With the Old Breed (9 page)

I always had the feeling that sailors looked on Marine infantrymen as though we were a bit crazy, wild, or reckless. Maybe we were. But maybe we had to develop a don't-give-a-damn attitude to keep our sanity in the face of what we were about to endure.

In the ranks, we knew little about the nature of the island that was our objective. During a training lecture on Pavuvu we learned that Peleliu must be taken to secure Gen. Douglas MacArthur's right flank for his invasion of the Philippines, and that it had a good airfield that could support MacArthur. I don't recall when we heard the name of the island, although we viewed relief maps and models during lectures. (It had a nice sounding name, Pel’ e loo.) Although our letters from Pavuvu were carefully censored, our officers apparently feared taking a chance on some character writing in code to someone back home that we were to hit an island named Peleliu. As a buddy said to me later, however, no one back home would have known where to look for it on a map anyway.

The Palaus, the westernmost part of the Caroline Islands chain, consist of several large islands and more than a hundred smaller ones. Except for Angaur in the south and a couple of small atolls in the north, the whole group lies within an encircling coral reef About five hundred miles to the west lie the southern Philippines. To the south at about the same distance is New Guinea.

Peleliu, just inside the Palau reef is shaped like a lobster s claw, extending two arms of land. The southern arm reaches northeastward from flat ground to form a jumble of coral islets and tidal flats overgrown thickly with mangroves. The
longer northern arm is dominated by the parallel coral ridges of Umurbrogol Mountain.

North to south, the island is about six miles long, with a width of approximately two miles. On the wide, largely flat southern section, the Japanese had constructed an airfield shaped roughly like the numeral 4. The ridges and most of the island outside the airfield were thickly wooded; there were only occasional patches of wild palms and open grass areas. The thick scrub so completely masked the true nature of the terrain that aerial photographs and pre–D day photos taken by United States submarines gave intelligence officers no hint of its ruggedness.

The treacherous reef along the landing beaches and the heavily defended coral ridges inland made the invasion of Peleliu a combination of the problems of Tarawa and of Saipan. The reef over six hundred yards long, was the most formidable natural obstacle. Because of it, troops and equipment making the assault had to be transported in amtracs; Higgins boats could not negotiate across the rough coral and the varying depths of water.

Before leaving Pavuvu, we had been told that the 1st Marine Division would be reinforced to about 28,000 men for the assault on Peleliu. As every man in the ranks knew, however, a lot of those people included in the term
reinforced
were neither trained nor equipped as combat troops. They were specialists attached to the division to implement the landing and supply by working on ships and later on the beaches. They would not be doing the fighting.

Upon sailing for Peleliu, the 1st Marine Division numbered 16,459 officers and men. (A rear echelon of 1,771 remained on Pavuvu.) Only about 9,000 were infantrymen in the three infantry regiments. Intelligence sources estimated that we would face more than 10,000 Japanese defenders on Peleliu. The big topic of conversation among us troops had to do with those comparative strengths.

“Hey, you guys, the lieutenant just told me that the 1st Division is gonna be the biggest Marine division to ever make a
landing. He says we got reinforcements we never had before.”

A veteran looked up from cleaning his .45 automatic and said, “Boy, has that shavetail lieutenant been smoke-stacking you!”

“Why?”

“Use your head, buddy. Sure we got the 1st Marines, the 5th Marines, and the 7th Marines; them's infantry. The 11th Marines is our division artillery. Where the hell's all them people who is supposed to ‘reinforce’ the division? Have you seen 'em? Who the hell are they, and where the hell are they?”

“I don't know, I'm just telling you what the lieutenant said.”

“Well, I'll tell you who them ‘reinforcements’ is. They's all what they call specialists, and they ain't line company Marines. Remember this, buster. When the stuff hits the fan, and you and me are trying to live through that shootin’ and the shellin’, them damned specialists'll be settin’ on they cans back at division CP [command post] on the beach, writin’ home about how war is hell. And who is gonna have all the casualties and lose all the men fightin’ the Nips? The 1st Marines, the 5th Marines, and the 7th Marines'll all catch hell, and the 11th Marines'll lose some men too. Wake up, boy, them shavetail lieutenants is as useless as tits on a boar hog. The NCOs run things when the shootin’ starts.”
*

After evening chow on 14 September 1944, a buddy and I leaned against the rail of LST 661 and talked about what we would do after the war. I tried to appear unconcerned about
the next day, and he did too. We may have fooled each other and ourselves a little, but not much. As the sun disappeared below the horizon and its glare no longer reflected off a glassy sea, I thought of how beautiful the sunsets always were in the Pacific. They were even more beautiful than over Mobile Bay. Suddenly a thought hit me like a thunderbolt. Would I live to see the sunset tomorrow? My knees nearly buckled as panic swept over me. I squeezed the railing and tried to appear interested in our conversation.

The ships in the convoy turned into dark hulks gliding along as the squawk box interrupted our conversation, “Now
hear this. Now hear this.” Talking quietly in pairs and small groups, the men around us seemed to pay more than the usual attention to the command. “All troops lay below to quarters. All troops lay below to quarters.”

My buddy and I went to our forecastle compartment. One of our NCOs sent a work party to another compartment to draw rations and ammunition. After it returned, our lieutenant came in, gave us “at ease,” and said he had some things to say. His brow was knit, his face drawn, and he looked worried.

“Men, as you probably know, tomorrow is D day. General Rupertus says the fighting will be extremely tough but short. It will be over in four days, maybe three. A fight like Tarawa. It's going to be rough but fast. Then we can return to a rest area.

“Remember what you've been taught. Keep your heads down going in on the amtrac. A lot of unnecessary casualties at Saipan were the result of men looking over the side to see what was happening. As soon as the amtrac stops on the beach, get out on the double, and get off the beach fast. Keep out of the way of amtracs on their way back out to pick up more troops from the supporting waves. Our tanks will be coming in behind us, too. The drivers have their hands full and can't dodge around the infantry, so you keep out of their way. Get off the beach fast! The Japs will plaster it with everything they've got, and if we get pinned down on the beach, artillery and mortars will ruin us.

“Have your weapons ready because the Japs always try to stop us at the beach line. They may meet us at the beach with bayonets as soon as our naval gunfire barrage lifts and moves inland. So come out of the amtracs ready for anything. Have a round in the chamber of your small arms and lock your pieces [snap on the safety]. Have the canister containers of your high-explosive mortar rounds untaped and stowed in your ammo bags ready for immediate use as soon as we are called on to deliver fire on the company front. Fill your canteens, draw rations and salt tablets, and clean your weapons. Reveille will be before daylight, and H hour will be at 0830.
Hit the sack early. You will need the rest. Good luck and carry on.”

He left the compartment and the NCOs issued us ammo, K rations, and salt tablets.

“Well,” said one man, “that scuttlebutt we heard during maneuvers on Guadalcanal about how this blitz gonna be rough but fast must be true if the division CG says so.”

“San Antone,” muttered a Texan. “Imagine, only four, maybe three days for a battle star. Hell, I can put up with anything for no longer than that.”

He reflected the feelings of most of us, and we were encouraged by the commanding general's announcement confirming the oft-repeated “rough but fast” rumors we had been hearing.
*
We kept trying to convince ourselves that the CG knew what he was talking about. We all dreaded a long, protracted campaign that would drag on beyond endurance like Guadalcanal and Cape Gloucester. Our morale was excellent, and we were trained for anything no matter how rough. But we prayed that we could get it over with in a hurry.

We sat on our sacks, cleaned our weapons, packed our combat packs, and squared away our gear. Throughout history, combat troops of various armies have carried packs weighing many pounds into action; but we traveled light, carrying only absolute necessities—the way fast-moving Confederate infantry did during the Civil War.

My combat pack contained a folded poncho, one pair of socks, a couple of boxes of K rations, salt tablets, extra carbine ammo (twenty rounds), two hand grenades, a fountain pen, a small bottle of ink, writing paper in a waterproof wrapper, a toothbrush, a small tube of toothpaste, some photos of my folks along with some letters (in a waterproof wrapper), and a dungaree cap.

My other equipment and clothing were a steel helmet covered with camouflaged-cloth covering, heavy green dungaree jacket with a Marine emblem and
USMC
dyed above it on the left breast pocket, trousers of the same material, an old toothbrush for cleaning my carbine, thin cotton socks, ankle-high boondockers, and light tan canvas leggings (into which I tucked my trouser legs). Because of the heat, I wore no Skivvy drawers or shirt. Like many men, I fastened a bronze Marine emblem to one collar for good luck.

Attached to my web pistol belt, I carried a pouch containing a combat dressing, two canteens, a pouch with two fifteen-round carbine magazines—clips, we called them, and a fine brass compass in a waterproof case. My kabar hung in its leather sheath on my right side. Hooked over the belt by its spoon (handle), I carried a grenade. I also had a heavy-bladed knife similar to a meat cleaver that my dad had sent me; I used this to chop through the wire braces wrapped around the stout crates of 60mm mortar shells.

On the stock of my carbine I fastened an ammo pouch with two extra clips. I carried no bayonet, because the model carbine I had lacked a bayonet lug. Onto the outside of my pack, I hooked my entrenching tool in its canvas cover. (The tool proved useless on Peleliu, because of the hard coral.)

All officers and men dressed much the same. The main differences among us were in the type of web belt worn and the individual weapon carried.

We tried to appear unconcerned and talked about anything but the war. Some wrote last latters.

“What are you going to do after the war, Sledgehammer?” asked a buddy sitting across from me. He was an extremely intelligent and intellectually active young man.

“I don't know, Oswalt. What are you planning to do?”

“I want to be a brain surgeon. The human brain is an incredible thing; it fascinates me,” he replied.

But he didn't survive Peleliu to realize his ambition.

Slowly the conversations trailed off, and the men hit the sack. It was hard to sleep that night. I thought of home, my parents, my friends—and whether I would do my duty, be
wounded and disabled, or be killed. I concluded that it was impossible for me to be killed, because God loved me. Then I told myself that God loved us all and that many would die or be ruined physically or mentally or both by the next morning and in the days following. My heart pounded, and I broke out in a cold sweat. Finally, I called myself a damned coward and eventually fell asleep saying the Lord's Prayer to myself.

I seemed to have slept only a short time when an NCO came into the compartment saying, “OK, you guys, hit the deck.” I felt the ship had slowed and almost stopped. If only I could hold back the hands of the clock, I thought. It was pitch dark with no lights topside. We tumbled out, dressed and shaved, and got ready for chow—steak and eggs, a 1st Marine Division tradition honoring a culinary combination learned from the Australians. Neither the steak nor the eggs was very palatable, though; my stomach was tied in knots.

Back in my compartment, a peculiar problem had developed. Haney, who had been one of the first to return from chow about forty-five minutes earlier, had ensconced himself on the seat of one of the two toilets in the small head on our side of the compartment. There he sat, dungaree trousers down to his knees, his beloved leggings laced neatly over his boondockers, grinning and talking calmly to himself while smoking a cigarette. Nervous Marines lined up using the other toilet one after another. Some men had been to the head on the other side of the compartment while others, in desperation, dashed off to the heads in other troop compartments. The facilities in our compartment normally were adequate, but D day morning found us all nervous, tense, and afraid. The veterans already knew what I was to find out: during periods of intense fighting, a man might not have the opportunity to eat or sleep, much less move his bowels. All the men grumbled and scowled at Haney, but because he was a gunnery sergeant, no one dared suggest he hurry. With his characteristic detachment, Haney ignored us, remained unhurried, and left when he pleased.