Battle Cry (60 page)

Excited troops of the Second Marines clambered topside to their landing stations.

“I hope the Navy left some Japs for us.”

“Man, what a hammering they gave old Helen.”

“Now hear this, now hear this: Team One, over the side.”

“Let’s go, boys, over the side.”

“Man, I bet the pogey bait Sixth is burning up.”

“That’s us, always a bride, never a bridesmaid.”

“Come on, you guys, step it up.”

Fifteen minutes before the Second Marines were scheduled to hit Blue Beach, a platoon of picked men, the Scouts and Snipers, was sent in to clear the long pier on Betio. It ran between Blue Beach Two and Blue Beach Three and jutted out from the island for five hundred yards, running over the reef to deep water. The pier had been used to unload supplies and also as a seaplane ramp.

Scouts and Snipers, under command of rugged Lieutenant Roy, closely resembled the Raiders in operation.

The battle plan unfolded in the minutes before H-Hour. The big warships withdrew and left only the relative quiet of the destroyers pounding the immediate landing area. Minesweepers were operating in the lagoon. The Second Marines were in their landing craft and circled the control boat like Indians circling a covered-wagon train. Then they began the perilous transfer to the alligators. The first setback beamed into the operations room of the flagship
Maryland
. The smoke screen had to be called off. The wind was in the wrong direction.

Tod Philips fumed. He wanted smoke cover for the assault wave. He asked for a time check as heavy bombers were due from Samoa to pattern-bomb Betio with daisycutters, missiles which exploded, scattering shrapnel over the ground. The second setback came in. The planes were overloaded and had been forced to turn back after losses while taking off.

As the Second Marines continued their transfer to the alligators the sky became an umbrella of dive bombers and strafing planes which roared in at treetop level, raking and pinpointing Helen from one end to the other. Suddenly, with only half their passes made, the planes returned to their carriers. It had proved impossible to bomb Helen effectively. The flame and smoke were too thick to see targets on the island.

Without a single shot having been fired by the enemy, the operations room of the
Maryland
became uneasy. As the fighter planes moved back, the control board radioed: W
E HAVE LOST SEVEN ALLIGATORS AND ALL PERSONNEL IN TRANSFERRING TROOPS FROM LANDING CRAFT
.

The shock of the drowning of over a hundred men fell hard on the steamy, smoke-filled operations room aboard the flagship. Foul Ball Philips bit his cigar in half. The confused aides looked to the generals and Admiral Parks for instructions.

“Deploy the remaining alligators and stand by,” General Philips ordered calmly.

It was no Kiska! A strange silence fell after the roaring attack and we waited breathlessly as the Second Marines straightened their line of alligators to move in. Then the room shook! I was smashed into a bulkhead. Danny tumbled on top of me. We got to our feet, dazed. The sailors about us were pale and white lipped.

The Japs were firing back!

We looked into each other’s anxious eyes. We were shocked out of our complacency. The Division was in for a fight.

“I can’t understand it,” Admiral Parks complained aboard the
Maryland
at about the same time. “We hit them with everything in the book.”

“Goddammit to hell, Parks,” Philips roared, “those are eight-inch coastal guns they are shooting at us. Get them out of there before they hit a transport!”

“Move the
Mobile
and
Birmingham
in on target O-T, immediately.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“I don’t understand it,” Parks repeated.

General Bryant, the Division commander, leaned forward. I’ll explain it to you, Admiral. Naval guns shoot flat trajectories. They don’t shoot underground.”

Philips banged his fat fist on the table. “Good God, do you realize we may not have killed a single Jap bastard during the whole bombardment?”

“Any word from Roy’s Scouts and Snipers?”

“No, sir. They are still standing by.”

“We better not send them into that pier until we get those coastal guns out,” Bryant said. “British guns they took from Singapore. The British make good guns.”

A pale and trembling aide stepped up to the table. “Sir,” he sputtered, “we knocked out our own radios during the bombardment. We are out of communication.”

“Use flares, anything, man! Use walkie-talkies. But stay in with the control boat.”

“We are in for it, Tod,” Bryant whispered.

“Sir, the destroyer
Ringgold
has been hit in the lagoon.”

“How badly?”

“They said they’ll stay in till they run out of ammo or sink.”

“Good. Order them to keep firing.”

Philips turned to a sweating aide. “Send in Roy’s Scouts and Snipers. Have
Wilson
stand by.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We can’t hold off H-Hour forever. I hope to God our boys are right today, Don.”

The pent-up wrath of the Japanese burst on Lieutenant Roy’s platoon as it hit the end of the pier. They were caught in a murderous crossfire from the bunkers. The Scouts and Snipers dropped like flies as they edged up under the pilings toward Blue Beach. Roy worked like a madman to clear the enemy from their cover. He grenaded and bayoneted with his platoon through waist-deep water. He flushed the Japs from the pilings, put his foot on Blue Beach Two, and ducked behind the seawall. He turned to his radio operator.

“Tell them the pier is clear.”

“You’re hit,” the radioman said.

“Tell them that the pier is clear,” Roy repeated as he wrapped a bandage about his shattered arm and deployed the ten remaining men of the original fifty-five.

Finally the signal was given to proceed to the Blue Beaches.

As the alligators filled with Marines neared the edge of the barrier reef where the pier ended, they were greeted with an avalanche of gunfire. A load of men scrambled up on the pier. Inside of two minutes they all lay dead.

A correspondent touched the arm of a young boy and shouted into his ear as the slow, clumsy alligator bumbled its way through the bursting shrapnel. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Martini. Pfc Martini from San Francisco…I’m a machine gunner.”

“Are you scared, Martini?”

“Hell no. I’m a Marine!”

“How old are you, Martini?”

“Eighteen, sir….” The boy grabbed the newspaperman’s arm. “I’m scared sick, really, but I can’t let the other guys know….”

Those were his last words. The shell of a Jap dual purpose gun exploded inside the alligator.

Four alligators abreast moved in on Blue Beach One creeping up to the barrier reef. One rolled over under the impact of a direct hit, sending bodies and parts of bodies careening over the chalky waters. Another and another was hit and finally all four were gone.

“What’s going on in there?” Danny asked me.

“We haven’t heard from them yet, we don’t know,” I said.

Three alligators moved for Blue Beach Two. They became helplessly entangled in the rolls of barbed wire that jutted from the water. The Marines scrambled out and were machine gunned to death before they reached the beach.

“We haven’t heard from Colonel Carpe yet,” Bryant said.

“Let me see those dispatches,” Philips said.

“No word from him, sir, no word.”

An aide sprinted in and threw a message down:
Wilson White commander killed.

“Dammit! What is Carpe doing in there?”

“Sir, the
Ringgold
has been hit again. She moved in almost to the beach, knocking out some Jap 4.7s.”

“Any message from her?”

“The
Ringgold
says she’ll continue firing.”

Brigadier General Snipes rushed to the table and placed a message in Philips’ hands. It was from Colonel Carpe at Blue Beach Three. Carpe was running the operation from the beach.

O
PPOSITION OVERWHELMING.
W
E CAN’T HOLD.
E
IGHTY PER CENT CASUALTIES.
A
RE PINNED DOWN BEHIND THE SEAWALL.
S
END REINFORCEMENTS OR ELSE.

“How many alligators do we have left?”

“About twenty-five, sir.”

“Get the rest of
Wilson
in. Use the alligators first, then send them in with landing craft.”

“Tod!” Bryant shouted. “They’ll have to wade in from a mile out.”

“We have no choice.”

Pfc. Nick Mazoros, a lost radio operator, slushed through waist-deep water stumbling for cover from piling to piling under the pier. He struggled to keep his walkie-talkie above the salt water. A spray from the bullets whining around him sent up a shower. He fell into a pothole, sinking to his knees, then quickly bounced up. A crossfire ripped in. He fought to decide whether to dump his radio and go underwater for protection or try to make it in with her. He kept his radio. Mazoros dropped exhausted on Blue Beach Two dragging his body at last to the cover of the four-foot seawall of logs.

The commander ran up to him. “Is that radio working, son?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Sergeant! Take three men and escort this man to Colonel Carpe at Blue Beach Three. Stay close to the wall. We don’t want to lose that radio.”

“His hand is shot away,” the sergeant said pointing to Mazoros’ right arm.

“I’ll be O.K.,” Mazoros answered. “Let’s move out.”

The Second Marines’ desperate toehold on Betio consisted of fifteen yards of sand from the water to the seawall on Blue Beach Two and Three. On Blue Beach One it was twenty yards inland, dug into foxholes in the jagged coral. Carpe’s headquarters was behind the concrete wall of a blown-up Jap bunker which had been captured with the sacrifice of twenty Marine lives. The seawall which now protected the beleaguered assault wave might well turn out to mark their graves. To vault the seawall into Jap positions was madness. Every square inch of ground was covered by interlocking lanes of fire from the enemy. To go over the wall meant instant death; to stay behind it meant counterattack. They had only fifteen yards to retreat.

Carpe propped himself against the bunker and gave orders. The blood on his leg had dried and was beginning to smell putrid. He called on knowledge beyond his capabilities to hold off the impending disaster that was threatening the Second Marines.

Men came on to reinforce the slim beachhead. The story of the alligators was repeated. Shelled from the water, tangled in the barbed wire, strafed before they hit the beach…but on they came, slushing forward. The landing craft hooked up on the fringing reef a mile out and dropped their ramps. The waves of Second Marines plunged into neck-deep water, their rifles held at high port. They waded in.

A pilot in the spotter seaplane of the
Maryland
landed in the sea and scrambled up the Jacob’s ladder to the deck. He was hysterical. “I came right over their heads!” he screamed. “They are dropping in the water like flies but they keep moving in. They keep coming and the Japs riddle them…coming through the water with their rifles high!”

On they came. They marched the last mile in the lagoon silently. A Marine folded over…a deep red blot of blood swelled from him…the body slid down and bobbed in the rippling waves…the red faded into a larger pink circle. Yet on they came.

In the searing tropical day the landing craft buzzed to and from the transports rushing another load of lambs to the sacrificial altar. More Marines were dumped a mile out on the treacherous reef and waded into the never ceasing staccato of Japanese guns.

Carpe yelled to Mazoros, the radioman, “Dammit, son, can’t you get that thing working?”

“I’m sorry, sir. Salt water got into the battery and it’s ruined.”

Carpe grabbed his field phone as it rang. “Violet speaking,” he said.

“Hello, Carpe, this is Wilson White. The division band is coming in with stretchers and plasma.”

“What’s the situation over there?” Carpe asked.

“Bad. Our sector is littered with wounded. The corpsmen are doing the best they can.”

“How’s your ammo holding?”

“We’re getting low.”

“Have you got any TBY batteries? We can’t reach Rocky. I wonder if the dumb bastards know what the hell is going on in here.”

There was no answer.

“Hello, Wilson White, hello…this is Carpe…hello, goddammit!” He replaced the phone. “Runner, get to Wilson White and find out if their commander has been hit.”

A sergeant ran up to Carpe. “We spotted some TBY batteries over the wall, sir.”

“Over the wall? How the hell did they get there?”

“Damned if I know.”

Mazoros was on his feet.

“Where are you going, son?”

“To get those batteries.”

“Like hell you are. Get under cover—there’s a shortage of radio operators in these parts.”

Before the words had passed from Carpe’s lips, seven Marines were crawling up under a Jap machine gun where the batteries lay. Six got killed; one returned with the precious articles.

CHAPTER 3

WE
were locked in the hold. No one slept in the crammed quarters. There were whispers in the dim light, of men crouched on the edge of their bunks waiting for word from the Second Marines.

“We ought to be in there helping.”

“The poor bastards.”

A rifle dropped from an upper bunk startling everyone. A Marine worked his way over a pile of packs and boxes and wiped the sweat from his chest.

“Why can’t we make a night landing?”

“Them assholes on the
Maryland
don’t know what they’re doing.”

“Wonder if the Japs have counterattacked?”

I walked into the head and splashed my face with sticky salt water. It gave little relief. I wanted to sleep but there was sleep for no one. We waited sullen and tense for word from Blue Beach. I rubbed the stubble on my chin, thankful at least that I wouldn’t have to shave in the morning. If I didn’t get out of this goddam hold, I felt, soon I’d be too groggy to walk. I stepped into the hatchway. Andy grabbed me from behind.