, Carson steeled himself to jump through the black morning air, into a rubber boat bobbing near the sub’s deck. His legs shook in the tossing sea. In one hand, he clutched a gas can, the lid rudely swept away by an unsuspected wave. Carson considered discarding the can but relented; they might need it for the return trip.
Finally, as the boat came even with the deck, Carson leaped. The impact was jarring, as was the splash of gas that greeted his face. But he had made it alive.
Swearing loudly, he repositioned himself as Bill Gallagher, the boat’s square-jawed coxswain, attempted to fire the engine. Cursing the machine, Gallagher made a grave announcement: the engine was flooded. They would have to paddle to the beach.
“About 50 feet from shore a huge wave hit the rear of our boat and myself and two others flew over the stern into the surf,” Carson later wrote. “I grabbed a mouth full of air and rapidly sank to the coral reef . . . after two or three of these rises to the surface—gasp a breath of air and sink again—I was surprised to find that I could stand up and have my head above water.”
Sputtering across the sand, he rushed forward, disappearing into the undergrowth. His objective, the Government House, was suspected to be a Japanese command center. It needed to be neutralized. Carson joined his fire team leader, Cyrill Matelski, and BAR-man, Keith Tucker. The trio sprinted in 10-yard spurts toward the front door. Carson, still soggy from the morning’s “swim,” prepared to kick in the front door and empty a magazine from his Thompson submachine gun. But, as he examined the structure, he discovered the door was already open. The room was empty. He turned to pass the signal that the building was clear when, in thunderous crack, a single shot broke the morning silence. It was an American weapon—a Browning automatic rifle.
Run to the Sound of the Guns
Then the island erupted in a symphony of machine-gun and small-arms fire. Carson took off in pursuit, slipping between trees and native huts. “Up ahead of me,” he later remembered, “I saw a truck stopped in the road and I could see bodies scattered about it. The shooting action had moved further down the road ahead of me.”
Stumbling through a clump of mangrove trees, scanning the leaves for snipers, an ungodly site stopped him in his tracks. A Marine lay sprawled on the ground, his chest shredded by a volley of bullets; empty magazines of ammunition lay sat scattered in the dirt.
“He put up one hell of a fight,” thought Carson, looking at the deceased. It was the first dead person he had seen outside of a coffin; a cold reminder of his own mortality. But this was no time to contemplate fate—that would come later.
The day’s fighting continued in sharp, intense bursts, until darkness engulfed the island. The Raiders fell back to the beach and prepared to withdraw to the submarines offshore. Gathered in the brush overlooking the water, Carson joined a 20-man group assigned to cover the withdrawal; a precarious job that would condemn him to the final departing boat. The next five hours– trapped against the sea, low on ammunition and exhausted - would be the “most harrowing” his life.
The surf off Makin was vicious; beyond anything encountered during training at Barber’s Point, Hawaii. Boat crews entered the water, rowed with every ounce of strength, only to be smashed, rolled, and ejected back to shore. After 14 hours of exertion, the Raiders were no match for the daunting task. But time after time, the men gathered their paddles, righted their boats, and bobbed back out to sea.
Carson rotated his tired gaze from the jungle to the waterline, impressed with the effort, but worried with the lack of progress. Dawn was approaching and only a few boats had penetrated the surf. Sunlight would bring enemy replacements, aircraft, and certain annihilation. Carson was likely contemplating the dire situation when a Marine opened fire to his right. Tracking his aim and swinging up his Thompson, he followed suit.
A burst of colorful tracers zipped through the jungle and ripped into the back of a fleeing Japanese soldier. Releasing the trigger, Carson worried the bright burst had given away his position. The Japanese were probing for weakness; a full-scale counterattack would surely follow.
Then a chilling message arrived: “Everybody’s on their own now; they’re going to surrender.”
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Carson whispered to the man on his left.
Piecing together a seven-man boat team, the group devised a plan to beat the surf, armed with hours of observation.
Between a Deadly Island and an Angry Sea
Shoes, socks, and jackets were abandoned. The plan was unorthodox: the Raiders would lodge their paddles inside the boat, grab the gunwale, swim across the surf, then climb board when safely out at sea. Carson took his position in the rear and swam hard, searing his lungs with exertion. After an eternity of kicking and fighting, he looked back and realized they were making progress.
“We’re better than halfway,” he shouted. “Give her all you have!”
Before they knew it, waves turned to swells and, one by one, the men tumbled aboard. Despite a pool of water swishing at their feet, paddles fell with surprising rhythm. The boat crew beat along perpendicular to shore, revived by their success. But the relief soon boiled into uncertainty as the submarine lay obscured from view.
“Where are we going?” one Marine nervously chided.
“Southeast Asia,” came the response, eliciting a chuckle from most on board.
The noise was faint at first - a peculiar pounding sound, unnatural to the sea. Then, almost in unison, the crew identified the mechanical beat of the submarine’s diesel engines, sputtering as it rolled in the beastly swells. Pushing harder than before, the crew rowed towards the hum. Within minutes, the USS Nautilus emerged on the horizon.
As they drew near, Carson reached for a rung welded to the hull and hooked his arm over the top. Just then, the swells changed, and the rubber boat disappeared beneath his feet. A pair of Navy arms reached down and reeled him onto the deck. As Carson scrambled to his feet and headed for the hatch, a Navy chief petty officer asked how many boats had just arrived.
“One with seven of us,” Carson meekly responded.
“Damn.”
A Bracing Belt of Brandy
As the new arrivals tumbled down the ladder, a medical officer stood nearby, ready with a small ration of alcohol. “It’s medicinal,” the corpsman said, handing Carson his share. Still rattled from the water, he unscrewed the top and downed the contents.
“Brandy,” he thought. It burned on the way down, but the effects were immediate. Subdued by the booze and overcome with fatigue, he stumbled away, looking for a place to sleep. Sergeant “Tiny” Carroll, a mule of a man with an ironic nickname, stopped him. Carroll was putting together a rescue team for the stranded Raiders on the beach.
Examining Carson, who stood glossy eyed from the alcohol, Carroll said, “Hell, you just got here. Get some sleep.” With that, Carson found a clear space on the floor and slipped off into a deep slumber. When he awoke, the submarine was diving at a sharp angle.
That evening, the remaining Raiders were picked up in calmer waters off the lagoon, 43 hours after launching on the morning of 17 August. With everyone seemingly accounted for, they shoved off. Carson joined his friend Cyril Matelski on the bulkhead, swapping stories and sharing souvenirs. Of stories Carson had plenty, but he had missed the opportunity to scavenge. Luckily Matelski made up for his negligence. In his pack, not only did Matelski possess the island commander’s sidearm, but he had rummaged through the man’s clothing and uncovered a collection of underwear, which he happily distributed among the men.
Their arrival in Hawaii was immaculate; it appeared every ship in the Pacific Fleet was there to greet the returning Raiders. Standing in formation on deck, Carlson’s men looked less like the mystified heroes who had just smashed the Japanese on Makin Island and more like pirates after an arduous sea voyage. Many dressed in dyed black khakis, unworn in the operation, while others borrowed ill-fitting Navy fatigues from their sailor counterparts.
Wearing a lose Navy shirt, Carson took in the scene from the rear of the formation. “As we sailed up the harbor,” he remembered, “I noticed a battlewagon with a large “46” painted on the bow. Because of prewar correspondence with my career Navy brother, I knew that was the USS Maryland—BB 46—and my brother was aboard.”
Greeted at the dock by flashing camera bulbs and a procession of top brass, the Raiders were pushed through, billeted, debriefed, and released to the Royal Hawaiian Hotel in Honolulu to unwind on a six-day liberty. Carson borrowed Cyril’s prized Japanese pistol, abandoned his bunk, and headed for Pearl Harbor to see his brother.
Brothers Reunited
The deck officer on the Maryland spotted Carson immediately. Overcome with curiosity, he stopped the khaki-clad Marine and requested to inspect the peculiar sidearm slung on his hip. Carson handed it over without protest. “This Jap pistol—where did you get it?” the deck officer exclaimed as he gripped the weapon. Filtering the stories he could tell, Carson explained the raid on Makin and the gun’s previous owner, before quickly finding himself being ferried to the bridge to meet the Maryland’s skipper. With great intrigue, the senior man listened as Carson relayed his story, before inquiring about his brother, George Carson.
It was quickly discovered George had left the ship to look for Ben just as Ben had departed to find George. Heralded by the crew as a hero, Ben was guided belowdecks and treated to ice cream and Coke while he waited for his brother’s return. When George finally appeared, the pair caught up on years of family gossip, but the tone turned somber when the topic of the raid arose.
“You could get killed in that outfit,” George said.
With a smile, Carson replied, “Raiders are well trained, but even so I’ll be careful.”
In the ensuing three years, Carson would see combat on Guadalcanal, Bougainville, and finally Iwo Jima, receiving a Purple Heart for wounds sustained in the latter action. His brother George was killed in a smoke canister explosion on the deck of the Maryland before the war’s conclusion.
When Ben Carson finished his tale of triumph and tragedy, he settled back in his recliner with a glint of satisfaction in his blue eyes. It wasn’t self-satisfaction, ego, or pride; he was satisfied that, through his words, the sacrifices of his brothers on Makin Island would be known one last time. Ben Carson passed away nine months later, severing a tangible connection to a colorful footnote of bravery in the Pacific war.