Of the many tough little actions that have been overshadowed by greater events, one was Peleliu. The invasion of the Philippines, of which it was a preliminary, Iwo Jima, and the rest that followed it have left it a footnote in the Pacific War. But it was tough, as anyone that was there will tell you, tough on anyone who had anything to do with it. The story of the Marines, charging in against heavy underground fortifications, strong pillboxes invisible in the jungle brush, and the first real use of land mines, made one who looked things over afterwards shake one’s head and say, “It can’t be done!”
Then, too, one must remember the Sea Bee’s working on mortar shelled beaches, paving an airfield while still under fire, and their ceaseless struggle at the causeways against the sea. The beach crews handling supplies with spent bullets from each side dropping among them, and snipers in the brush at their elbows dropping them as they worked! They were all giants at Peleliu, and not to be overlooked were the LST’s and their crews.
On D-day they swept in, an armada in themselves, a flotilla seven miles long and a mile wide. They came in slowly, with a ponderous deliberation, hesitated a moment on the smooth, blue waters with the hot, morning sun of the tropics lighting up their green camouflage, to drop their boats. Below, in the tank decks, the amtracks warmed up their motors, the exhaust fans on the LST’s adding to the uproar, while white-faced assault Marines made their way to their vehicles. The LST’s moved on again, parallel to the shore, making a sudden right turn, like soldiers on a parade, before their allotted beaches. The huge steel doors in the bows opened, the ramps, like thirsty tongues, dropped into the water as if to lap it up. Behind them the guns of the big fellows started pounding. The small, beach control craft darted to their stations, and planes swept low over the beach line. The rocket gunboats moved in spitting flame and the shore line became lost in smoke and debris.
As if stopped by and unseen hand the LST’s came to a halt. Out of the first line came the amtracks, first the LVT-A’s with turret and cannon, then the troop carriers. One every ten seconds crawled out of the landing vessels into the water, each vessel from its mouth. Like busy water bugs, the amtracks circled close until, shepherded by the ship’s boats, they moved off towards the line of departure.
The first line of LST’s swung and moved clear so that the second line could come up and discharge, like soldiers in the old days who fired their single shot then ran back to the rear of their file to reload while the next man fired.
But their work was far from done. Back in the rear area they had other craft to set afloat. On the sides of some, like packs on a pack horse, were barges and causeways that had to be dropped into the water and sent where needed. Others carried hundred-foot LCT’s on their decks that had to be launched by listing the ships and skidding them into the sea. Once that was done they moved in again towards the beaches, for their work was a long way from done. The tank decks of some became repair shops for amtracks or landing craft, other hoisted the medical flag and became emergency hospitals. From the beach came boats and amtracks hunting for food, water, or ammunition. The crews of the landing ships left their guns or their bunks to break out whatever was called for, sending it down in sling loads into the waiting boats. At the same time the smaller craft of the invasion, SC’s, PC’s, minesweepers, and LCT, commenced to come alongside for water, fuel, and food.
Ashore the battle went on. Out where the LST’s lay the water remained calm and smooth but between the two was a condition that threatened disaster – the beach was all wrong! The reefs were flat, strewn with coral heads and boulders, too shallow to allow landing craft to pass over even at high water and too deep to allow causeways to be built quickly. Cargo had to be transferred at the reef edge to amtracks for the final bumpy, lurching passage to dry land, a slow and costly business.
On the other side of the island was a beach, by no means perfect but one which could be used. The Japs foresaw it, in fact expected the landing to be made there and were prepared for it. All about were mines, in the water, on the beach and the ground behind the beach. There were Japs in pillboxes that could sweep it, and in the caverns in the hills were guns trained on the spot. The Marines had to sweep across the island to secure the spot, ferret out the guns in the hill sides and eliminate the pillboxes. Then came the job of finding the mines and disposing of them, after which the demolition squad moved in, blasting a way through the coral shelf, breaking up the dangerous coral heads under the water while snipers sneaked in every night to do what harm they could. The CB’s came around and fixed the causeways, then the weather changed.
Sullen swells crept in from the South-west where a typhoon was making up. Gloomy clouds swept across the face of the previously smiling sky, the wind came up. As weather it was not bad, a ship at anchor would not have put out extra chain, but its result on the beaches was a disaster. Huge breakers curled and broke on the beach, ripping up the causeways and making it impossible for the usual craft supplying the beach to land. The Marines could not stop eating nor fighting, they had to have food and ammunition, and the only thing that could work in any fashion through the surf were the LST’s.
So six of them were left behind to carry the supplies the last, crucial hundred yards into the beach. They lay behind and watched the rest of the flotilla move off, rumor had it, to invade the Philippines. The six became pack horses instead of war horses and they didn’t like it, from the Commanding Officer down to the newest seaman.
It was not easy duty. The ships were not constructed for it. They were so high-sided that when they lay alongside another vessel they caved in their sides, crumpled the bridge wings, and turned their boat davits into masses of twisted steel. There was no quiet anchorage in which they could work, there was no anchorage at all. They loaded out in open sea, the ships secured together moving slowly up and down parallel to the island as they worked. The surging vessels snapped lines and brushed off fenders. Crews were kept busy day and night splicing lines, and wires snapped so fast that they had to be held together with wire clamps.
Beaching was even worse, strong currents swept across the beach making the approach difficult. Once upon it the breakers would sometimes pick up the bows and crash them down on the hard coral. Unsuspected coral heads forced dents in their bottoms, sometimes piercing them, the stern anchors seldom held. The bottom of the LST-19 became so battered that one of her shafts was 2.5 inches out of line, the other 1.5 inches. Only by taking out all intermediate bearings and playing water on the end bearings was she able to use her motors at all.
Then it came, what all were expecting. It was not much wind, no stronger than a stiff trade wind. It caught three LST’s on the beach at low tide, and two broached as the tide came up, swinging into the ragged coral, ripping open their bottoms and taking weeks and excellent salvage work to get them off. The third, at the other side of the island, caught at Anguar Island but got clear with 5-ton door was loose, swinging open and its capture both exciting and dangerous.
So, in the matter of a few hours, the little group was cut down to three, and the already behind schedule of supplies was cut down entirely until the wind blew itself out. The small landing craft littered the beaches hopelessly wrecked, some half-buried in the sand, others shattered against the coral ledges. The island was short of both food and ammunition, so the remaining vessels, despite the heavy swells, had to lay alongside the transports, crashing in their already battered sides still furthers, then beach at the causeways the CB’s worked night and day to make useable. As soon as the surf allowed, the LST’s came in, rolling, lurching, fighting, the cross currents and ground swells as they attempted to get their bows to the causeways so they could discharge. Sometimes one coming in would be flung bodily against one already beached, ripping jagged holes in her side. By then the coral bench on which they beached was worn smooth by the ships sliding up, there was no grip for the ships, and the surf would work them slowly to one side or the other a fraction of an inch each wave. One and a quarter inch towing cables were put out in an effort to stop the creeping, but even they snapped. The strain on everyone was terrible, food, eater, fuel were all low, some ships running on less than a day’s ration ahead. Each Commanding Officer watched his straining crew and battered, shapeless ship, wondering when it would be its turn to be washed up on the beach with the others. It was just a question of time, but they kept on fighting the sea just as stubbornly as the men ashore fought the Japs less than a mile away until job was done.
They were all giants at Peleliu.