The opportunity to participate in the assault phase of the amphibious operation to recapture Guam came early in May, 1944. We were serving then on a tiny speck of coral in the Bismarck Archipelago. This island of Emirau was the closest approach to the Hollywood film ideal of a tropical isle. To those who have had to serve on any of these island bases there is no illusion of “a paradise.” They were all malodorous. This long slender island was then an outpost surrounded by such Japanese bases as Kavieng, Rabaul, and Truk. It was an important speck of land in the vast desert that is the Pacific, for even “Tokyo Rose” delivered an ultimatum for the Americans to leave it or be blasted out of the world by the “mighty Imperial Fleet.” “Tokyo Rose” provided considerable entertainment by this and other similar broadcasts, particularly in her “jazz music” broadcasts to Americans who were supposed to like nothing better. “Tokyo Rose’s” speech and excellent English indicated a possible residence in the United States. Characteristic of her propaganda technique was studied avoidance of saying anything derogatory to Americans. None of us took this demand seriously although the Jap military and naval centers mentioned were not as yet completely neutralized. Witness to this came when, on the flight south to Guadalcanal, the air transport plane was accompanied by fighter escort.
Flying past Bougainville in the northern Solomons, the beacons of Mt. Balbi and Mt. Bagana were welcome sights. Bougainville has been called the “little Anzio” of the Pacific War because of its small American beachhead, and the savagery of the Japanese attacks all around the perimeter. Mt. Bagana towers over the beachhead with its steaming peak. This peak stood in enemy territory, and many times when serving upon Bougainville, we gazed intently upon this smoldering mountain in the twilight and enjoyed its great natural beauty. It was, therefore, like meeting an old friend as we circled over the beach at Empress Augusta Bay and landed on the Marston Mat airstrip at Piva.
Traveling by combat air transport will always be remembered by those who have had to do so as a real experience in itself. Your “companion” may be a jeep, a load of airplane tires, some 90-mm. A.A. shells, or other miscellanea, as well as warworn military personnel. These planes are “flying box-cars.” Long hops over water were broken by pleasant respites, such as “Whimpey’s Cafe” at the Russell Islands, run by the Red Cross, where a real treat—a good old American hamburger—could be had.
No matter how many times I did so, it was always a thrill to land on Henderson Field at Guadalcanal. Henderson Field is a historic spot. We will always remember the heroic struggle to hold onto this Jap-built airstrip. Extended and surrounded by taxiway strips, it was a major link in the South Pacific air transport network.
Driving out to the Third Amphibious Corps Headquarters brought us across the Tenaru River, made immortal by Richard Tregaskis in his Guadalcanal Diary. Reporting at Corps Headquarters to Major General Henry Larsen brought the news that we would embark shortly for Guam in the assault echelon. Since most of the planning for the operation had been completed, our stay at Corps Headquarters consisted only in being briefed for the move and for our part in it. The short interval before sailing was a much-needed chance for rest, repair of battle gear, and the inevitable letters to home. Personal gear was limited to that which could be carried on a man’s back in a jungle pack. Such essentials as jungle hammock, mosquito netting, poncho, blanket, and shaving gear could not be jettisoned. It required a long time to cram a wardrobe into a pack. The injunction was to travel that way. What a compromise that called for!
Because of the close secrecy which surrounds all of these large operations, the time and place of embarking were not revealed until the eleventh hour. In this instance, due to a last minute change in sailing hour, it meant “missing the boat.” The sailing hour had been advanced by some three hours, but the word was not passed to us.
Blithely unaware of this change, we drove out to the landing beach at Tassafaronga in a jeep. The coconut trees along the coast road still displayed the fury of the war at Guadalcanal. They were scarred and chopped by shrapnel. Kukum was another landmark on the route north because the beach at Kukum was an LST embarkation point and loading place. We had embarked from there for Emirau some months before. Others, too, had shoved off from here for other invasions. At Tassafaronga, where we were to embark, there were old hulks of Jap vessels and landing craft. The enemy had been there too.
The convoy of ships was standing out. Some landing craft were beached near by. Hailing the first coxswain, we asked for the U.S.S. Ormsby. It was a fortunate choice, for the lad, a Texan, was one of the Ormsby’s men. He expressed doubt as to whether we could make it because the ship was about to sail even though they were waiting at the beach for the mail. We started for the vessel but it appeared hopeless, for the transport was underway. I thought that we were about to miss the war. The Ormsby slowed down and we climbed up the cargo net, pack and all, much to the amusement of the crew, and more particularly of the Marines. Some of us couldn’t even be on time for an invasion! Even the Marine combat dogs aboard seemed to regard us quizzically.
As the transports left the shore, the island of Guadalcanal and its deep silent valleys stood out. What scenes of hardship, bravery , and courage were laid in and beneath its rocky hills! Few of us, strangely enough, ever penetrated its jungle fastnesses. We were content to live on its edge by the sea. By the sea from whence all things came; our mail, food, friends, etc. All along these island chains, this was true. More often than not, the enemy was driven into the interior (e.g. Bougainville). There, too, the natives took refuge away from the civilization that we brought with us to their primitive places.
From ships off the shore, tropical islands took on a lush beauty. The dismal diseases, the horrible swamp lands, the mudholes, the heat, and the insects seemed to disappear even from the mind, and the verdant growth draped the islands in quiet green beauty. The shimmering sea and the azure sky framed them in their natural setting. Strange when you did not have to live on them, they were beautiful, not malodorous.
The transports glided slowly up the “Slot,” the strait between the Solomon Islands, passed Malaita, and headed north for Kwajalein. Under way we began to think of the journey and the journey’s end. We scanned the sea for the sight of the escort and perceiving the destroyer screen accompanying us, we relaxed into a sense of security.
We began to look about at our home for the next few weeks (not knowing it would be months). It was the APA-49, the U.S.S. Ormsby, a C-2 vessel converted into an assault transport. On the vast Pacific the transport became a small community. Fifteen hundred men traveling on a desperate journey must live, work, and play and sleep within the limits of the length and breadth of the ship. The mission upon which we were embarked blended us all together.
The tropical sun beat down on steel decks and turned the holds of the ship into an inferno. Sleeping in this heat was difficult, if not impossible. Sleeping on the decks under the night sky was a privilege much sought after. Living aboard a transport did have many advantages, however, because the ship had a supply of fresh meats. Appetites were keen for a relief from spam, Vienna sausage, and “chile.” The ship’s showers, too, had hot water. It all promised to be a relief from the tropical mire.
An Auxiliary Personnel Attack Transport, (APA), carries its own landing craft and enough equipment and supplies to last until the beachhead is secured. To support an invasion, a staggering amount of material is required and every nook and cranny and all available deck space is taken up with this combat gear. Space for personnel on open decks is a problem.
As men moved about the ship, as best they could, it was a staggering thought that each one of them had a destiny to work out; each one a plan and an ambition to bring to fruition. Each one had a circle of friends and a section of land that he could call his own and home. They all shared the companionship that real danger brings. Many life histories, in the relentlessness of fate, were directed into one channel. Fate here took no account of the contrasts of individual differences and paid little heed to the presence of common similarities. War is also cruel in its averaging. Some of the men were lean and angular. Others were heavy-set.
Nights on the broad Pacific provided some reward for the dreary monotony of travel during daylight. The sky seemingly top-heavy with stars, provided study for the amateur astronomer. The Southern Cross was a sight not familiar to most of us. In the ship’s zigzagging, it was a clue to our directional course. When both Polaris and the Cross were visible, in some latitudes, clear-cut indications of direction was given. A spectacular moonbow appeared during one night of the voyage. Brilliant moonlight gave the bow a beautiful silvery tinge. The moon, the stars, some falling across the sky, and the glimmering phosphorescence of the sea were Nature’s lights which could not be blacked out.
Kwajalein
The journey took us to other harbors before the objective was reached. These were havens in the storms of war, too, for here the watch of invisible eyes sweeping the seas for enemy craft could rest from its vigil. The first rendezvous was Kwajalein and its collateral sun-scorched atolls. The circle of islands provided a magnificent harbor. The armada came to rest and dropped anchor to refuel, stock, and to get mail.
The island of Kwajalein, a former Nip headquarters, had received a terrific naval bombardment in the landings in February, 1944. Only one coconut tree with palm frond top intact was standing. The rest were cropped by naval gunfire. This is sometimes referred to as the “Mitscher Haircut” after Vice Admiral Mitscher’s Task Force bombardment. A blockhouse on the Jap pier was pierced in two directions by direct hits which went through and through the reinforced concrete walls. Long to be remembered will be the Jap trucks which were then in use on this small speck of land, with their quaint names such as “Meat Wagon” scribbled on in paint by our forces.
The lack of shade on the island was relieved only by a stiff breeze which incidentally operated the many wind-mill washing machines so common in the Gilbert and Marshall Islands. These objects of soldier and sailor ingenuity gave evidence of the elementary scale of living. The wind sweeping over the sea also washed the clothes worn on the island.
Kwajalein also permitted an opportunity to bring the “scoop” up to date. The “scoop” is more formally known as briefing. The “scoop” permitted all of us to know the military and tactical situation gleaned from the latest information. Informal talks brought to the combat troops as much information as possible to broaden acquaintance of the shores upon which we were to land. Although we had had control of Guam for 45 years, detailed knowledge of beaches and of the disposition of the enemy’s forces was slim. With it all, it was surprising how seemingly well acquainted we became with an island we’d never seen. We could visualize the rice paddies just beyond the Jap beach trenches. We pictured the town of Agat. We knew how many houses were in the town. We knew it is 1,500 yards from the beach to the sharply rising hills and Mt. Alifan; the Harmon Road approach to Mt. Alifan was as widely discussed as any Main Street. The reef obstacles, undoubtedly surrounded by mines, came in for a good share of the discussion time. The grim task of the demolition squads on the nights just before D-Day would have a large effect on the landing. The log chain, the impalers must be removed and mines set off before landing craft could enter the landing zone. We all spoke of Beach Yellow 1 and 2, and White 1 and 2, as though they were Coney Island, Old Orchard, Daytona, or a California beach. These numbered beaches were the landing beach breaks where different units would land. They were the fringe of land and coral reef where the battle would be joined.
Eniwetok
In the dawn’s early light of June 8, we sailed for Eniwetok to join the entire task force and battle fleet. The long line of ships standing out through the narrow entrance strait of the atoll stretched out and we finally resumed convoy positions. We were still in the “coffin corner” of the convoy formation, still on schedule but without the knowledge as yet of the long delay that would arise before the landing was made. We lapsed again into the routine of the day.
The ship’s library was a busy place every day with most of the officers aboard reading, and a large proportion of men doing similarly. It was not uncommon to read two novels a day during the long daylight periods in the tropical latitudes. Days were also spent in playing “acey-deucey,” checkers, chess, bridge, and almost every other card game. Men spread blankets and ponchos over the deck and produced cards from tightly crammed packs and played cards endlessly, it seemed. Other and equally interesting diversions arose when destroyers came alongside for fueling out of the transport’s tanks, or at firing practice when tow target planes crisscrossed the convoy to give the ship’s gunners an opportunity to blaze away. Others of the men aboard spent hours in discussions of peace and war; of politics, of food, and of the now seemingly lost horizons of home. Still others ensconced themselves in their bunks, hot as they were, and earned the title of “sack artist.” Their siestas were interrupted, of course, for all meals. Most men and officers remained on deck until well into the night. The troop officers’ quarters, or more aptly the inferno serving as a bunk room, was heated by the tropical sun beating down on steel decks. The cool morning air was something to which we looked forward. Sounding of “general quarters” was a welcome sound; it meant release from the inferno.
Eniwetok disclosed a magnificent harbor formed by this island and its ring of coral islands. Inside its atoll ring were anchorages that had long since served Nippon for its fleet. Not as great in extent as Kwajalein, it was then (June, 1944) the island base closest to the enemy. From here planes had already and would continue to bomb the islands upon which we were to land. Much coming and going went on among all the ships. Unit commanders visited other ships for staff conferences. The dogs were taken off for exercise. When they returned, we knew we were ready to sail. These Marine combat dogs had more exercise than anyone or anything else aboard.
Sitting in Eniwetok Harbor was a trying task. The dull monotony was poignant and heavy for we were “fenced in” by the limits of the ship. We often thought now of the task ahead because the fateful day was approaching. These thoughts were impermanent, however, because the task was as yet unreal. D-Day was to have been June 21. We did not know then that it would require another month to make the landing.
We sailed on June 16 for Guam. The convoy and battle fleet for the invasion of Saipan had already left. The “curtain raiser” in the Mariannas, Saipan, was to be on June 18. Two days later we were to take Guam. Much talk centered around the reserves available to support the invasions on the two islands. We did not know then that the reserve for Saipan would be used immediately, and that we would support Saipan as a “floating” reserve for two weeks.
The battle of Saipan is, of course, a matter of record. The fanaticism of the Nip defenders; the tenacity with which our forces clung to our finger grip on the island, is another typical yet glorious chapter in the history of the U. S. Marine Corps. The timetable for Saipan was knocked awry by the Nips. As the battle seesawed, the Guam assault forces sailed up and down off the coast of Saipan for two weeks. For these two weeks, we sailed east in the daytime and west at night in a rectangular course as the “floating reserve” for Saipan. It is not difficult to imagine the flights of imagination centered on the possibility of enemy air and sea attack. By air they did come over and bomb our LST’s. At every General Quarters, imagination ran riot and explanations of strategy abounded. We made contact with the enemy, but he broke it off. The timetable for Guam had been changed, indirectly, by the enemy. Our meeting with him at Guam had been postponed. With our landings on Saipan, the enemy knew for sure that an assault on Guam was to be expected. The postponement gave him a further chance to erect defenses.
The capture of Garapan, on Saipan, the capital of the Mariannas, and some of the enemy and enemy intelligence, brought the disclosure that the enemy garrison on Guam was not 9,000 as previously estimated, but was closer to 20,000. The Chamorrans, the natives of Guam, had also estimated that the Nip forces were about 20,000. This was learned when the natives came into the American lines from their hiding places and ranches. Task Force 58 had bombed Jap ships in convoy approaching Guam. Reliable sources concluded that the enemy had already reinforced the garrison. The assault operation now required reserves. They must come from Hawaii, and to meet them we set sail in the purple haze of an evening twilight for Eniwetok.
The sight of any land after the monotony of two weeks spent seemingly in aimless wandering of the sea, of scanning vast stretches of dazzling tropical ocean, was a real joy. Here we had a chance to relax. The troops were now sent ashore for exercise. Swimming over the side of the ship was authorized. Boxing bouts were arranged and these revealed the softened condition of the young Marines. In their matches with crew members who had been busy on their jobs, they revealed a physical letdown. It was an unavoidable result of a journey on a crowded ship. Most men went ashore for an overnight bivouac. To them it was a real treat to sleep in the cool, open, tropical night under the star-sown sky, rather than below the hot, steel decks.
Many reports began to come in on the fighting at Saipan. The reports revealed much data on the defenses and disposition of forces at Guam. These required study and necessitated a change in the assault plan. Many conferences arose from this as the “scoop” was changed. We then had a more definite idea of the underwater obstacles and the beach defenses. The Jap was well dug in. The rice paddies loomed as a large obstacle, and the mine fields in the coral reef were extensive. The log chain along the shore was in place and mined, and had to be removed as an obstacle to landing craft. Hearing all this new data in the new “scoop” talks, it appeared to me that the general confidence of all was heightened. The more we know about things, persons, or places, the less fear we harbor or hold for them. Forty-five days after sailing from Guadalcanal, we began the last leg of the fateful journey.
Guam is a much larger island than most of us realized. The island covers some 225 square miles and has a coast line of 160 miles. In all this coast line, there were only two places where a large amphibious operation in force could be made without great loss of life. These places were the beaches north of Piti and the beach south of Agat. Agat, Piti, and Asan are the rice growing districts of Guam. The southern half of Guam is volcanic and hilly. The slopes of the hilly ridges are covered with neti or sword grass. The northern half of the island is a broad, arid limestone plateau with an elevation of from 300 to 600 feet. The cliffs on the northern half of the island make a landing there almost impossible. On this plateau, the Japanese had not set up military installations because of the thick growth and jungle. The island is encircled by a fringe of coral reef, projecting 200 to 300 feet out into the ocean, making the use of landing craft for unloading supplies impossible. Ducks and amphibious tractors were to be used.
Even a casual study of the topography revealed that the southern half of the island afforded the best terrain for an invasion, and the beaches at Agat and Piti had optimum advantages. They permitted a strategy which would choke off Orote Peninsula with its prize, the airstrip at Sumay which the enemy had built on the old golf course at the U. S. Marine Barracks, and put the territory surrounding Apra Harbor in our hands. With these sectors taken, an ideal beachhead would be established, with a natural harbor and a usable airstrip already in place. The invasion beaches opened the way for this goal.
Agat and Piti were reminiscent of many a country village back home. From the pictures we had seen in the Intelligence Reports, they were two little towns containing homes of masonry neatly arranged and sturdily built. Each village had its church and school. The U. S. Navy Yard was at Piti. The large water system of the island was centered in the Almagosa reservoirs around Agat.
The Japanese knew that we must land on Guam on these two narrow beaches, and in this territory they had concentrated their savage little fighters and erected their defenses. Into the face of these, the assault troops must land. From the attack on Saipan, the bombings of Guam, the Nips must have realized that we were coming and coming soon.
As we sailed from Eniwetok into the open sea, we had with us the 3rd Marine Division, the 1st Marine Provisional Brigade, and elements of the 77th Army Division, with the major section of the 77th under way from Pearl Harbor as a reserve. The 1st Marine Brigade was composed of veterans of the Marine Raiders who served under Lieutenant Colonel E. F. Carlson, Colonel Merritt Edson, and Colonel Harry Leversedge. The 77th Army Division was the famous “Statue of Liberty” Division. D-Day was July 21, 1944; H-Hour at 0830. The assault landing plan called for troops to be on the beach at 0830. This required setting troops in landing craft hours before since some of the ships would be 6 miles offshore. All personnel were assigned to a wave interval. (Each group of men landing in the assault constitute a wave.) The first wave was to land at 0830 and the remainder to come ashore at short intervals until all were landed on Guam.
On our transport, there were men for the 7th, 8th, and 9th waves. They were scheduled to leave the vessel beginning at 0630. Each day out we looked forward to this time of day. Each day General Quarters sounded at an earlier time. Each day the tension grew. We cleaned our weapons and checked our gear. We changed into green- colored clothing for its concealment value. We waited for the day.
The night sky was bespangled with stars. The moonlight set the sea to even more brilliant glimmering, or so it appeared now. It was no sign of weakness that this night our thoughts were mirrored in this sky; that we thought of the small familiar things. This sky looked down on the green meadow that stretches from a whitewashed barn to a brook that babbles through an American valley; upon a gray-haired, sainted woman taking an apple pie out of an oven; upon a girl with clear hazel eyes and auburn hair; in short, it looked down upon the quiet scene of home. A somber shadow cast itself upon our thoughts as we saw a star fall from out the sky across our destroyer escort, knifing its way through the sea escorting the assault force. Strange that the sky in its reflection was tainted with the knowledge that it looked down, too, upon the blackened embers of a home in Europe once filled with life and laughter, upon the rotting corpse of one of our comrades fallen somewhere along the far-flung battle line, made ghastly by the light of the moon, high in the sky. There was not much sleep on this fateful eve. We were waiting now for the first face-to-face contact with the enemy on Guam.
D-Day, the Journey’s End
General Quarters at 0300 brought an end to troubled sleep. It was the beginning of even more tense waiting. The ship was trembling from the shock of the naval bombardment pounding the defenses of Guam. A “last supper” breakfast of steak and eggs was served. Surprisingly enough there were appetites which required several steaks for satisfaction. The grim business of war was better done on a full stomach.
General Quarters brought the tomorrow that seemed a hundred years away. Time was now on the run. We were at the land that we came far to see. It marked the end of our pensive moments. We were faced now with the reality of the attack.
Up on deck, in the dawn’s early light, rockets were now falling like stars. The battle fleet, too, was firing star shells. The island of Guam and the sea were rocked by the salvos of fire that pounded the shore. The early light of dawn was reddened by gun flashes ripping the coast. Cruisers and battleships belched out steel in salvo after salvo. The whole scene seemed to be in a paroxysm.
Finally the curtain of night slowly rose and the morning broke. What a contrast the noise of this scene of July 21, 1944, presented to the usual matutinal sounds of a similar summer day at home. The morning light revealed the island at the journey’s end. Its silent valleys gave it the appearance of calm. Its size surprised most of us. The Harmon Road stretched out from the town of Agat toward Mt. Alifan as it appeared in our minds. A group of large cumulus clouds, “cloudland’s fleecy argosy,” glided by. The green-clad hills, the palm and pandanus trees ringing the beach gave the island a quiet beauty, a beauty marred by the knowledge that the dirty little yellow bastards had overrun this island possession and now awaited our assault to push them oil.
The sea was soon choked with craft. One could not but be stunned with the massing and brandishing of skill and purpose assembled here. It surpassed all imagination. Since the troops aboard the vessel on which we stood were not to be landed until after H-hour, we had a rare opportunity to watch the prelude. During the feverish preparations aboard and the resultant noises, someone asked if we had heard a strange horn call. Before anyone could answer a wag replied, “Yes, and it’s Gabriel’s!” This was a prophetic jest!
The thundering of the warships beat into a deafening crescendo at 0800. A destroyer was at the reef line firing point-blank into the shore defenses. The cruisers stood off to our right and plastered Mt. Alifan, and the known location of the Nip headquarters; the battleships wove in and out and bellowed at the island. The LCI’s poured small caliber fire and rockets into the beaches. Even now the small landing boats were approaching the assembly line where their personnel were shifted into amphibious tractors for the reef crossing.
At 0820, the bombarding fleet set up a thunder of crashing fire. Although it seemed impossible, the shelling had quickened, the noise was ear-splitting; the salvos seemed to blend into one huge roll of thunder. The fury of the shellfire had doubled. Rockets were poured into the shore and hills of Guam; broadside after broadside heralded the hour of landing. The earth shaking bombardment lasted for the ten minutes it required for the first wave to cross the reef and hit the beach. Jap mortar shells even now sent up geysers of water as they exploded on the beaches. At 0830 when the first wave reached the shore, the fire tapered off. The convulsion that had gripped the scene subsided as the anabasis began.
During this prelude, the sky was not filled with the hundreds of aircraft which rumor had it were promised for the landing. A small number of dive bombers were aloft and were bombing enemy objectives and attempts to reorganize. Artillery spotters for the battle force had been circling the areas around the landing beaches and relaying information to ship fire-control stations. In this grim hour, there was a great deal of humor in this plane-to-ship radio. Listening on the ship’s radio, we heard one pilot address his ship explaining that “forty little brown men are running down the road [Harmon] in target area .” After blasts of gunfire, he reported, “Boy, docs that make me happy. Forty sons of heaven have been despatched to hell!” During the preliminary bombardment this banter (over the radio) reached exciting heights. Shortly after H- hour when targets must be selected with great care, one of the ships called to its spotter plane and complained, “How about some more targets, we’ve run out!”
Climbing over the side of a ship and down a cargo net, laden with carbine, pistol, and full infantry pack, and letting oneself into a bobbing landing craft, was no small feat. Crowded into the boat with many men and broiled by the sun, discomfort was not even thought of, for we were gazing intently on the shore ahead. The warships fired intermittently now. Phosphorus shells landed on the hills above the landing beaches. Nip mortar shells landed square on the beaches. We knew what that meant! We were to learn later that all the fire had not knocked out a large Jap pillbox in the center of the landing beaches. It was camouflaged to the point of elimination. In this fortification, a large number of the enemy waited until the waves of men stormed the beach and then opened fire with their one 77-mm. cannon and machine guns. Amp-tracks were stopped by the point-blank fire and waves of men were pinned down in the water until the pillbox inhabitants were mopped up. This pillbox was an island of resistance for when the main defense force remaining on the beaches saw the tractors start across the reef, they abandoned the beach trenches and retreated across the rice paddies along the paths following the contours of the foothills of Mt. Alifan towering over the scene and to the village of Agat where the battle was joined.
The Marines stormed across the coral- studded shoreline on this day, 31 months and 9 days after the Japanese had seized the island. They rolled through charred and shattered palm groves across the strong beach defenses. The Nips, obviously, left only a sprinkling of snipers, armed with rifles and mortars, to conduct a delaying action at the water’s edge. Our forces smashed on into the foliaged area using rifle fire, tanks, and flame-throwers against the hidden Japanese who were sniping in the trenches and pillboxes that remained. The twenty waves of men had landed.
We were struck by the litter of wreckage of the scene and the general amount of gear, personal and otherwise, which was abandoned in the mêlée. The confusion, uncertainty, and haste were terrifying. We took full advantage of the Nip trenches for cover. Ships were still shelling, our planes were bombing, and in the near distance many a fire fight ensued. The Japs did not give ground without a fight. They were here, as everywhere, expert in the use of the mortar, even the small knee-mortar. These fell among our troops and splashed their fragments over the landscape. The gaining of the beach perhaps seemed easy, but we had seen the enemy only in death. These were plentiful, but we also saw our own and realized their violent deaths. The disorder of the scene, the spilling of supplies onto the beaches, the feverish activity of landing supplies, the endless stream of wounded, a cemetery on the beach—all attested to the struggle; to this inhuman business of war.
Upon reaching the beach one wondered that any of the shore could be left after the bombardment. The Fleet had shelled for days before the troops landed this day. The landscape bore many scars, but the thin growth of trees, the pandan palms and the coconut groves were largely unscathed although the tapering trunks of the coconut palm showed many shrapnel scars.
There were outcroppings of rock in the sandy area close by the water. There were clumps of woods on the left of the landing beach with narrow paths skirting the edges leading to what we learned later were gun emplacements. Light trigger bursts of fire came from this area sporadically. The shots kicked up pulls of dust in the area just ahead where we were waiting. Just south of the spot where the amphibious tractor “dumped” us on the beach, dead Nips were strewn around the large pillbox. They appeared as though thrown out of the concrete emplacement by a great force. Several “little brown men” in brown uniforms with wrap-around puttees, two-toed sandals and, as so many call them, “mushroom helmets’’ were huddled together in the fore section of the dugout, slumped over their wrecked cannon. One was leaning against a coconut tree on the top of the fort. A Marine approached cautiously and then kicked him over into a gulley.
The enemy fought out of the openings in caves like enraged dragons. It took grenades and phosphorus shells and flame-throwers to silence their fire. The sun beat down as the patrols and squads advanced cautiously by clumps of woods and examined the framed buildings with corrugated iron roofs. Occasionally a mortar shell screamed over, but the Nips appeared to be withdrawing to a prepared defense position beyond Agat. The bridge crossing the stream just outside the village was down. The collection of stonewalled shacks on the edge of the village were being hotly contested. Browning Automatic Rifles ripped their sides as the enemy fell back into and through the village. By noon, the beaches were crammed with supplies: warfare’s equipage, rations, ammunition, water, medical supplies, and gasoline. The beachhead on the north, assaulted by the 3rd Marine Division, was hinged at the town of Asan, stretched by nightfall into “an arc of several thousand yards.”
Those of us who were not combat troops turned some attention to digging a foxhole for the moment, but more particularly for the night. The earth was matted with tree and bush roots at the site selected for a CP, and much toil and sweat were required. The time spent was devoted to digging the hole deep and piling the earth all around the edge for cover. This would prevent fragments from sweeping into the hole. Deep in the earth, the “daisy cutters” would have to come close to do much harm. By midafternoon, our forces were climbing toward the hills in an effort to seize quickly a range of high ground on the beachhead. A tropical squall drenched the land, but this was the least inconvenience. Of more concern was the general approaching grayness of the sky. It seemed that night was in a hurry to visit us this day. In the late afternoon some tanks and artillery were ashore. Toward evening elements of the 77th Division landed and took up positions at the lines in the southern end of the beachhead.
Water was brought ashore and sent to the front in large 5-gallon cans (usually meant for gasoline). Food, if one wanted it or even thought of it, consisted of “K” rations. There was little time for food. Who had any stomach left for food in this desperate situation? The unabashed young Marines aboard ship had now become “old young men.” What a contrast in assignments! Aboard ship some were mess cooks and had other menial tasks. Here they had the “assignment” of taking a machine gun nest or routing the filthy enemy out of their filthy caves. Assignments, these were, that courted death. Who could say that these lads knew nothing of responsibility?
At nightfall the troops were dug in on perimeters between Adelup Point and Asan in the northern section; and from the battered town of Agat to Bangi Point in the south. The enemy in force had retreated toward the town of Agat and in the direction of Orote Peninsula. Night was coming up. We had dreaded its approach. Day was more easily endured. Even in the normal times of peace and at home, in the darkness of the night the lonely heart wants reassurance. Restlessly it seeks assurance from the stars above; it seeks serenity. Twilight in the tropics is short. Sunset brought the blackout. The first star in the sky, twinkling and alone, was a fitting counterpart for all of us as we lay alone in the foxholes waiting. The whole evening scene was made eerie by the flares fired by both sides. These flares, descending to earth, cast long pantamorphic shadows. These moving shadows became associated with distant sounds whose meaning we could not understand. Outposts called to one another. The flares were fired more rapidly on both sides. It gave rise to the belief of a counterattack. The Nip banzai charge was not new to these troops but there was not one among them who would deny its terror while it lasted. The enemy did mount several local attacks during the night of July 21.
We had a toe hold on the island although no one doubted that we had come to Guam to stay. Some found out that their foxholes were dug into the beach without thought of the tide. When the tide came in, the holes were filled by the sea. Stirring out of even sea-filled foxholes for any reason was unthinkable. The chatter of machine guns, the splintering crack of the BAR, the whine of the 75-mm. shells pierced the early darkness. The curtain of night had fallen as though some stage hand had rung up the bright blue sky backdrop.
The enemy had counterattacked on the southernmost landing beach and had attempted to blow up an ammunition dump. They succeeded in touching off a part of the ammunition because a small explosion was heard and a reddened sky mirrored a fire of moderate extent. The Nips were beaten back. Directly ahead below Mt. Alifan a horde of the enemy had charged the perimeter defense ridge. A fierce fire fight ensued. We opened up with everything we had. In the morning the sight of the pile of enemy dead was sickening.
Some nights of troubled sleep are caused by nightmares. No one knows what a nightmare is until he has spent a night on an invasion beachhead. During these long, harrowing nights, one learns the full meaning of waiting. For months after, on this island the nights seemed loo long and out of proportion to past memory. We listened to the snap of broken limbs as someone stepped on them. An occasional voice whose message was unintelligible to us aroused fear and suspicion. The mosquitoes, as though allies of the enemy, arrived to torment the moments of hurried sleep. Nip machine gun fire drove everyone into the foxholes. The exchange of shots and Hares continued all night. The artillery now set up began to blast the target areas held by the enemy. The click of the breeches, the pause for readiness, and then the spoken command of “Fire!” were eerie in the dense blackness. Night then was only contrasts in light and shadow and screaming racket. The ageless battle between the sea and the shore, heard in the distance, was symbolical of the struggle between ourselves and the enemy. Only those who had to move were moving about. Every fire fight seemed to be developing into a break-through. The tracer bullets of the Nips always seemed to be coming our way. Some peace for troubled minds and bodies was gained by drowsiness or perhaps it was even sleep. In the early morning the breeze swept in cool off the sea. If the enemy were to come now, we felt more confident about meeting him because we could see him. At dawn a push was scheduled, and our forces shoved on beyond Agat. D-Day was done.
The Battle Rolls On
The plan of conquest was for both assault forces to join over the sector marked by the Agat-Piti Road and capture the peninsula, with its airfield at the harbor town of Sumay where the U. S. Marine Barracks stand. The other landing was a source of much conversation as was the timetable of conquest. Unexpected resistance has slowed the 3rd Marine Division down. The cliffs in the vicinity of Asan had proved a tough obstacle.
Fighting under the blistering tropical sun, our forces expanded the two beachheads against stiffening resistance by the Nips. We were now meeting the Japs dug in like rats, firing from holes and caves that honeycombed the island’s slopes and cliffs. Adelup Point, on the left flank of the northern beachhead, was won this day. We were to see the effects of the shattering fourteen-day sea and air bombardment when we finally set up headquarters there after moving over from the southern beachhead. The Naval Governor’s summer palace, set atop Adelup, was pulverized. Late this day, Americans had worked their way up Mt. Alifan.
On D +2 days Piti town and Cabras Island were in our hands. Orote Peninsula was nearly cut off. This meant that our forces were closing the pincers that would bite off the airfield at Sumay and bring Apra under our control.
On D+3 days, the most determined and critical enemy attack occurred, aimed at the troops of the 3rd Marine Division. The infiltration occurred along the Chenito Cliffs, rising sharply at the northern end of the American north landing beaches. Mounted at dawn, on difficult hillside positions, the Jap attack, under cover of dense foliage, blanketed the hillside with a mortar barrage and then sent an estimated battalion of troops against our forces dug in the ground along the most rugged terrain. Answering their thrust, which almost broke through, was a withering concentration of naval gunfire and aerial bombardment and sharp ground action. Two stiff counterattacks preceded this almost successful break. The bloody battles along the Chenito Cliffs were, for the most part, stalemates. Nip attackers would peer over the cliffs, stick their fingers up to their noses, withdraw, and send over a mortar barrage. However, they were finally and definitely pushed off.
The battle stiffened as the Marines and Doggies drove ahead on the 4th day and cut off the peninsula, isolating the forces thus trapped defending the 4,700-ft. airstrip. Cabras Island was by now completely occupied. From Cabras and Piti town, patrols pushed southward along the shore line to join the forces of the 1st Marine Brigade whose northern flank now cut across the base of Orote Peninsula. The Nips put up a stiff defense in the vicinity of Sumay. Closing in on Sumay, cable station and site of the old Marine Barracks and headquarters of Pan American Airways, the Japs fought like savages. On D + 6 we were but 400 yards from the airport. The pincers had been closed and they were being squeezed. Capture of Orote meant the end of the first phase of the battle. The enemy must now be sought out over all the island from the wonderful beachhead established. This was a battle of attrition and would require long hunting. Capture of Agana, the capital, the struggles against resistance at Barrigada, Finegayen, etc., remained. When the Japs would break down into small bands, the battle would continue until they were hunted down.
A cemetery was started on the second day, which was Saturday, July 22, 1944. In a quiet meadow-like spot, many of our gallant comrades were laid to rest. One could not believe that death could ever become so commonplace. The bodies of the dead were brought in by the truckload for burial. The loneliness of these burials stabbed the heart. Thoughts about these dead and the living ran through one’s mind. We knelt and prayed as the chaplains read the services. We were happy for the great opportunity to be able to pray for those who had died in the moments before victory. The first Catholic mass was said ashore on the next day, Sunday, at the dressing station of the 22nd Marine Regiment. This was a truly solemn moment even though there were no stained glass windows and marble columns, or the peal of the organ.
The early days and nights on an assault beachhead were all of one pattern. The enemy could always be counted upon to try a break-through. They continued to be masters of infiltration at night. Freedom of movement at night was closely restricted. Bullets whizzed through the coconut trees at our CP at night. Carbines crackled all around the camp. Even the beat of the surf seemed magnified. During the day, snipers were active. Although they seemed to be everywhere, their marksmanship was bad. Those early days were a matter of survival. One had to work continually on the foxhole because it always seemed to require attention.
Behind the Lines
The routine of life behind the fluid front lines consisted of cooking boxed rations (ten in one package) over a fire and beating the flies away; of washing in a shellhole or bomb crater where the explosion had dug out the earth to depths below the water table; of souvenir hunting; of tasting captured Jap food; of watching the cemetery grow; in general, of living under a strain in intense heat. These were days of not being able to take one’s clothes off or even wanting to; of realizing, on seeing some of the wounded, what it really takes to kill a man; of realizing, too, that war is a business where one kills to keep alive; of living in a hole and sleeping in a jungle hammock; of Jap mines exploding on the reef as the unloading continued; of lying wide awake through long artillery barrages; of more nights made ghastly by the flares.
On trips to the shore from the CP we had to cross the road lying just behind the beach along which supplies were sent to the front. Back from the front, this road was the last journey for some as they were brought to the cemetery. The wounded, trekked back along it to the hospital tents. One day, as we crossed the road, a group of reinforcements was walking up to the front from a rest area. In the filade, there was a young lad with blonde hair. He was carrying his helmet, and called further attention to himself because one of his trouser legs was cut off at the knee. He was smiling while carrying the usual pack and trudging through the ruts of the road. We hailed him with a “Howdy.” He returned our salute with an even broader grin. He stands out now in our minds, as he did then, because of his smile, the one-legged pair of trousers and his flaxen hair. We passed on and over to the beach.
In combat, the comradeship of men is a remarkable phenomenon. Man rises above his selfishness in those critical hours. There is a deep reverence, a weighty obligation felt in our hearts for those who die in the moments before victory. Those whose eyes see the victory, hunger for the rebirth of the spirit that will wash away the mud, the blood, the struggle, and the strife in which they perished. We will be forever humbly grateful to those both living and dead, who made the victory possible.