All Original Written
Material copyright 1999, Dan Marsh; all original artwork
copyright 1999 by Louie Marsh. Please use with permission
only. |
|
2nd Raiders - Makin Raid Part
One
When I dropped Carlson off at the
rendezvous point, he found mass confusion. The darkness, foul
weather, and failure of most of the outboard motors made it
impossible to organize the boats into company formations as had been
planned, and Carlson quickly saw that if they were to make it to the
beach before dawn and have a semblance of control when they landed,
it would be necessary to alter the landing plan. Accordingly, he
decided to take both companies to the Same beach (Beach “Z”) and passed the word as
best he could for all boats to follow him.
Because the roar of the wind
precluded voice communication between boats and visibility was only
a few yards, the signal to head for the beach had to be relayed from
boat to boat. One of Carlson’s “word-passers” was Corporal John W.
Potter, Jr., one of my squad leaders. After finally getting his
balky motor started, Potter had been motoring around looking for
other Company “B” boats when he spotted Carlson a few yards away,
standing up in a pitching boat. Approaching Carlson to ask for
instructions, Potter was told to “circle around and up and down to
find as many boats as possible and send them straight to the beach.”
After carrying out this order as best he could, Potter went on to
the beach himself.
Communication difficulties
notwithstanding, all eventually headed their sodden rubber boats
toward the breakers, which now appeared as a luminescent line in the
darkness. Aided by the onshore current, the boats quickly covered
the distance from the rendezvous point to the surf line, where those
with functioning motors had little or no difficulty negotiating the
breakers. It was a different story, however, for those boats being
paddled, and many soon found themselves in trouble.
As Ben Carson of
Company “B” recalls the experience:
. . . we were not prepared for the action those first rollers
gave us. The surf was running high and as our boat rode up the first
wave we were turned sideways and ended up making a full circle
before we headed down the leeward side of the wave. Everybody in the
boat was doing his damnedest to keep the bow . . . . pointed to the beach, but
without verbal commands there was a lack of coordination and we made
several other complete turns before our surf trip was over. The
nearer we got to the beach the more each wave bent the rubber
boat . . . [and] about
fifty feet from shore a huge wave hit the rear of our boat and. . .
[I] and two others flew over the stern into the surf.
Carson’s experience was not
atypical of that of many boats, paddled or motored, and several
Raiders ended up in the surf, although not always as a result of
wave action. One such dunking might be said to have been the result
of “command influence.”
Then Private, first class,
Fred E. Kemp remembers that as his boat (carrying, among others,
Major Roosevelt, Private, first class, Harold E. Ryan, and Private
Olan C. Mitchell) neared the beach, Roosevelt ordered, “Point over
the side!”
Kemp, riding in the bow,
cautioned, “Not yet, too deep,” but in the same breath Ryan,
instantly obedient to the voice of authority, jumped over the side
and disappeared in the foam. As the next wave broke and flattened
shoreward, the top of a head appeared in the clear water, and Kemp
grabbed a handful of hair and pulled upward. Next a pair of hands
reached out, and Ryan was pulled into the boat, minus helmet,
weapon, and web belt, but otherwise unharmed. Although there
probably were several close calls such as Carson’s and Ryan’s, there
is no evidence to indicate that anyone drowned during the
landing.
In spite of the effects of
wind, current, waves, and the ragged departure, 17 of the 20 boats
landed more or less together on a 200-yard stretch of the designated
beach. My boat landed about half a mile to the southwest; that of
Corporal Harris J. Johnson’s 3d Squad, 2d Platoon, Company “A,”
landed about 200 yards to the southwest; and that of Sergeant
William I. Yount’s 1st Machine Gun Section, Weapons Platoon, Company
“B,” landed about a mile to the northeast. In addition, there were
the two derelict boats that washed ashore southwest of where I
landed. Although badly intermingled, both companies had landed more
or less on time (around 0500) and, as far as they knew, undetected.
Carlson prudently ordered security to be posted on higher ground
(about five feet above sea level) behind the beach and under its
protection began to sort out the landing force.
At 0513 the landing party
established voice radio communication with the Nautilus, and there seemed
to have been every reason to feel optimistic. Unknown to Carlson,
however, the poor communications between boat teams in the
rendezvous area had begun to influence the course of events.
As Carlson was attempting to
orient himself and to sort out and reorganize the Raiders who had
landed with or near him, about one-fourth of his total force (at
least three rifle squads, a machine gun section, and an antitank
section) was already seeking out the enemy, either on its own
initiative or in accordance with the original plan. As a consequence
of these independent actions and those subsequently directed by
Carlson, the two companies remained intermingled to a significant
degree during most of the day’s fighting.
The original scheme of
maneuver had called for Company “B” to land its two platoons abreast
on Beach “Z”, with the 2d Platoon an the right. Upon landing, the 2d
Platoon was immediately to move across the island to Government
Wharf, securing Government House enroute, then face left and advance
to the southwest, maintaining contact with the 1st Platoon on its
left. Now, some boat teams, unaware of a change of plan or need to
reorganize, went ahead with the missions for which they had trained
at Barber’s Point.
Typical of this conditioned
response was the action of Joe Griffith’s Government House detail
(most of the Company “B” Raiders embarked aboard the Argonaut). In the absence of
instructions to the contrary, this group landed and moved
immediately on its primary objective. Ben Carson remembers that,
after finally struggling to the beach, the first person he saw was
Gunnery Sergeant Lang. standing there:
. . . directing Raiders to their primary targets and he
indicated to me to head toward the right down the beach which was
the direction of the Government House. I finally caught up with my
special squad and directly we could see the outline of the
Government House . . . we approached the building [and] I noticed
the door was open. I cautiously approached. . . and looked in—the place was
abandoned. I rapidly sped around the corner . . . and was waved on toward . .
. [Government] Wharf.]
Likewise, the boat team that included the Company “B”
antitank section (Sergeant Walter D. “Tiny” Carroll and Private Dean
G. Winters) and Corporal Edward R. Wygal’s machine gun section
deployed as it had trained. This group was the last to disembark
from the Nautilus and
because of a nonfunctioning motor did not go to the rendezvous
point. Instead, it headed directly for the beach and, landing about
100 yards to the right of the main body, moved to the north side of
the road and headed west, looking for its company.
Sergeant William I. Yount’s
boat team, which landed a mile or so to the right of Beach “Z,” also
moved inland to the road and headed west, looking for friendly
faces. It was not until around 0700, however, that it finally found
them near Government House. There Carlson ordered them to set up the
machine guns on the windward side of the command post and await
orders from him.
The Company “A” boat team that
landed apart from the main body had encountered considerable
difficulty in the surf and, except for a few stragglers from another
boat, found itself alone when it reached the beach. At that point,
according to the recollection of Private Murphree (Craven), Sergeant
Faulkner, 2d Platoon guide, took charge:
We headed for the middle of the island and when we came to
the road. . . headed north, with half the squad on each side. . . .
. Just as it was breaking daylight we sighted a bicycle coming up
the road. When he got even with us we stepped out into the road and
stopped him. We had with us a lieutenant [Holtom] who spoke Japanese
fluently, and he said the sign on the bicycle read “Japanese Chief
of Police.”.
Sergeant Faulkner told two
guys to guard him until we came back, and we continued on around the
small curve in the road toward Government House. As we went around
the curve we heard a shot that was the first I heard that
morning.
Distracted by the sound of the unexpected gunshots, the two
men guarding the prisoner momentarily took their eyes off him, and
he made a break for freedom. The Japanese policeman covered only a
few yards, however, before the Raiders opened fire and killed the
only prisoner to be taken in the operation.
It was now around 0530, and
dawn was breaking. On the beach, the reorganization had been
progressing well; however, Murphy’s Law (If anything can go wrong,
it will.) had continued to work against Carlson. Just when it had
seemed that in a few more minutes the operation would be more or
less back on track, one of the automatic riflemen had carelessly
discharged his weapon. Assuming that this burst of fire, its sound
so uncharacteristic of Japanese weapons, surely had alerted the
garrison and would bring a quick reaction, Carlson precipitately
issued an order that violated the spirit, if not the letter, of the
philosophy of command he had preached throughout the organization
and training of the 2d Raider Battalion.
Now, notwithstanding Company
“B” having trained to operate in the area behind Beach “Z” and being
familiar with the relative locations of key objectives, Carlson
seemed to abandon, at least temporarily, his philosophy of command
and ordered the commander of company “A,” First Lieutenant Plumley,
“to move his company across the island, seize the road on the lagoon
side, and report our [sicj location with relation to the
wharves.”
Carlson believed a thorough
understanding of orders--what they were and what was expected—to be
the only basis for command, and if orders are not thoroughly
understood, then the commander is to blame. Once it became common
knowledge in the battalion that he deemed it a mortal sin for an
officer to give an order that was misunderstood, the men naturally
sought to turn this to their advantage. It became not at all
uncommon for a malefactor, brought on the carpet for some sin of
omission or commission, to offer in extenuation “Sir, I didn’t
understand the order.” and thereby divert the colonel’s wrath onto
the officer accuser.
Being uncertain
as to his location on the island, Carlson understandably would have
wanted to orient himself before taking further action; however, his
choice of Company “A” to execute this mission seems to have been
almost guaranteed to add to the already existing confusion. With
most of Company “A” now deploying into the objective area of Company
“B,” part of which was even then attempting to carry out its
originally assigned mission, and where a squad from Company “A” was
looking for action on its own, it is small wonder that the picture
Joe Griffith recalls over the years is one of “mass confusion.” Once
joined, the battle was largely without central control and quickly
resolved itself into what Platoon Sergeant Melvin J. Spotts of the
1st Platoon, Company “A,” described as “more or less a free-for-all,
with every man trying to get his score of Japs before they ran
out.”
Plumley quickly relayed
Carlson’s order to Second Lieutenant Wilfred S. Le Francois, his 1st
Platoon commander, who immediately started across the island with
his platoon in a column of squads. Ahead of the column went a scout
group under the platoon guide, Sergeant Clyde Thomason, and Platoon
Sergeant Melvin J. Spotts brought up the rear, dropping off a man
every 50 yards to guide the rest of the company.
The scout group soon crossed
the island and found itself at Government Wharf, only a few yards
from Government House. The wharf apparently was no longer in use,
for it was it a state of extreme disrepair and no boats were tied up
at it. Only a short distance to the southwest, between the road and
the lagoon, could be seen a cluster of several native huts. Corporal
Howard A. Young, the lead scout, recalls that “It was not yet dawn,
but the natives were stirring. They did not know we were there and
came out of their huts to relieve themselves and stretch. A few were
singing softly. It was a very peaceful scene.”
Meanwhile. the rest of the
platoon was following in trace of the scout group, carefully
checking the occasional native hut for occupancy as they advanced.
“About 200 yards inland,” wrote Mel Spotts, “Lieutenant Le Francois
and Sergeant Lenz or Thomason [probably Lenz since Thomason was with
the reconnaissance group] went into a small house to investigate it.
On coming out they were mistaken for Japs and some of our men opened
fire on them. Lucky for them the shots went wild and no one was
hurt.”
In an article published in the
12/4/43 issue of The Saturday
Evening Post, Le Francois places this incident at Government
House and the shooter as Lieutenant Lamb; however, Howard Young
questions that location, he having been with Le Francois when he
searched Government House.
The “who” and “where” aside, however, it was even luckier than
Mel Spotts could have imagined that there were not more such
“friendly” firefights as the Raiders stumbled about in the
semi-darkness, largely ignorant of one another’s whereabouts and
prone to shoot first and ask questions later. For example, in the
immediate vicinity of Government House at about the same time, were
part of the Government House detail from Company “B,” Faulkner’s
group, Le Francois’s platoon, and several others. “Loose cannons”
suggests itself as a not inappropriate metaphor for such largely
uncontrolled activity, and that they did not collide is
amazing.
When the scout group returned
with confirmation of their location relative to Government Wharf
and Government House, Le
Francois relayed this information to Plumley and was
instructed to check the building for occupancy. Accompanied by Young
and Corporal Ladislaus A. Piskor, leader of the 1st Squad, Le
Francois warily moved up to the building and found it empty, just as
Ben Carson had found it a few minutes earlier. The only indication
of recent occupancy was the Japanese flag flying from a pole in
front of the building. Piskor and Young quickly converted the flag
into souvenirs of
somewhat dubious value by the simple expedient of hauling it down
and tearing it in half.
Later in the morning, Captain
Davis, the battalion demolition and engineer officer, would attempt
to hoist the Stars and Stripes on this same pole. When the flag was
at about half-mast, Davis suddenly found himself the target of some long-range sniper
fire. Although none of the shots was close enough even to be called
a “near miss,” their cumulative effect was enough to make him forget
his officer’s dignity and every thing he knew about flag etiquette.
Dropping the halyard and leaving the flag to fall where it would,
Captain Davis hightailed it for cover, providing thereby a bit of
comic relief for all present.
Back at the beach, however,
Carlson was still uncertain as to his location; his force was in
disarray; and he had lost the element of tactical surprise, if
indeed he had ever had it. At this time, if the 0543 message to the
Nautilus, “everything
lousy.” can be taken as a reliable indicator of his state of mind,
he was teetering on the brink of despair. However, when Plumley
reported at about 0545 that his point had located Government Wharf
and Government House had been occupied without opposition, Carlson’s
mood became more upbeat, and he revised the earlier, pessimistic
estimate of the situation.
At 0547 the Nautilus received the more
sanguine “Situation expected to be well in hand shortly”, and
Carlson, apparently now confident of his location and feeling
reasonably secure from surprise attack, ordered Plumley to deploy
across the island and advance to the southwest; Captain Coyte was to
hold Company “B” in reserve and provide security for the left
flank.
While Carlson was issuing his
operation order to the company commanders, Lieutenants Lamb and Le
Francois were talking with some natives—men, women, and
children—who, undoubtedly awakened by the gunfire. had come running
out of their huts and up the road to see what was happening.
Evidently having assumed that the firing had been by the Japanese on
maneuvers, they were quite surprised to come upon a group of armed
Americans standing near Government House. Soon, however, curiosity
overcame their surprise and natural shyness, and they became quite
friendly. Some of the natives could speak English, albeit brokenly,
and soon were telling the Raiders what they knew about the enemy
garrison and its disposition.
The natives were unanimous in
locating most of the Japanese at On Chong’s Wharf and a few on
Ukiangong Point, the southwestern tip of Butaritari; however, there
was wide divergence in their estimates of the garrison strength.
Some insisted that there were no more than 80 Japanese on the
island, while others were equally certain there were 150 or more.
All agreed, however, that there were no prepared defensive positions
ahead of the Raiders. They could not have known, however, that even
as they stood talking to the Raiders, Sergeant Major Kanemitsu’s men
were moving into position for a counterattack.
Later the natives were to tell
Carlson that the Japanese had had three days’ advance notice of our
raid, which was expected to come either at On Chong’s Wharf or at
Government Wharf. In preparation they had conducted frequent
maneuvers between the two wharves, had begun to post lookouts along
the windward beaches, and had assigned snipers to positions in the
tops of trees near Stone Pier, the approximate midpoint of the
anticipated area of operations. Strangely enough, however, they had
prepared no defensive positions behind the beaches they expected to
be attacked except, again according to the natives, the windward
beach opposite On Chong’s Wharf where some barbed wire had been
strung.
Given the extent and efficacy
of the pre-war Japanese intelligence net in the Hawaiian Islands and
a high probability that at least part of it was still operational in
the summer of 1942, it was not impossible that the enemy had
discovered or been able to deduce that a submarine-launched raid was
in the offing. After all, our “secret” operation had become the
topic of bar conversation, as Doctor MacCracken and I had discovered
on the morning of our departure from Pearl Harbor. Furthermore, it
might also have been the subject of “pillow talk” in suburban
Honolulu’s better brothels and of idle chatter in the waiting lines
at the “wham-bam-scram” mass-market establishments on downtown Hotel
Street.
Knowing of our capability to
conduct such raids, the size and speed of our submarines, and the
dates of departure of those capable of carrying troops, it would
have been a simple matter for the Japanese to calculate the earliest
date at which a raiding force could reach their most advanced
positions—Wake Island, the Marshall Islands, and the Gilbert
Islands—all nearly equidistant from Pearl Harbor. It seems, however,
quite improbable that, of the dozens of possible targets along the
arc of that radius, they would have been able to zero in on
Butaritari as our objective, a detail which even most of us hadn’t
known until after sailing.
Most likely the advanced
readiness posture of the Butaritari garrison was the result of the
general alert that had been broadcast to all Japanese units at the
time of our landing on Guadalcanal on August 7, and the final
deployment was not ordered until around 0500 on August 17, probably
when a lookout posted near Beach “Z” observed our landing. Having
begun then, the deployment of the garrison would have been almost
complete by 0530 when the hapless Raider carelessly discharged his
automatic rifle.
This conclusion is supported
by the facts: First, the garrison troops were full dressed, even to
neatly wrapped puttees, which indicates that their deployment had
been orderly and probably began soon after reveille (0600 local
time, 0500 standard)—coincidentally the time of our landing. Second,
that at 0615 (0515 standard) the garrison commander reported by
radio to his headquarters on Emidj that he was being attacked by an
enemy unit that had landed from two submarines. And finally, that
soon after 0530 my boat team was close enough to the road between
King’s Wharf and Stone Pier to have heard, if not seen, any movement
vehicular or pedestrian, in either direction, and there had been
none.
It was now broad daylight and
the natives, well rewarded for their cooperation with American
cigarettes and D-ration chocolate bars, wisely moved up the road to
the east and out of the area that soon was to become a battleground.
Lieutenant Lamb headed for the beach to convey to Carlson the latest
information on the enemy situation, and Le Francois turned full
attention to his own situation and the possible courses of action
open to him.
The inactivity of the enemy
was ominous and indicated a waiting ambush. There, of course, was no
thought of the 1st Platoon alone taking on the entire enemy force,
but they could continue on down the road and try to locate and
perhaps spring this ambush. On the other hand in the absence of
specific instructions to go farther, perhaps it would be better to
deploy in defensive positions at the present location and wait for
further developments, either orders from Carlson or movement by the
enemy.
Although Le Francois probably
didn’t realize it at that time, the 1st Platoon was not alone, and
his situation vis-à-vis the Japanese was not at all unfavorable. In
addition to his platoon with its attached light machine gun section,
several Company “B” units, including part of the Government House
detail, a light machine-gun section, and an antitank-rifle section,
were present in his sector and in position to support him. Thus,
when the battle was joined, he would have at his immediate disposal
the firepower of about a dozen automatic rifles, four .30-caliber
light machine guns, and a .55-caliber antitank rifle.
As Le Francois mulled over the
advantages and disadvantages of feasible courses of action, however,
the need for decision was taken from him. His walkie-talkie suddenly
came to life, and over the background static he recognized
Lieutenant Plumley’s voice ordering him to deploy his platoon on the
lagoon side of the road and advance southwest toward the Japanese
trading station near Stone Pier.
Uncertain as to the location
of the 2d Platoon but assuming that it was somewhere to his left and
in position to support him, Le Francois quickly deployed his platoon
into a wedge with the squads in column (Corporal Piskor’s 1st Squad
ahead in the center, Corporal Stanley F. Debosik’s 2d Squad behind
on the right, and Corporal Wittenberg’s 3d Squad behind on the left)
and sent out security—a fireteam to each flank and one at point.
Then, placing himself near the head of the 1st squad from where he
could see and control the point, he gave the signal to move out.
Platoon Sergeant Spotts again took up his position at the rear of
the formation.
For the first 600 yards or so
their route was through moderately restricted terrain—frequent low
marshy areas with fairly dense vegetation, which provided good
concealment for the advancing Raiders, and a cluster of a dozen or
so native huts. What was good concealment for one side, however, was
equally good for the other, and the advance was slowed as the point
and flankers thoroughly searched the bush and the huts for hidden
Japanese. Beyond the native settlement, the terrain opened up and
visibility improved. Good fields of fire lay on both sides of the
road; consequently, the rate of advance increased somewhat.
Suddenly the point fire team,
now ranging several yards in advance of the main body, took cover,
and the rest of the platoon followed their lead, at first not
knowing why. The reason soon became apparent, however, as they saw a
truck grind to a halt about 300 yards down the road and quickly
unload 15 or 20 soldiers who were soon joined by others already
there. Designated snipers undoubtedly had already taken up their
positions in the tree tops, from which they would have observed the
Raiders’ approach. After planting a large, rising-sun flag,
presumably to mark the center of their position and to serve as a
rallying point, the entire group of Japanese quickly deployed into
the bushes on either side of the road and began to move toward the
Raiders.
It was now around 0600 and, as
Kanemitsu’s skirmishers began their advance, Le Francois found
himself about to fight a classic, albeit small-scale, meeting
engagement instead of the ambush he had anticipated. Knowing that
the first commander to bring the most firepower to bear probably
would be the victor, he quickly called in his point and signaled to
Sergeant Thomason to bring the rest of the platoon forward on the
double. Then, having ensured that his point fire team had
successfully disengaged and was returning, he moved back a few yards
to a somewhat higher elevation that offered the best field of fire
west of the village.
When Thomason came running up
with the rest of the platoon, Le Francois indicated the general line
on which to deploy and, leaving the detailed positioning of the men
to the sergeant’s judgment, radioed a situation report to the
command post, all the while keeping a close watch on the advancing
enemy soldiers. The Japanese were now plainly visible as they moved
in small, well dispersed groups through the 100-yard strip of light
brush between the lagoon and the road. They were walking into a
trap, seemingly unaware of the curtain of fire and steel that
awaited them just ahead.
For the time being, Lady Luck
smiled on Le Francois’s men. At this early hour the sun was just
high enough to shine in the enemy’s eyes while leaving the Raiders
in shadow and, hence, difficult to see. Furthermore, with the rising
sun at their backs and positioned slightly higher than the advancing
Japanese, they had near-perfect light for shooting. Le Francois
could scarcely believe his good fortune; however, knowing that good
fortune more often than not improves with assistance, he decided to
give it a boost by tightening up the trap. By swinging Corporal
Piskor’s squad forward, closer to the position now occupied by the
point fire team, he created a cul-de-sac, from which the Raiders
could deliver frontal and flanking fire on Kanemitsu’s men when the
trap was sprung. Now all he had to do was wait until the opportune
moment.
So far not a shot had been
fired. The Japanese advanced rapidly and aggressively, but the
Raiders held their fire, confident of their own skills and secure in
the knowledge that they were well positioned. Thomason had done his
job well. Now, with no more concern for his personal safety than if
he were supervising a firing relay on the rifle range, he walked
along the line, pausing from time to time to adjust individual
positions and point out fields of fire and. when needed, to ease
inner tensions with an encouraging word and a pat on the back.
Soon the enemy was close
enough for the Raiders to begin to distinguish individual facial
features and to pick out details of equipment. Some began to fidget,
wondering “just how close is ‘whites of the eyes’ range?” and their
trigger fingers began to tighten involuntarily. Finally, when the
suspense had become almost unbearable, Thomason upstaged his
lieutenant by shouting “let ‘em have it!” and punctuated his order
with a blast from the 12-gauge shotgun he carried.
For simultaneity of response
and precision of execution, the effect of Thomason’s command was not
unlike that of a movement command on the drill field. At the
shotgun’s “command of execution,” the entire line opened fire as
one, and for four or five minutes everyone blazed away at anything
that moved. The sudden hail of well-aimed fire from the Raiders’
rifles and automatic weapons smashed the advancing enemy formation
and literally left the attackers dead in their tracks, with few or
no survivors to make their way back “to rally ‘round the flag.”
Providing a bass accompaniment
to Le Francois’s overture in .30 caliber was the Company “B”
antitank-rifle team (Tiny Carroll and Dean Winters), now in line
with the Company “A” Raiders. To ensure that the truck would
transport no more troops into the area, they placed a .55-caliber
armor-piercing bullet into its radiator. (On the following day,
Winters had a chance to examine their handiwork and found that the
bullet had passed through the radiator, the engine block, and the
cab of the truck.)
On the left flank of the 1st
Platoon, where Piskor’s 1st Squad held a position well ahead of the
other two, the initial engagement was fought at much closer ranges
and was far more intense. In fact, the 1st Squad was almost within
spitting range of the enemy, and had Corporal Young, the point man
in the advance, been able to read his lieutenant’s mind as the
battle began, he might well have asked, “Who’s trapping
whom?”
. . . A shot rang out. . . and all hell broke loose. We had
Japs in front of us, above us, alongside of us to our left, and
behind us also to our left. There were manmade shallow pits about 20
inches or so deep just to the left of the road. . . . [and] our 1st
Squad. . . hit the deck in this taro patch.
Two machine guns were sweeping the area above our heads; slugs were
chunking into the bases of the palm trees. Snipers were coming very
close, but no hits. The nearest machine gun was just about 20 yards
from us.
As Piskor and I. . . were
picking off the Japs who were trying to reinforce the group who had
stopped us [ i.e. those who had begun their advance from the truck],
the others were trying to locate the snipers and lobbed grenades
into the machine gun nest. They knocked out the nest, but we were
still pinned down by the hard-to-find snipers. Piskor and 1, in the
prone position, calmly squeezed them off as if we were on the
200-yard range at Camp Elliot. [Young was a graduate of Scout-Sniper
School.] We killed most of the Japs who came toward us in the
vicinity of the road.
The cacophony of gunfire from the 1st Platoon area
undoubtedly was the source of the “clatter” that brought the
startled Japanese soldier out of the barracks and gave my boat team
its first kill of the operation. Likewise, it was in the lull that
followed this action that the bicyclists attempted to get past my
group, evidently to seek instructions for their next move, and it
probably was the noise of this battle that prompted Kanemitsu to
anticipate his own imminent demise and send his last message to
Emidj: “We are now all dying in battle”.
When the 1st Platoon opened
fire on the advancing Japanese, Mel Spotts was lying near the acting
commander of the 2d Platoon, Gunnery Sergeant Ellsbury B. Elliott,
and his radioman, Private, first class, Norman N. Mortensen, and
overheard Le Francois’s contact report. Unable to see what was going
on, he moved up closer to the firing line and, seeing the gap that
had been created when Le Francois swung his left flank forward,
attempted to close it as best he could with the assistance of Elliot
and some others.
Earlier Elliott’s 2d Platoon
(less the 3d Squad) had followed the guides posted by the 1st
Platoon inland from the beach for a short distance, then faced left,
and swept up the island on the windward side of the road. When they
left the beach, the 1st Squad had led off in response to Corporal
Daniel A Gaston’s fondly remembered order: “OK., men, follow me.
Davis, you go first.” When the battle began, it was just drawing
abreast of the rear elements of the 1st Platoon, a short distance
beyond the native village. Corporal Kenneth K. Kunkle’s 2d Squad was
to their left. Private Glen A. Lincoln, a rifleman in Gaston’s
squad, describes the opening action:
After daylight, still proceeding up the island, 1 ran out to
a tree in a fair sized clearing and dove behind it. Still no firing.
A Raider ran by me headed for another tree further into the
clearing. A machine gun then opened up from the brush and trees at
the further side of the clearing, and the back of the Raider’s
jacket looked like it had a fan in it. . . . [from] the bullets
coming out. . . . The Raider fell a few yards
ahead of me and to my left. [Then] . . . the machine gun swung down on
me. I lay as flat as I could and tried to shrink myself as narrow as
possible. At this time I discovered there were two machine guns a
few feet apart. I really took a beating from these guns . . . Apparently they assumed that I
was taken care of as they quit firing.
All was quiet ,for awhile,
then several kinds of small scrawny pigs came out of the brush to
the left of the clearing and started to eat the dead Raider that had
been killed ahead of me. Twice I ,fired. . . at them to drive them
away. . . The two machine guns worked me over each time
. . . [and] I gave up trying to drive the
pigs off.
Although they didn’t realize it, the 2d Platoon and the 1st
Squad of the 1st Platoon had tangled with the bulwark of the
Japanese position—a fence, as it were, apparently intended to
contain the Raiders’ advance while the left wing swung like a gate
to envelop and drive them into the sea. During the next half-hour or
so, as it struggled to advance under the pointblank fire of snipers
and the raking of the machine guns, the 2d Platoon would suffer all
of its battle casualties, including nine killed in action. The dead
in the 1st Squad were Corporals Gaston and Robert B. Pearson and
Private, first class, Ashley W Hicks; in the 2d Squad, Corporal
Kunkle, Private, first class, John E. Vandenberg, and Private Robert
B. Maulding; and in the 3rd Squad, Corporal Johnson and Private
Nodland.
Also killed at this time was
Norm Mortensen, Elliott’s radioman. Mortensen was the first of four
radio operators to be killed that morning, the others being
Gallagher, Griffith’s radio operator; Montgomery, my radio operator;
and Corporal Edward Maciejewski, another Company “A” radio operator.
The high casualty rate among our radio operators speaks volumes not
only for the marksmanship ability of the Japanese snipers but for
their target identification skills as well.
Farther to the rear, Sergeant
Faulkner and his group still had found no Japanese, except the
policeman, so when the firing started, they turned about and hurried
to the southwest in the direction of the action. Keeping to the
windward side of the road, they soon came to the cleared area near
the native village and, as they broke out of the undergrowth into
the open, almost immediately were taken under fire by snipers. In
the first volley, Faulkner was wounded in the left hand and Corporal
Johnson was killed. William Murphree describes the
action:
Corporal Johnson and I ran into the clearing, and that’s when
he was killed about two feet to my right. I asked him how he was
when he told he was shot, and his last words were, “Hell, I’m, all
right.” He started to get up, then just straightened out and never
moved.
I backed up to the protection
of the coconut trees, and Private Nodland
[Franklin M. ; killed a few minutes
later], who was to my left,
shot the Jap out of a coconut tree ahead of us with his BAR. I went
to the left and ran into Faulkner, Lenz, and Larsen [Private
Carlyle 0.]. We were at the
edge of the coconut trees, and ahead of us was a rise in the ground
and an open place.
By this time (around 0615), the volume of Raider gunfire had
slackened off considerably, not because of enemy inactivity but
simply because there were no targets to be seen. Here the 2d Raiders
learned an invaluable lesson: the Japanese soldiers were masters of
the art of camouflage and concealment. Their jungle green camouflage
suits, often supplemented by nets festooned with pieces of foliage,
made them extremely difficult to see, and some of the snipers had
tied coconuts to themselves so as better to blend in with their
background. One imaginative sniper had even gone so far as to tie
the tops of two palms together and, when finally spotted, cut the
tie so that the trees sprang apart, giving the Raiders two trees to
search.
Furthermore, the snipers’
deadly marksmanship at ranges far greater than pointblank
effectively belied all of the rumors we had heard about Japanese
myopia. During two hours on the left flank of the 1st Platoon,
Platoon Sergeant Spotts recalls having fired only once at a visible
target, however, in this same period snipers firing from concealment
in the tree tops inflicted most of the casualties the Raiders
suffered in the battle.
Among the first to fall in the
1st Platoon was Sergeant Thomason who was killed as he moved along
the firing line, encouraging the young Marines, pointing out targets
for them, and adjusting their fire. He had just joined the 1st Squad
at the taro patch and was trying to locate a sniper when he was hit.
Howard Young remembers that they “pleaded with him to stay down,
there were snipers within 50 yards of us, and the machine gun nest
that we had knocked out started up again. Thomason wouldn’t stay
down, and he was killed. . . . We got the sniper, and., Bibby
[Private, first class, Joe R. ], Weimer [Corporal Alvin J], and
Locke [Private, first class, “B” “G”] knocked out the machine gun
nest again.”
For heroism above and beyond
the call of duty in action against the enemy, Sergeant Clyde
Thomason was post-humously awarded the Medal of Honor, the first
enlisted Marine to be so honored in World War II.
Also killed in the initial
flurry of enemy counterfire was my good friend and hiking companion,
Jerry Holtom. Jerry was on the right flank, near the lagoon, looking
for Colonel Carlson and, according to Private, first class, Charles
E. Dawson, a Company “B” machine gunner who was nearby, “He was too
far up in the front. This would not be bad if he were needed up
where he was, but he was not needed.”
In addition to the snipers, at
least four well-camouflaged machine guns continuously raked the
Raider line, probing those areas likely to conceal a target. One of
these, a Lewis gun of British manufacture, well-positioned in a taro
pit less than 200 yards from the Raiders’ right flank, began to
sweep the entire 1st Platoon line, causing Lieutenant Le Francois no
little concern. Soon, however, Corporal Leon R. Chapman of Company
“B” located the enemy weapon and engaged it in a gun-to-gun duel
with his light machine gun.
Although the enemy gunners
tried valiantly to keep their gun in action, Chapman prevailed.
Private Kenneth M. “Mudhole” Merrill, Chapman’s ammunition carrier,
remembers that they fired about one and one-half belts of ammunition
(about 400 rounds) to silence the Lewis-gun. “I, could see their
heads bob up and down as Chapman got ‘em. After that all was quiet.”
Later Chapman himself told Private, first class, Calvin L. Inman,
another Company “B” machine gunner, that when he saw what he had
done with his gun he almost threw up. In the taro pit around the
wreckage of the machine gun were the bodies of a dozen or more men
who had given their all to keep the gun in action.
While Chapman held the
undivided attention of the Lewis-gun crew, and the Company “A”
antitank team of Sergeant Howard E. “Buck” Stidham and Corporal
Robert E. Poarche provided support (mostly as the unwilling targets
of another enemy machine gun), Corporal Wygal, Chapman’s section
leader, made his way along the lagoon shore to outflank the gun
position and administer the coup de grace with hand grenades. For
his courage and outstanding leadership in this action, Corporal
Wygal was awarded the Navy Cross.
Not all of the bodies lying
around the wreckage of the gun, however, were through “dying in
battle” as Buck Stidham discovered a few minutes after the gun was
silenced. Having let his curiosity overcome his better judgment,
Stidham was searching one of the bodies for souvenirs when “to my
surprise the ‘dead’ Jap suddenly groaned and raised up on his knees.
Fortunately I had a knife,. . . so I whipped it out and punctured
his lung.” Now he was through dying.
Simultaneously with an
increase in sniper and light machine-gun fire, the Japanese began
firing shells from two grenade throwers (“knee mortars”). Although
they caused no casualties (most of the grenades exploded harmlessly
in the tree tops or well beyond the Raiders’ positions) and were
soon silenced, their employment was a strong indication that the
enemy was preparing another attack.
Although now aware that the 2d
Platoon was fully deployed to his left, Le Francois still felt
uneasy for his left flank and reinforced it with a part of his 3d
Squad, including automatic rifleman Private, first class, Fred E.
Kemp. This move partially filled the gap between his left flank and
the edge of a marshy area that began 15-20 yards from the windward
side of the road—the same gap that Elliott and Spotts had attempted
to fill only minutes earlier. Then positioning himself between the
1st and 2d Squads, from where he could control their fire and assist
with the fire from his own submachine gun, he braced himself for
whatever might come.
Meanwhile, as casualties began
to mount at an alarming rate in the center and left of the Raider
line, Carlson also became concerned and decided to commit a part of
his reserve. According to his after-action report, he “. . .
directed that one platoon from Company ‘B’ enter the line on the
left of Company ‘A.’ This maneuver was skillfully executed by
Lieutenant Griffith.”
Lieutenant
Griffith, however, recalls that Carlson ordered him to move his
platoon up in support of Company “A.” Then as he proceeded to do so,
advancing with his platoon in a column of squads for maximum
control, Carlson came up and ordered him to deploy “in a line of
skirmishers.” Feeling that this was wrong, Griffith started to
question the order but Carlson cut him short and repeated it in a
peremptory manner which brooked no further discussion. As a result
of this order, Griffith soon lost all control over his platoon, as
it became hopelessly intermingled with Company “A,” and Carlson
squandered an opportunity to maneuver and envelop the exposed right
flank of the Japanese position.
How, or even if, this decision
affected the ultimate outcome of the battle is, of course,
impossible to say. From the standpoint of control, it probably would
have been better to have maintained the organizational and tactical
integrity of Griffith’s platoon, holding it in a central location
for commitment as required. From the standpoint of expediency,
however, since Company “A” had already sustained fairly heavy
casualties, Carlson would justifiably have been concerned for its
ability to withstand the attack that seemed imminent. Thus his
decision to employ Griffith’s platoon as a “replacement draft” might
well have been nothing more than a matter of “killing the nearest
rattlesnake first.” In any event, the Raiders did not have long to
wait for the first test of this decision.
Under the covering fire of
their snipers, machine guns, and grenade throwers, the Japanese
finished regrouping and spent a few minutes yelling and shouting to
work up their spirits—for all the world like a bunch of college boys
at a pep rally. Then after a short period of silence, probably
covering the time needed to deploy along the line of departure,
their bugler sounded a couple of shrill notes, and the race was
on.
At the first note from the
bugle, a wave of Japanese infantrymen burst out of the scrub growth
less than 100 yards from the Raider line and charged down the center
of the island, firing their rifles on the run and shouting “Banzai!”
at the top of their voices, apparently hoping thereby to intimidate
the round-eyed barbarians. Fascinated, perhaps, by such a bizarre
spectacle but in no degree intimidated, the Raiders held their fire
until the charging Japanese were almost on top of them, then opened
up with everything they had. Most of the enemy were mowed down by
the first volleys, and only a handful struggled to within a few feet
of the Raider positions where they were quickly dispatched.
In the area occupied by
Faulkner and the remnants of the 3rd Squad, 2d Platoon, the Japanese
came out of a coconut grove and charged across a native cemetery at
the waiting Raiders. Supplementing the fire of their Thompson
submachine gun and rifles with hand grenades, the small group halted
the attack against their sector and wiped out the survivors. For
their heroic action in this and a subsequent banzai attack, Sergeant
Faulkner, Private, first class, Joseph Sebock, and Private Murphree
were awarded Navy Crosses.
Snipers and machine guns
supported the banzai
attack throughout by maintaining a steady volume of fire all
along the line, and the Raiders’ casualty list continued to
lengthen. Corporal “I” “B” Earles of Debosik’s 2d Squad was killed
in action at this time, as was Bill Gallagher, Joe Griffith’s
radioman, and Private Charles A. Selby, a Thompson submachine gunner
from Griffith’s platoon.
On the right flank of the 2d
Platoon, Jim Faulkner was hit for the second time, a gunshot wound
on the head, and just a few minutes later a bullet struck him in the
right side and finally put him out of action. Nearby, at about the
same time, Sergeant Lenz of the 1st Platoon was knocked unconscious
and virtually paralyzed by a grazing bullet wound to the head. On
the extreme left of the line, Platoon Sergeant Victor Maghakian was
shot in the right forearm as he gave hand-and-arm signals to his
men; however, he bound up the wound and continued at his post.
Several weeks later on Guadalcanal he would be wounded in the left
arm under almost identical circumstances.
Although he came through the
action unscathed, Fred Kemp probably got the scare of his life when
a stray bullet struck him in the cartridge belt, rupturing several
cartridge cases and igniting the powder. As smoke poured from the
magazine pouch, he beat at it futilely with his bare hands, then in
an act of desperation turned and threw himself into a soggy taro
pit, where the moist earth soon smothered the fire.
Supporting the wave of
infantry-men that hurled themselves against the Raider line with
such verve, were four light machine guns and a flamethrower, whose
operator (fortunately for the Raiders) was killed by a burst of fire
from an automatic weapon before he got close enough to use his
weapon. The light machine guns, however, were a different story. As
the charge faltered and ground to a halt, their crews, well
camouflaged with foliage and aided by the suppressive fire of the
snipers, managed to infiltrate to within 20 or 30 yards of the
Raider line before opening fire with devastating effect.
The machine gun that Piskor’s
squad had already knocked out twice once again was remanned and
joined in the action. Before it could be put out of action for the
third and last time, however, it wounded Lieutenant Le Francois, who
had just joined the 1st Squad at the taro patch. He was standing
over Thomason’s body, also looking for snipers and wouldn’t stay
down. The machine gun opened fire in his direction, and five bullets
struck him in the right shoulder and upper arm. Rendered effectively
hors de combat by his wound, he evacuated himself to the aid
station.
The very persistent machine
gun that wounded Le Francois probably was the same one that killed
Private Selby. Ben Carson recalls having seen Selby’s body lying
near the edge of the marshy area on the windward side of the road
and observing that he “. . . had been in one helluva fire fight.
Every one of his ammo clips was empty and he had been hit by a
volley of bullets that tore up his chest.”
Piskor’s men finally knocked
out this machine gun with a volley of hand grenades and, since they
were no longer pinned down by snipers, were able to move to the
position and determine how the gun had managed to remain in action
for so long. Around the gun were 15 or 20 bodies, and it appeared
that the Japanese had infiltrated replacement crews almost as fast
as the Raiders knocked them out until there were no more to
infiltrate.
Under the covering fire of
their remaining snipers and light machine guns, the few survivors of
the assault withdrew up the island to their rallying point. Then,
after a lull of several minutes during which the pep rally was
repeated, the bugler again sounded his shrill two-note call, and a
second, albeit much smaller, wave of infantrymen charged toward the
Raider position in an encore of the first banzai. By now, however, the
Raiders were better acquainted with the terrain and enemy tactics
and defeated this attack with relative ease. This ended what came to
be called the “Battle of the Breadfruit Trees” after the two large
breadfruit trees that stood near the point of origin of the Japanese
charges.
“By 0700,” Carlson wrote in
his after-action report, “the pattern of the enemy defense was
apparent. It was built around four machine guns, two grenade
throwers, automatic rifles and a flame thrower, with infantry
supporting the automatic weapons and with a corps of snipers
operating from the tops of cocoanut [sic] trees.” A more realistic
assessment of the situation, however, might have read: “By 0700
organized resistance was at an end, although snipers continued to be
a problem.”
After the second banzai attack, there
probably were fewer than two dozen Japanese left alive on the
island, all located in the vicinity of Stone Pier, and a few minutes
later my boat team would kill five of these. Without leadership,
means of communications with the outside, or weapons other than
their bolt-action rifles, they no longer had the wherewithal to
conduct a concerted defense. They could only hope to stave off the
inevitable and sell their lives as dearly as possible for the glory
of their emperor.
Nevertheless, Carlson seems to
have believed that the enemy was much stronger than he actually was
and, instead of maneuvering aggressively to clean out the survivors
as soon as possible, cautiously kept his Raiders deployed in a long
skirmish line where they bogged down in a four-hour duel between
individuals or fire teams and the handful of isolated snipers. As a
consequence of this delay, there probably would not have been enough
time to complete the assigned mission in one day, even if things had
gone as planned.
Carlson’s estimate of the
enemy’s strength and his perception of “the pattern of the enemy
defense” undoubtedly were colored somewhat by the information he had
received from the natives about an hour earlier. He of course had no
way of knowing whether 80 or 150 was the more accurate figure for
the garrison strength, but apparently he chose to err on the side of
safety and assumed the larger figure. Concerned over the
reinforcement capability of the troops said by the natives to be
concentrated on Ukiangong Point, he now decided to request the
submarines to fire on the suspected concentration area, hoping
thereby to eliminate these troops or at least to isolate them from
the battle area.
At 0547 the Nautilus had lost all radio
communication with the landing party and did not regain it until
0656, at which time she heard parts of transmissions requesting a
fire mission on Ukiangong Point in an area of a suspected enemy
concentration. The Argonaut
apparently did not hear this request, but the Nautilus opened fire
immediately, although she had no bombardment ammunition. After
expending 24 rounds (12 salvos), she checked fire to respond to a
request for a fire mission on a more critical target: a small
transport and a gunboat located near the edge of the lagoon at about
8,000 yards and 350 degrees, magnetic, from Government Wharf.
At 0711 the Nautilus again lost radio
contact with the Raiders, but that notwithstanding, opened fire on
the lagoon at 0716, covering the target area by making successive
changes in range and deflection, a technique of fire similar to the
“search and traverse” so familiar to machine gunners of that era.
The Nautilus ceased fire
at 0723 after firing 23 salvos, her captain having concluded that
further expenditure of ammunition in unobserved fire was
unwarranted. However, thanks to a combination of gunner’s luck, the
restricted waters of the lagoon, and the technique of fire used,
both vessels were sunk.
Where Jim Green of my group
had observed only the “before” and “after” of this action, Tiny
Carroll of the Company “B” antitank section was in a position on the
right flank near the lagoon and witnessed the entire engagement.
According to his laconic statement written for the Nautilus war patrol
report:
0700. Got into position on right flank near lagoon side. Saw
two ships in lagoon. One seemed to be a tanker or transport, the
other a gunboat. Both just at edge of lagoon. Both at anchor at that
time. Guns started firing and they started running in circles in
lagoon. Tried to head out towards sea and the tanker was hit near
water line and burst into flames a little later. Gun boat sank after
being hit in lagoon. . . . saw tanker sink near island in
lagoon entrance.
How long the ships had been in the lagoon is not known;
however, they almost certainly were not recent arrivals for, as
Tiny’ Carroll noted, both were at anchor when the Nautilus opened fire.
Perhaps they had brought reinforcements and supplies for the
garrison and, after unloading, anchored in the lagoon to wait until
Monday to depart. Or perhaps they had arrived late on Friday and
were waiting until Monday to unload. In any event, they would be
going no farther, but their presence raised some troubling
questions: If they carried reinforcements, had they already unloaded
them? If so, how many? If not, how many had survived the sinking of
the ships, and where were they?
Later that morning, natives
reported that the patrol boat “had” 60 marines aboard, but
apparently no one asked when
they were aboard. If the ships had only recently arrived and
were waiting to dock and unload, it would seem highly unlikely that
the natives would have had an opportunity to have discovered what
the were carrying. But on the other hand, if they had already
unloaded, the natives quite easily’ could have counted the marines
as they debarked, which seems the more likely explanation and would
account for the discrepancy between our estimate of 40 to 50 and the
80 or so Japanese bodies counted on the battlefield.
In any event, the presence of
the two ships seems to have heightened Carlson’s apprehension, and
he now deployed his only uncommitted unit, the two squads of my
platoon. According to Private Denton E. Hudman, “We were ordered to
move to the left to protect the boats if the Japs came down the
beach. The only shots I fired were during this move to the left
flank when five or six of us shot at two different snipers in trees.
One fell out; the other didn’t. He was tied in, we discovered
later.” Carlson had now committed his last maneuver unit, but the
stalemate continued.
So far the landing force had
not been molested by enemy aircraft; however, at 0901 the Nautilus had a radar contact
and sighted a plane; then another at 1039. She made an emergency
dive on each occasion, remaining submerged for almost an hour on the
first and for more than two hours on the second; consequently,
information of these sightings was not, or more precisely could not
be, communicated to Carlson.
The Raiders were unaware of
the presence of enemy aircraft in the area until around 1130, when
two Japanese reconnaissance planes arrived over the island and began
to circle the battle area. In compliance with standing instructions,
everyone took cover and held their fire as the planes orbited for
about 15 minutes. Then, seemingly satisfied by what the had seen, or
failed to see, the planes dropped two bombs, apparently aimed at
“whomever it may concern” but falling among their own, and flew
away.
It was about this time that
the small Japanese car burst out of the brush and came scurrying
down the road into the fire of my waiting boat team, but whether it
was these “friendly” bombs or action by the Raiders that flushed it
is impossible to say. To Mel Spotts, however, “these bombs looked
small but when they went off they made a helluva noise and shook the
whole island”, and they easily could have motivated the Japanese to
make a final desperate attempt to get to a radio so as to forestall
another bombing by their own planes.
At 1255 the Nautilus had radar contacts
at 12 and 14 miles, and simultaneously the officer of the deck
sighted about 12 planes approaching at high altitude. The
submarines, their radio communications with the shore still out,
could not warn the Raiders of the approaching aircraft and could
only hope, as they sought safety in the depths of the Pacific, that
the Marines would hear the planes in time to take
cover.
The Raiders did indeed hear
the approaching aircraft and had already begun to pull back from the
area that had seemed to be the focus of attention of the two
reconnaissance planes; however, this withdrawal was not in
anticipation of an air raid. As Carlson wrote in his after-action
report:
. . . At that time the center of our line was located in an
area thick with foliage which provided an advantage for snipers. I
decided to attempt to draw these snipers on to ground more
advantageous to us by withdrawing my right and center two hundred
yards to a line where there was a good field of fire [Essentially
the position held by the 1st Platoon when the battle began.], while
leaving my left extended so as to enfilade the advancing snipers.
This maneuver was successfully accomplished. . . .
Although this withdrawal failed to draw out any snipers, the
results probably were the same, since the air attack was directed at
the area occupied only by Japanese survivors of the morning’s
fighting. Thus, Carlson’s decision to withdraw probably saved the
lives of several of his men. Nevertheless, there was still plenty of
excitement for all.
Mel Spotts. who had reached
his fall-back position before the air raid began
recalls
[W]e got our real scare for Jap planes started over in large
numbers. . . . [O]ne four motored flying boat. . . . cruised around
for 15 minutes and then landed along with one sea plane in the
lagoon. . . . The rest of the planes cruised back and forth over the
front lines for a few minutes and then began to bomb and machine gun
their own troops. This was really an answer to our prayers. The Jap
pilots had mistaken the position of the front lines.
Click
Here for the rest of the 2nd Raiders on Makin!
|