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Pacifica Military History
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WELCOME TO
Pacifica Military History
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The sample chapters in this document are drawn from all the books
currently in print from Pacifica Military History. All of the books are
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http://www.PacificaMilitary.com
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Free Sample Chapters
Table of Contents
The Third Day on Red-3 (76 Hours)
The Ferretts Strike (A Gallant Company)
First Kill (Ace!)
The Big B (Aces Against Germany)
Crippled (Aces Against Japan)
Blood Over Kwajalein (Aces Against Japan II
Save the Bombers (Aces At War)
Descent Into Hell (Aces In Combat)
December 1942 (Air War Europa Chronology)
November 1943 (Air War Pacific Chronology)
Meeting Engagement (Ambush Valley)
Desperate Gamble (Carrier Clash)
Ambush! (Carrier Strike)
Hill 1282 (Chosin)
New Britain (Coral and Blood)
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The Reserves Are Coming (Duel for the Golan)
Mean Streets (Fire in the Streets)
Engineers At War (First Across the Rhine)
Edson’s Ridge (Guadalcanal: Starvation Island)
The Atlanta’s Ordeal (Guadalcanal: Decision At Sea)
Record Incoming (Khe Sanh: Siege in the Clouds)
First Combat (Lima-6)
The Choiseul Raid (Marines At War)
O’Brien Hill (Munda Trail)
A Fighter Ace’s Baptism (Mustang Ace)
The Jordanian Attack on West Jerusalem (Six Days in June)
Navy Fighters Over North Africa (The First Hellcat Ace)
Command (The Jolly Rogers)
Born on the Fourth of July (The Road to Big Week)
A Death in Beirut (The Root)
Leaving North Korea (The Three Day Promise)
Inchon to North Korea (Three-War Marine)
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76 Hours
The Invasion of Tarawa
By Eric Hammel and John E. Lane
On the morning of November 20, 1943, the U.S. 2d Marine Division
undertook the first modern amphibious assault against a well-defended
beachhead. The objective was tiny Betio Island in Tarawa Atoll. The
result was a tragedy and near defeat turned around into an epic of victory
and indomitable human spirit.
Although the admirals commanding the Tarawa invasion fleet had
assured the Marines that Betio would be pounded to dust by a massive
naval and air bombardment—the largest of its kind seen to that time—
the first waves of Marines found the Japanese defenses intact and manned
by determined foes. Within minutes of the start of the head-on assault,
the American battle plan was a shambles and scores of Marines had
been killed or wounded. The assault virtually stopped at the water’s
edge, its momentum halted before many Marines ever dismounted from
the amphibian tractors that had carried them to the deadly, fire-swept
beach. Follow-up waves of Marines suffered grievous casualties when
they were forced to wade more than 500 yards through fire-swept water
because tidal conditions had been miscalculated by the planners.
Follow the bloody battle for Betio in graphic detail as heroic American fighting men advance every life-threatening step across the tiny
island in the face of what many historians agree was the best and most
concentrated defenses manned by the bravest and most competent Japanese defenders American troops encountered in the entire Pacific War.
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book 76 HOURS:
The Invasion of Tarawa, which is available in print and ebook
editions.
The Third Day On Red-3
by Eric Hammel & John E. Lane
Copyright © 1985 by Eric M. Hammel and John E. Lane.
Tarawa, November 22, 1943.
The situation on Beach Red-3, the 2d Marine Division’s left flank
on Betio’s northern shore, had remained unaltered for a day-and-a-half.
Major Henry “Jim” Crowe’s 2d Battalion, 8th Marines, had been
pulverized in the initial landing and subsequent stalemate. Company F,
which was holding a ten-yard-deep perimeter along the coconut-log
seawall, on the battalion left flank, could barely muster enough able
bodies to man a platoon. Every one of its officers had been wounded.
Company G had been largely broken up to fill gaps and plug holes in
the thin battle line. Company E had fared best. It had advanced on Dday to a limit of seventy-five yards inland. Casualties had been heavy,
but Company E was still an organization.
Major Robert Ruud’s 3d Battalion, 8th, had also landed on D-day to
reinforce Crowe’s mauled battalion, but it had been blasted apart even
before reaching the beach. Scores of Ruud’s Marines had been killed or
wounded wading to Red-3 through the fire-swept water, and the
remainder of the battalion was still sorting itself out, still forming and
reforming into pick-up squads and platoons wherever a lieutenant or
sergeant or private could persuade enough Marines to sit still long enough
to get together.
No gains had been made on Red-3 throughout November 21, the
second day on Betio. Crowe’s Marines had plugged away at the incredible
defenses in depth on Red-3, had probably killed scores or even hundreds
of Japanese. But the major uncommitted Japanese combat units were to
Crowe’s left, safely out of the battle and therefore a huge reserve that
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could be fed into the battle at will against the Marines struggling to
expand the tenuous perimeter on Red-3. No matter how many of the
enemy they killed, the Marines on Red-3 had to constantly face relatively
fresh reinforcements. It was all the Marines could do to hold their meager
gains.
Between 0700 and 0720 on D+3, U.S. Navy battleships standing
well off Betio fired their 14-and 16-inch guns at targets ranging from
the eastern end of the island to within five hundred yards of Crowe’s
lines on Red-3. Next, U.S. Navy carrier aircraft pummeled the area for
thirty minutes. Between 0830 and 0850, the battleships fired again. Then
there was another air strike. The battleships fired again from 0930 to
0950, and then there was yet another air strike. And then the battleships
fired one last time between 1030 to 1050. The goal was to destroy the
Japanese reserve manpower pool and resources in the eastern half of
Betio.
*
Early on D+2, Maj Jim Crowe issued general orders calling for an
all-out assault against the defensive complex on his left flank below the
Burns-Philp wharf. The complex, consisting primarily of the large
covered bombproof and two supporting pillboxes, had stymied F and K
companies for nearly forty-eight hours and had barred the way to the
wharf and the entire eastern end of Betio. After spending nearly all of
D+1 preparing the way, the two badly understrength rifle companies
and assorted mixed units under Maj Bill Chamberlin were ready to go.
The remnant of F Company drew the steel pillbox covering the
wharf and the northeast corner of the bombproof. G Company was in
support. A short distance to the south, K Company, supported by two
37mm antitank guns and its own 60mm mortars, was to hit the coconutlog pillbox guarding the south and southeast portions of the bombproof.
Assault teams from the most successful unit would take on the bombproof
itself. There were no plans for further advances by any of the units on
Red-3; they would be issued when the bombproof fell. If the bombproof
fell.
Preparations for the assault began at about 0930, when most of
the machine guns along the front, particularly those supporting F
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Company, were shifted to what was hoped would be better advantage.
At the same time, Marines began cleaning their rifles and automatic
weapons in relays; the crud of the two days of battle had fouled many
weapons to the point of unreliability.
Also at 0930, the 60mm mortars supporting K Company were
unleashed against the coconut-log emplacement and the area around it.
No fire was directed against the covered bunker as that would have
been a waste of precious ammunition. One round from a K Company
mortar hit an uncharted ammunition dump, which blew with a loud bang.
The dump, to the amazement of all, had been in the very emplacement
that held up the advance for two full days. Machine-gun fire from this
quarter ceased to be a problem.
While the infantry’s preparations continued, Colorado, the lone
surviving medium tank of 1stLt Lou Largey’s platoon, slowly advanced
through the riflemen huddled along the beach to a position behind the
easternmost extremity of F Company’s seawall line. Largey directed
his 75mm gun against the steel pillbox, and a quick succession of direct
hits flattened the position, giving F Company free reign over the area.
At 1000, moments after Colorado destroyed the steel pillbox,
the assault on the bombproof was canceled. Rather, F Company was to
assault eastward to outflank the defensive keypoint. Then the main event
would commence.
The haggard remnants of F Company had only thirty yards to
take, the same thirty yards they had conceded the day before to
consolidate their position on the beach. A lot had happened to weaken
and demoralize F Company in two days of battle, so it took Capt Martin
Barrett several hours just to get his troops into position.
F Company struck at 1300 and immediately met with ferocious
defensive fire from infantry positions along the beach and just across
the seawall. Although small gains were achieved, it was decided that
the assault on the bombproof would have to be made without the added
benefit of flank control.
*
As the covered bunker was the main objective in his sector of Red3, Maj Bill Chamberlin was more or less left with the task of organizing
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the proceedings. With F Company bogged down at the seawall and K
Company engaged on the bombproof’s western flank, it was impossible
to draw upon any organic infantry formations for the assault. Chamberlin
began scrounging.
One of the first men nabbed in the major’s roundup was TSgt
Norm Hatch, the only combat movie cameramen on Red-3 (and the
only one on Betio through D-day and D+1). Using his rank and
considerable bulk to bolster his native talents for organization, Hatch
helped Major Chamberlin gather a mixed group of stray riflemen and
specialists. Once organized, the group huddled below the seawall for a
quick briefing. Chamberlin pointed to the crest of the bombproof and
told the men, “When I yell ‘Follow me!’ you follow me up that
bombproof.”
Hunched up against the wall with Technical Sergeant Hatch,
Chamberlin watched and waited for a few moments. The fire did not
slacken, and the scene changed not one jot. The major shrugged and,
without looking back, rose to his feet and yelled “Follow me!” Norm
Hatch raced with him to the top.
At the crest of the mound, the major and the cameraman—who
was carrying his movie camera—stared in amazement as a squad of
Japanese broke into the open and spotted them silhouetted against the
smokey skyline. Chamberlin instantly prepared to fire. Only then did he
realize that he was unarmed.
Norm Hatch wordlessly looked on. The major looked at him,
snapping him into action. Hatch placed his precious camera under his
arm and began sifting through his film-filled bandoleers in search of his
.45-caliber pistol, which had long since been twisted out of reach behind
his back. He looked at Chamberlin in helpless dismay, and Chamberlin
muttered one curt suggestion, “Let’s get the hell out of here!”
The two turned and barrelled off the mound, unhurt, furious.
*
Like Chamberlin and Hatch, 1stLt Sandy Bonnyman of F Company,
18th, put together a mixed group of engineers, pioneers, and stray
riflemen to mount an assault on the bombproof. Bonnyman had been
studying the bombproof and training his ad hoc platoon since D-day
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afternoon, waiting for the right moment to strike the formidable position
at just the right spot in just the right way. Shortly after Bill Chamberlin
and Norm Hatch returned to cover, Bonnyman decided it was time to
move. His group worked through the F Company seawall line and sought
the protection of an L-shaped six-foot-high wooden fence running at
right angles to the seawall just off the bombproof’s northwest corner.
The bombproof was the closest thing to a hill on Betio. Since it had
proved impossible to breach either of the entryways, the only tactic left
to Bonnyman was a direct uphill assault. The Japanese engineers who
had designed the bombproof had left a number of large black ventilators
protruding from the well-camouflaged roof. Those ventilators would be
Sandy Bonnyman’s key objectives. A bit of flaming fuel fired into them
would certainly force the defenders into the open. The alternative was
air too hot to breathe and thus asphyxiation.
So, supported by 37mm antitank guns, 60mm mortars, and an
assortment of automatic infantry weapons, Bonnyman’s group lined up
single-file below the seawall and stepped off.
Each of Bonnyman’s men individually vaulted the seawall to the
higher ground behind the L-shaped fence. From there, following hand
signals from observers who could clearly see the objective, the men
worked along the fence to the foot of the slope, where they were stopped
by heavy gunfire.
Cpl Harry Niehoff’s demolitions team was intercepted by Major
Chamberlin as it returned from a minor foray farther along the beach.
Chamberlin asked Niehoff if there were any explosives available, and
Niehoff replied that he still had several charges. “Where do you want
them used, sir?” Chamberlin motioned to the covered bombproof and
explained that the Japanese were reinforcing from the southeast but that
their avenue of approach was well camouflaged and had not yet been
found.
Harry Niehoff hurled several charges over the bombproof and ducked
behind the seawall as a flurry of fire sought him out. When the firing
subsided, he led his engineers around to the L-shaped fence and prepared
to move on the summit.
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Pfc Johnny Borich, who was operating one of two flame-throwers
on Red-3, was the pointman. He lightly doused the top of the bunker
while Harry Niehoff tossed a big charge in hopes of subduing the
defenses. Next, Borich moved forward to spray a concentrated burst of
flame. As Niehoff prepared to throw another charge, Borich screamed,
“Grenade!” Everyone hit the dirt.
The instant the dust settled, Corporal Niehoff threw another big
charge. It blew, and every man behind the fence piled into the open and
legged uphill to the summit.
All over Red-3, Marines curious about the commotion stopped what
they were doing to look on as Sandy Bonnyman and a half-dozen Marines
made it to the top. TSgt Norm Hatch captured the breakthrough with his
movie camera.
The first key had been turned by Johnny Borich and Harry Niehoff.
The combination of flame and TNT had killed the crew manning a
machine gun at the top of the bunker and had set the palm-frond
camouflage afire to cover the breakthrough.
The next key was turned by a pioneer named Earl Coleman. As Sandy
Bonnyman sparked the team and issued a steady stream of orders, Pappy
Coleman yelled for TNT and tossed fused charges as fast as he could
light them. In moments, he had blown the cover off a camouflaged
entryway on the southeast corner of the huge structure. As hundreds of
helpless Marines looked on, a large knot of Japanese burst from the
exposed entryway and formed to counterattack Bonnyman’s team.
There were only a half-dozen men atop the bombproof at that
moment. Pfc Johnny Borich was firing burning diesel into the ventilators,
forcing the Japanese to evacuate. Pappy Coleman, Cpl Harry Niehoff,
and Sgt Elmo Ferretti were furiously hurling blocks of TNT. Sandy
Bonnyman faced the Japanese alone with his light .30-caliber carbine.
Bonnyman leaped to the forward edge of the toehold beside Harry
Niehoff, rammed home a full fifteen-round clip, and rapidly fired into
the oncoming rigosentai. Some fell. Most kept coming. With the Japanese
only yards away, Bonnyman rammed home another fresh clip and killed
three, just as Marine reinforcements attacking up the backside of the
bunker blunted and turned the Japanese drive.
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But the help arrived too late for Sandy Bonnyman. He had been shot
dead in the final moments of his one-man defense of the bombproof
summit.
As soon as Harry Niehoff heard the killing shot thud into Sandy
Bonnyman’s body, he flattened himself against the ground. It was just
in time, for one of Pappy Coleman’s potent charges arched back over
the knot of the defending attackers, bowling men from their feet. Sgt
Elmo Ferretti was badly dazed and had to be led back down to the seawall.
Moments later, as Harry Niehoff was firing his carbine in the midst
of another Japanese sally, he heard something drop next to his head. He
saw a grenade from the corner of his eye. Without thinking, he leaped
across the dead lieutenant’s body and wedged himself between it and a
dead Japanese machine gunner. But nothing happened. Long moments
later, Niehoff ventured a peek and saw an unarmed American grenade,
thoughtfully provided by one of the men at the foot of the bombproof.
Tension, smoke, and the stench of burning flesh finally got to Harry
Niehoff. Since he was out of TNT and ammunition for his carbine, the
engineer corporal ambled to the rear for a break. He had not suffered a
scratch, although thirteen of the first twenty-one men to reach the top of
the bombproof were dead or wounded.
On losing their bid for the summit, the Japanese sought to abandon
the position; they cascaded from the two entryways and legged off to
the east. Most of them were cut down by F Company, 8th. Many
defenders who turned south to escape F Company were felled by a pair
of 37mm guns firing canister rounds as fast as the gunners could reload.
*
After leaving the bombproof, Cpl Harry Niehoff wandered down
the beach to his platoon’s CP and found a large cache of TNT. Rising
above his exhaustion, he loaded an ammunition cart with explosives
and, eliciting help from nearby Marines, hauled it to the beach by the
bombproof. By the time Niehoff got there, however, dozens upon dozens
of Marines were swarming over the area, rooting out survivors and
snipers.
Corporal Niehoff decided to call it a day. He sat down to rest and,
following a few nearsighted reveries, found a pile of glass at his feet.
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The glass was of a sort known to all Marines—the kind they make beer
bottles with. Niehoff idly poked through the shattered debris and found
the best reward he could ever have hoped for. He pulled one tantalizing,
if warm, full and unopened bottle of Kirin beer from the wreckage of
what had once been a goodly supply. As his tongue madly quivered,
Harry Niehoff prepared to open his prize. But a voice from behind
shattered his solitude. Commenting on the corporal’s ideal luck, Maj
Bill Chamberlin stared at the lone bottle of beer through eyes that had
become a gateway to his soul. The major looked as bad as the corporal
felt. Succumbing to one of the hardest decisions of his life, Harry Niehoff
silently handed the major the prize of a lifetime.
*
Following the annihilation of the bombproof defenders, the rifle
companies got set to move. Maj Jim Crowe ordered his command to
attack eastward along the northern shore until stopped by the onset of
darkness or a Division order.
While F Company occupied a holding position, E and G companies
moved around the north side of the bombproof. To the South, K Company
stood down to cover a demolitions team as it moved to seal the
southeastern entryway of the bombproof. No one was about to enter the
building, and no one wanted any more Japanese vacating it after dark,
by which time it would be well behind Marine lines. Next, K Company
and Colorado attacked parallel to E Company along the southern side
of the bombproof.
A team of riflemen who were left to guard the southern side of the
bombproof whiled away the afternoon by chucking grenades into any
openings they could find. In time, a bulldozer with a jury-rigged armorplate cab arrived and commenced to seal the entire structure with sand;
doubtless, any Japanese still cowering within were asphyxiated.
E, G, and K companies had a field day. Everything fell before them.
Trenches, buildings, and pillboxes were blown wherever encountered.
Although a number of Marines were wounded, no one was killed. First
Lieutenant Robert Rogers, leading E Company, had a close call when,
on turning, he saw a Japanese officer bearing down on him, sword held
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high for a killing blow. The attacker was shot dead in his tracks by a
nearby rifleman.
*
The last major objective of Crowe’s advance was the massive
concrete bunker housing the headquarters of the 3d Special Konkyochitai.
For nearly three days, gunners on the flat roof of the headquarters bunker
had had an unobstructed view overlooking Marine dispositions. Their
machine guns had taken the lives of many Marines.
While a line of machine guns was positioned to keep the Japanese
from manning the bunker’s numerous firing embrasures, a large group
of combat engineers gingerly approached the bunker in short hops. The
objective was the bunker’s massive steel doors, which had been banged
shut by seven fleeing rigosentai minutes earlier.
The engineers set and ignited a powerful charge and ducked around
the corner. The door was buckled and thrown open, and Pfc Johnny
Borich stepped through the billowing dust and smoke to douse the
bunker’s innards with a stiff dose of flaming fuel. When Borich turned
to let waiting riflemen pass, he was greeted by a tremendous cheer from
scores of Marines who had watched his calm actions.
Marines streamed by. The advance was so swift and steady that
Colorado, which was backing K Company, was never called to help.
Later estimates concluded that nearly a hundred Japanese throughout
the area committed suicide in the face of the successful Marine attacks.
This, more than anything, accounted for the low casualties among the
assault units; only three men were wounded after the leading files passed
the Burns-Philp wharf.
In the end, Jim Crowe’s two mixed battalion landing teams covered
nearly four hundred yards straight out. Late in the afternoon, however,
orders from Division pulled Crowe’s forward elements back almost one
hundred fifty yards to the airport turning circle. It was feared that Crowe’s
fields of fire might endanger the 1st Battalion, 6th, which was rapidly
approaching the area south of the turning circle.
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A GALLANT COMPANY
The Men of the Great Escape
Jonathan F. Vance
On the night of March 24–25, 1944, seventy-nine Allied airmen
clambered through a tunnel at Stalag Luft III in eastern Germany in the
final act of what history and Hollywood have dubbed The Great Escape.
The culmination of more than four years of toil, triumph, and heartbreak,
the escape was intend-ed to cause as much disruption as possible in
Hitler’s Europe. In this, the escapers succeeded beyond their wildest
expectations, but the escape sent shockwaves through the German high
command that were to have tragic consequences.
This is the story of that remarkable battle to escape from captivity.
Built around a cast of colorful and engaging characters from every corner
of the world, it describes their ongoing struggle to outwit their captors,
the growing sophistication of their escape attempts, and their ambitious
plan to construct three huge escape tunnels and scatter hundreds of airmen
across occupied Europe. It is a tale of ingenuity, perse-verance, and
courage, and a testament to what ordinary men can achieve in
extraordinary circumstances.
Jonathan F. Vance became interested in The Great Escape while a
teenager, and spent more than twenty years collecting information on
the subject and interviewing survivors, escape organizers, and relatives
of The Fifty. He has published many books and articles on POWs and
escaping, and has also written on other aspects of military his-tory. His
book Death So Noble: Memory, Meaning and the First World War won
most of the major awards for Canadian historical writing in 1997. Vance
is an associate professor of history at the University of Western Ontario,
and lives in London, Ontario, with his wife and two children.
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book A GALLANT
COMPANY: The Men of the Great Escape which is available only in
ebook editions.
The Ferrets Strike
Jonathan F. Vance
Copyright © 2000 by Jonathan F. Vance
With the break drawing nearer, Jimmy Catanach, Alan Righetti, and a
few other Australians got together over a homemade Ouija board and
tried to unlock the secrets of the future. There were some feeble attempts
at ventriloquism and a few knocks on the table that no one was willing
to admit to, but the only information the board provided was that they
would probably have bully beef fritters for dinner the next day.
At about the same time, Johnny Pohe was able to slip one past
the censors. “Glowing pictures of a POW’s life have been published in
England and perhaps New Zealand,” he wrote to his family, “and you
can believe them as being tito.” Since none of the camp censors spoke
Maori, they didn’t realize that tito meant “lies.”
However, it was not smooth sailing everywhere. Dennis Cochran
shared a room with a few Englishmen, a Canadian, and a Brit from
Uruguay, not all of whom understood the importance of Dennis’s work
as a contact. Whenever his tame goon came around, it was understood
that the rest of the lads would wander away and let Dennis talk to his
man in private. Unfortunately, one of the roommates considered his bunk
to be his own personal, inviolable space and resented having to leave
the room whenever the tame goon came around. Gradually a deep
resentment developed between Cochran and his roommate, and one
afternoon they had a heated argument. After the words ceased, the
roommate brooded for a while and then came up behind Dennis and
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tapped him on the back. When Cochran turned, the other fellow slugged
him nearly unconscious and returned to his bunk. The others in the room
returned a few minutes later and found Dennis lying dazed and bleeding
on the floor, his eyes badly bruised and nearly closed. He was definitely
not in the best of shape to be traveling inconspicuously around wartime
Germany.
*
It was mild on the morning of February 20, as it had been for
most of the New Year. Only for a short time had it been cold enough to
freeze the camp ice rink. But that dull morning was even warmer than
usual, for it was the day of the long awaited draw for places in the tunnel.
There were 510 names in the draw altogether. The first 100 were
specially selected by the escape leaders as those who had contributed
the most or who had the best chance of escaping successfully, and the
rest came from the complete roster of the organization’s workers. In
addition, eight names were put forward by the camp entertainment and
administrative staffs. While these men hadn’t assisted with the escape
preparations, it was rightly decided that their valuable contributions to
the running of the camp as a whole should be recognized.
The selection process consisted of a number of different draws.
The first thirty names to be drawn for final exit order were those who, in
the eyes of the organizers, had the best chance of escaping successfully.
They would travel by train, without incriminating Red Cross food or
large maps. After this group, the names of forty of the most prominent
workers were put in, and twenty were drawn. Then the next thirty most
prominent workers’ names were put in and twenty drawn. To round out
the first hundred, those names remaining from the earlier draws were
put back in the hat and the last thirty spots allotted. Finally, the remaining
four hundred ten names were put in and one hundred were drawn to
complete the exit order.
Once the list of two hundred escapers had been established, it
still had to be revised. On the night of the escape there would be men
stationed at Piccadilly, Leicester Square, and the exit shaft to pull the
escapers through the tunnel. These men were known as haulers, and
each would pull through twenty escapers before going out himself. The
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final list had to be adjusted so that in each group of twenty, there were
three experienced diggers to act as haulers. Red Noble and Shag Rees
actually drew in the second hundred but were allotted numbers seventy
eight and seventy nine so they could act as haulers. Ivo Tonder, Tony
Bethell, and Bob Nelson were also assigned hauling duties.
*
With the escapers having been notified of their final exit numbers,
they could press on with their plans. Bill Fordyce had planned to go
with Tom Leigh, an Australian born ex Halton apprentice who had been
downed in 1941, but the latter drew in the 40s, while Bill drew number
86. Consequently he teamed up with Roy Langlois, who had also drawn
a later number. Paul Royle drew number 55 and, since he had no
particular plans, got in touch with number 54, who happened to be Edgar
“Hunk” Humphreys, another Halton alumnus and a prisoner since
December 1940. Hunk was glad to have some company, so they went
from there. Others, believing that a single escaper would be less
conspicuous, elected to travel alone. One of these was Flight Lieutenant
Albert “Shorty” Armstrong, a Bolton native and electrical engineer by
trade who was shot down in North Africa in August 1942. Shorty was
one of the few hardarsers traveling alone but the prospect of a solitary
trek didn’t bother him. On the contrary, he was anxious to get going.
When push finally came to shove, some of the escapers had
attacks of nerves and asked to be removed from the list. Paul Brickhill
had a spot in the second hundred and was allowed into Harry to get a
feel for it. As soon as he got to the base of the entry shaft and looked up
the tunnel, he knew he couldn’t go through with it—his claustrophobia
was just too strong. Rather sheepishly, he went to Roger Bushell and
gave his reasons for asking to be dropped from the list. Someone
panicking in the tunnel on the night of the escape could be disastrous.
“Thanks for being so honest, Paul,” said Roger. “You’re the
eleventh man to come off the list this morning.”
*
With the draw completed, the idea of escape suddenly became
more real for the prisoners, as they could actually see their chance to get
out of the backwater of the prison camp. They had missed much over
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their years in captivity. Certainly prospects for promotion became dimmer
with each passing month, and the more adventurous among them were
missing combat action that they would likely never get the chance to
see again. But more important, their lives were passing them by. The
homes that each had left the day before his last operation were no longer
the same. Dennis Cochran’s mother had died during his time in captivity,
Johnny Stower’s mother was dangerously ill, and both of Bob Stewart’s
sisters had died. Those men who had left fiancées at home, such as
Cookie Long and Tom Leigh, found the separation very hard to bear.
As pieces of their old lives dropped away for some, others waited
helplessly while their new lives went on without them. Pawel Tobolski
had never seen his son, being raised by his wife in Scotland. His
roommates often joked that it would be difficult to wean the lad of
wearing kilts once they got back to Poland. Jack Grisman’s daughter,
born on the last day of 1941, had just celebrated her second birthday
and still had never seen her father. Her twin brother had died at birth, a
loss that Marie Grisman had to bear alone. Things like this made up the
real tragedy of captivity.
Others never stopped planning for the future. Brian Evans and
Joan Cook had become officially engaged in 1943; Brian said that he
would much rather have things for certain, rather than just an
understanding. Tom Kirby Green was looking forward to a new life
with Maria in Tangier. He had inherited some land from a rich uncle and
was planning to settle there after the war. He had no idea what they
would do but was sure something would come along.
*
However, there were still a few feet of sand separating the
prisoners from freedom, and removing it was the first order of business.
When Walter told Wally Valenta that Rubberneck was going on two
weeks’ leave at the beginning of March, the organizers saw their chance
to finish Harry and get him completely sealed before the hated ferret
returned. Then, the day before his leave, Rubberneck struck a parting
blow. Without warning, he and a security officer, Broili, brought a party
of guards into the compound and began calling names.
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In all, nineteen officers were summoned, rigorously searched,
and marched out the gates to Belaria, an auxiliary camp about five miles
away. Purges were standard procedure, but this time the Germans had
struck it lucky, for they picked some of the most important men in X
Organization: Wally Floody, chief tunnel engineer; Peter Fanshawe, chief
of dispersal; George Harsh, chief of security; Kingsley Brown; Bob
Stanford Tuck; Jim Tyrie; and thirteen others. The goons could hardly
have picked better had they known the entire setup of X Organization.
It was a cruel blow, but because of the progress of the escape
preparations, one that could be endured. Ker Ramsay took over as chief
tunnel engineer, and the seconds in command of the other departments
could supervise the operations for the few days until the scheduled break.
However, the disruption of travel plans was less easy to overcome, and
some men were faced with the prospect of quick improvisation.
Gordon Brettell turned to roommate and fellow forger Henri
Picard and worked out a new plan that took advantage of Picard’s native
tongue. They would travel to Danzig as French workers and look for a
ship to take them to Sweden. Danzig was known to be full of French
workers, so the two hoped for some help once they reached the port.
Tom Kirby Green’s partner had also been included in the purge, so he
had to make other arrangements as well. Gordon Kidder had planned to
travel with Dick Churchill as Romanian woodcutters, but X Organization
decided that Kidder should team up with Kirby Green, with the pair
going as Spanish laborers. Dick Churchill agreed to the plan and linked
up instead with Bob Nelson. The arrangement was satisfactory, though
no one liked making such major changes at such a late date.
*
Without his Russian speaking partner, Roger Bushell first elected
to travel alone and then decided to team up with Lieutenant Bernard
Martial William Scheidhauer, a soft spoken Free French officer who
wasn’t quite so English in appearance as Bob Tuck. About five feet,
nine inches tall with clear blue eyes and chestnut hair, Bernard was one
of X Organization’s intelligence experts, specializing in his native land.
More important, he knew one area of the border particularly well. His
father had commanded a battalion of the Moroccan infantry regiment
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occupying the Palatinate after the First World War, and it was in Landau,
near Saarbrücken, that Bernard was born on August 28, 1921.
His father retired while Bernard was still young and the family
returned to their hometown of Brest, where Bernard went to high school.
He was a charming boy, full of exuberance tempered with a dignified
and almost aristocratic mien, and became popular at the Brest lycée.
The young Scheidhauer was finishing at the lycée when German troops
reached Brest in the summer of 1940. He had planned to take pilot
training after graduation, but his father recommended that he try to escape
to Britain, so Bernard headed south for Bayonne, hoping to reach England
via Gibraltar. He got no farther than St. Jean de Luz, though, and was
forced to return to Brest.
Undaunted, Bernard arranged with five others to sail to England
in a little boat called La Petite Anna. On October 19, 1940, they left the
port of Douarnenez for Cornwall. A couple of days out, however, their
craft ran into a gale, and they used the last of their fuel trying to ride it
out. The storm passed, but the six were helpless and drifted for days. In
time, their food and water ran out, and still they drifted. Finally, on the
twelfth day, they were spotted by a Scottish freighter that picked them
up, half dead from hunger, thirst, and exposure, and took them to England.
Less than a week after the ordeal, Bernard was accepted into the
Free French Air Force. He completed flying training and in March 1942
was posted to 53 OTU. At the end of May he was hospitalized briefly
after a flying accident, but on June 24 he was posted to the famed 242
Squadron, with which he flew his first operation. On September 4
Bernard was transferred to 131 (French) Squadron. The unit was busy
with convoy patrols and cross Channel sweeps that autumn, and Bernard
completed more than forty sorties in only weeks.
On November 11, 1942, he and his unit took off from
Westhampnett in their Spitfires for a patrol over the Somme estuary.
They found nothing, but on the way home ran into a towering bank of
cumulus clouds. The first section of three aircraft swung to port and
missed the bank, but Blue Section, with Bernard Scheidhauer flying in
the number 3 spot, plunged into the clouds in a line astern. It was a
pretty rough ride but didn’t get too alarming until Bernard suddenly
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saw a tailplane loom up in front of him. Putting the nose down, he dove
away to port but not before hearing a tremendous crash as he hit the
aircraft. Emerging from the cloud at two thousand feet, Bernard was
counting his blessings when his engine gave out. Then he noticed that a
good eighteen inches were missing from his propeller blades. Without
hesitation Scheidhauer abandoned his mortally wounded Spitfire, made
an easy parachute descent, and clambered into his dinghy. He was later
picked up, damp but unhurt, by a Royal Navy Walrus flying boat.
A week later, on November 18, Bernard was back in action,
searching for trains on the Caen–Cherbourg railway line. He and his
wingmate claimed hits on four locomotives, but on the way home,
Bernard’s Spitfire began to act up, likely damaged by debris from one
of the trains. Realizing that he would never reach England, he turned
toward the nearest land, which happened to be Jersey in the Channel
Islands. He force landed and was picked up by German soldiers.
His first interrogation was a bit hairy. Intrigued by the sound of
his name, the interrogators became even more interested when they
discovered that Bernard had been born in Germany. Making a note to
that effect in their files, the Luftwaffe passed him on to Sagan.
Scheidhauer was glad to be of use to the intelligence section of
X Organization, but it was his birthplace that attracted Roger’s attention.
As a boy, Bernard had played in the hills and fields around Landau and
observed everything around him with the keen eye of youth. Something
in his past might one day hold the key to a successful crossing into
France.
*
Before Rubberneck’s chair was cold, the organization had been
altered to compensate for the purge. Now there were more men working
in the tunnel than ever before: two at the face; two in each of the halfway
houses; and one at the entrance shaft. During the first nine days of March,
they excavated the last 100 feet of tunnel, including an 18-foot-long
chamber at the base of the exit shaft. On March 4, the workers dug a
record 14 feet of tunnel. After the last chamber was finished, the
surveyors went down and measured the tunnel carefully. They had
calculated that the distance to the edge of the woods was 335 feet, and
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their measurements indicated that Harry was 348 feet long from shaft to
shaft. The exit should be well inside the trees.
Now came the tricky part. It was decided to dig upward almost
to the surface, leaving two feet of earth to be removed on the night of
the escape. The most experienced diggers did this work, because the
risk of falls was great. It was such a tricky job that it took until March
14 to complete. Just after Appell on that day, Johnny Bull and Red Noble
disappeared down the tunnel to dig the last few feet and shore up the
roof of the exit shaft. As they clambered up the exit ladder, a deep and
loud rumble ran through the tunnel.
“Jesus, what the bloody hell was that?” whispered Bull. Seconds
later another rumble rolled around them as the two looked at each other
quizzically. Noble was the first to speak.
“Must have been something driving along that road. Either that
was a helluva loud truck or we’re awful damn close to the road!” said
the Canadian. “We’d better get this little job done and have a word with
Roger.”
Before starting to dig up, Johnny took a broken fencing foil and
poked it upward to measure the amount of soil they had to remove. It
was then that he got the second shock of the day. The foil went no more
than six inches before breaking the surface. He climbed back down to
where Red squatted with the tools.
“There’s maybe six inches of topsoil between us and the great
outdoors,” he said hurriedly. “It’s bloody lucky I didn’t start right in
with the shovel.” Johnny climbed back up the ladder to wedge a couple
of bedboards in as a ceiling and then packed the sand behind them. Red
passed up the last of the braces, and the exit was made secure in the
event of a wandering goon treading on it.
The two worked in silence, both thinking about the discoveries
they had made. The fact that the tunnel came so close to the surface was
worrying but not particularly dangerous. Six inches of dirt should be
enough to prevent the trap from sounding hollow if a sentry stepped on
it. The rumble of trucks was considerably more alarming, though. If the
trucks were as close as they sounded, the tunnel exit was less than twenty
feet from the road, in the middle of an open field. That meant that Harry
could be at least thirty feet short.
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That night the escape leaders discussed the discovery. Again,
they went over the measurements taken by the surveying teams, and the
mathematical types returned to Harry to confirm their calculations.
Everything seemed to check out, and the loud rumble was put down to
the properties of the sand.
After Johnny and Red left the tunnel, everything that was not
absolutely essential was taken out and either burned or stored down
Dick. Pat Langford sealed the trap and then scrubbed the floor around it
so the boards would swell and close any cracks. He would do the same
chore twice a day until the tunnel broke. The following day, Rubberneck
returned from leave and announced his arrival by descending on 104
with a party of ferrets. As usual, they found nothing.
*
With the sealing of Harry, a mood of excited anticipation gripped
the camp. Many prisoners couldn’t help but let it slip into their letters
home. “The vital day for which we are all keenly waiting,” wrote Brian
Evans to his fiancée, Joan, “is even nearer than we actually think.” Tim
Walenn wrote to his brother, “We are all expecting to be home in a few
months.” John F. Williams was a bit more practical and asked his parents
not to send any more cigarettes or tobacco, while Henri Picard told his
family that he wouldn’t need any more drawing materials for the time
being.
Still, it was crucial that a show of normalcy be kept up. Ian Cross
took time out from tidying up the dispersal areas under the theater to go
across to East Compound for a soccer match. There he chatted with his
old friend and escape partner Robert Kee and talked excitedly about the
coming break. Arsenic and Old Lace was playing in the camp theater,
and Tony Hayter was planning the year’s garden. There appeared to be
nothing out of the ordinary at all.
New prisoners were coming into Sagan every day, and one of
the purges from Dulag Luft included a recently captured Canadian named
Freiburger.
“Freiburger . . .” intoned the duty officer approvingly. “That is a
good German name.”
“Well, I’m from Canada,” replied the newcomer without so much
as a pause, “and that’s where all the good Germans are!”
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*
The morning of March 20 was bitterly cold and windy and, as
was often the case on mornings like that, early appell was held not on
the parade ground but in the open space between the first two rows of
huts. The men piled slowly out of the huts and took their places; Alex
Cassie, Des Plunkett, and the other Amiable Lunatics straggled to their
spots between Huts 103 and 110, chatting and laughing while they waited
for the duty officer. Tim Walenn wasn’t with them that morning. For the
past few days, he had been staying in his bunk during appell to be counted
on the sick list. The real purpose behind this was so he could keep an
eye on the bulky bag of rubber stamps used by Dean and Dawson. Strictly
speaking, they should have been stored down Dick at all times, and
there would have been hell to pay had Bushell learned of the practice.
But Tim was concerned with the amount of work still to be done and
decided that the process of getting the stamps in and out of Dick
consumed too much valuable time. All over the compound there were
similar breaches of security, done solely for the sake of speed.
Plunkett and Cassie were chatting happily about the progress of
preparations when a posse of guards doubled into the compound and
encircled Hut 120. Obviously a search was planned.
“Well, that’s a bit hard,” said Alex with a groan. “Now I suppose
we’ll be standing out here for hours. At least we’ve got our showers on
this morning—that’ll give us a bit of a break!”
Suddenly, Plunkett went deathly pale and grabbed Cassie’s arm,
his other hand frozen in his tunic pocket. “Oh, Christ,” he said with a
gasp, “my map book! I must have left it on my bed. It’s got the names of
everyone who’s going out and the maps they’ll need.” For a moment,
Plunkett was frantic. If that little notebook fell into German hands, it
would ruin the entire escape. And poor Des alone would be to blame.
However, Plunkett was nothing if not a realist and he collected
himself quickly. His mind went to work, trying to arrange a plan to
retrieve the valuable book. In a surprisingly short time, he was outlining
his scheme to Alex. It all hinged on two things: the fact that Tim Walenn
was still inside the hut; and their scheduled shower party. Soon Des had
gathered a few others from the hut and put the plan in motion.
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Very casually and with a jaunty whistle, he sauntered over to
Hut 120 and called to the guard in their room. He politely told the goon
that this hut was scheduled to go to the shower block that morning but
hadn’t taken their shower kit with them on appell. Would the guard be
so kind as to retrieve his from his locker and pass it out to him? All the
way down the hut, others asked the same question, and soon various
guards were passing out small bags and bundles.
As Plunkett’s guard called his superior for permission, Des
quickly whispered to Walenn, who was on his bunk directly under the
window, about the book and asked him to pitch it out when the
opportunity arose. The guard turned back to Des and said he would pass
out the necessary supplies. Plunkett smiled his thanks and directed the
guard to his locker out in the corridor. As soon as the guard left the
room, Tim bounced off the bed and grabbed the map book. Thrusting it
into the bag containing his rubber stamps, he tucked the lot into his
shower bag and gave it to the guard when he returned from the corridor.
The unwitting sentry then passed everything out the window to Des,
who accepted the bundle gratefully and wandered back toward the
firepool with the vital escape equipment stuffed safely inside his tunic.
After that the Amiable Lunatics never mentioned the close call again; it
was best forgotten.
*
With the tunnel now ready, the organizers had to decide on the
best date for the break. Dark of the moon was at the end of the month,
with the best days being the twenty-third to the twenty-fifth. The twentyfifth was quickly dropped. Because it was a Saturday, the train travelers
would have to contend with Sunday rail schedules. That left the night of
the twenty-third or the night of the twenty-fourth. Since there was no
difference between Friday and Saturday train schedules, either day would
do.
However, there were still many final preparations to be made.
On March 20, Crump Ker Ramsay inspected all the cases to be carried
by the escapers to ensure that they would fit through the tunnel easily.
Some of them were pretty beaten up, having been acquired in the early
days at Schubin.
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Then began a seemingly endless round of briefings. Beginning
on the twenty-second, Crump and Johnny Marshall lectured all the
escapers on how to get through the tunnel.
“Lie completely flat on the trolley,” boomed Marshall, “and for
God’s sake keep your head down. There’s nothing to see so don’t bother
looking up, because if you do, you’ll bash your head and bring everything
down. Hold your cases straight out in front of you and keep your bloody
elbows in or you’ll tear down a frame. And whatever you do, don’t tip
the trolley!”
A hand came up timidly at the back of the room. “What happens
if the trolley tips itself, Johnny?” asked one of the listeners. Johnny
smiled and spoke soothingly, sensing some nervousness in the room.
“That shouldn’t happen if you do what I’ve told you to. But if it
does, the first thing to remember is, don’t panic—as soon as you panic,
you’re going to squirm around and knock a frame out. As carefully as
you can, get off the trolley and crawl to the nearest halfway house. Don’t
try to get back on the trolley, and don’t leave the trolley in the tunnel—
pull it behind you! Any more questions?” Seeing none, Johnny wished
the group well and cleared the room so that Crump could go over the
whole thing again with the next lot.
*
One of the most important briefings was given to the marshalers,
those men appointed to guide groups of ten escapers away from the
compound. Most were to go west, but there were also some groups going
south along the railway line toward Tschiebsdorf. In some ways the
marshalers were among the most vital cogs in the escape wheel. If they
failed in their task and ran into trouble near the camp, the entire operation
could be ruined. Because of this, Tony Bethell, Jack Grisman, Hank
Birkland, Larry Reavell Carter, and the rest of the marshals listened to
the briefing intently and went over the drill time and time again.
Each marshal would wait in the forest until his ten men had
arrived and then strike off into the woods. Keen Type had given Marcel
Zillessen complete information on the paths through the woods and how
far the trees stretched in all directions, so they were able to get a pretty
good idea of where to go. They first had to navigate around a small
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lighted compound a few hundred yards from the camp. It was thought
to be either an ammunition dump or an electrical installation, but the
organizers were certain that it should be avoided at all costs. Then the
group had to get past the other compounds in the Sagan complex, cross
a narrow road, and hit a branch of the railway line. They would follow
this until they came to the main north–south line, where they would
split up. The distance was just over a mile.
From there the escapers were on their own and had to find their
own way around the various obstacles. Those continuing south would
have to negotiate one main road and the small villages of Hermsdorf
and Tschirndorf before coming to their first big hurdle, the main Berlin–
Breslau autobahn. Escapers going west had to cope with Sorau, a largish
town similar to Sagan in size, while those going east would have to deal
with Sprottau, another good sized town. Only those walking north had a
relatively easy trip—that is until they reached the Oder River, roughly
thirty miles north of Sagan. Information recently received in the camp
revealed that the river was flooded and would likely be very difficult to
cross.
Because of the importance of keeping to a schedule, the train
travelers would make their own way through the forest and were given
explicit instructions for the trek. They would have to walk northeast for
about a quarter of a mile, and then look for a road that ran roughly
northwest to southeast past the station. Beside this road was a fence that
backed onto the station entrances. There were three possible entrances
to the station. The most desirable was a path across the tracks to the east
of the platforms, but if this proved impossible to use, there was an
overhead walkway to the west of the station. Only if neither of these
was available were the escapers to use the subway, which went under
the tracks and came up in the main booking hall. This route was the
busiest and therefore the most dangerous and was to be used only as a
last resort.
In addition, each escaper was given a special briefing by one or
more of the area experts, depending on the individual’s travel plans. For
instance, those traveling south to Czechoslovakia would hear from Wally
Valenta or from another Czech officer who came from the Riesengebirge,
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the mountains that straddled the Czech–German frontier, who knew them
as well as anyone. They were also taught to say in Czech, “I swear by
the death of my mother that I am an English officer,” and were assured
that this oath would cause them to be believed anywhere in the country.
They were also briefed by Wing Commander John Ellis, an expert
on outdoor survival who passed on tips to make a hardarser’s journey
more bearable. Those making for Switzerland listened to Roger Bushell
and Johnny Stower, who spoke of their experiences at the border, and
were given information about the location of guard posts on the frontier
that Zillessen had obtained from Keen Type. That helpful ferret had
also provided a list of the foods that could be obtained without ration
cards and directions to the berths usually reserved for Swedish ships in
Danzig and Stettin.
Finally, Roger met with all the escapers in the lavatory of 104.
He spoke confidently of the arrangements made regarding the marshalers
and passed on some contact addresses. For those going south, there was
the address of a baker just inside the Czech frontier and the name of the
hotelier in Prague who had helped Johnny Stower the previous year.
Roger also gave out the address, sent in code to Schubin in 1942, of a
brothel in Stettin that was frequented by Swedish sailors. He wished
everyone well and then stayed to talk with each of the train travelers.
Bushell reminded them of various German customs and gave out the
available information about timetables and fares. Keen Type had provided
details on all trains from the Sagan station and, from various sources,
Valenta had been able to build up a complete schedule of times and
prices. With this the train travelers could plan their itinerary even before
leaving the camp.
*
By this time, most of the material arrangements had been made.
Nearly three thousand maps had been run off and sorted into groups,
and Johnny Travis had made up metal water bottles from old food cans
and solder. In Hut 112, Canton’s chefs were busy mixing hundreds of
four ounce cans of escape mixture. There were two kinds, both made to
the recipe of dietary expert David Lubbock: a mixture of sugar and cereal;
and a precooked solid made of cocoa, chocolate, fat, sugar, and Klim.
Each can of the precooked mixture was enough to provide the necessary
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nutrition for two days. The hardarsers were given six cans each, and the
train travelers were offered four, although many decided against carrying
the cans, which would instantly identify them as escaped POWs if they
were searched.
As the escape drew nearer, many of the lads wrote home, some
hoping it would be their last letter from captivity. “I’ve got an important
part to play in one of our kriegie plays,” wrote George Wiley to a friend
in Canada, “and am a bit nervous about doing my part well . . . may see
you sooner than expected.”
By the morning of March 23 there was still a good six inches of
snow on the ground, but the winter seemed to have broken at last. There
was a new mildness in the air, and a very slight thaw had set in. Spring
was clearly on its way. There was still a snap in the air, but it was more
electricity than cold, for everyone knew that the break was due in the
next couple of days. The opinion of the optimists was further borne out
when the leaders of X Organization were seen making their way slowly
and circuitously toward Hut 104 for another meeting. One of the men
who walked up the steps to 104 was not a regular at those meetings and,
to those who knew him, his presence was significant.
The new face was Flying Officer Len Hall, of the RAF
Meteorological Branch, who had the dubious distinction of being one
of the few officers in Sagan who had been sunk instead of shot down.
The vessel taking him to England from Nigeria had been torpedoed in
the Caribbean, and Len spent four weeks as a prisoner on a U-boat before
getting back to dry land. The Germans evidently didn’t know what to
do with him because they moved him between Dulag Luft and a naval
transit camp for almost two months before finally deciding to stick him
in Luft III. The organization was glad of that decision, for they were in
great need of a trained weather forecaster.
Since the kingpins of the organization all knew the score, the
first questions went to Len.
“How do things look for the next couple of days, Len?” asked
Roger quietly.
“Quite good, actually,” began Len. “As you know, it’s dark of
the moon now, and there should be pretty good cloud for the next couple
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of nights to make it even darker. I’m afraid the temperature won’t be too
helpful, but you’ll likely have a bit of wind to cover up the noises. That’s
the best I can do with what I have to go on.”
“Can you give me anything longer-term?” queried Roger.
Len shook his head. “Sorry, Roger. This German weather can
get damned nasty, and it’s still too early to say that the winter’s over for
good.”
Roger grunted and looked around at his lieutenants. It was clear
that he wanted to get moving. “Well, we’ll have to wait until tomorrow
morning to decide for sure, but I think we should give it a go if the
weather doesn’t change. Any objections?”
Everyone in the room knew Roger well enough to recognize
when he had made up his mind, and this was one of those occasions.
They all shook their heads. Tim Walenn said that he needed as much
notice as possible to stamp and sign all of the forged documents, and
Ker Ramsay wanted at least half a day to make the final preparations in
the tunnel. Aside from that, there was nothing further.
After the meeting broke up, Johnny Marshall hung back to have
a word with Roger.
“What about the hardarsers, Roger?” he asked. “There’s still
three feet of snow in the forests—they won’t stand a chance in those
conditions.”
Bushell was firm. “It’s a chance they’ll have to take. We can’t
risk keeping Harry until the next no-moon period. You’ve seen the trap—
it’s warping more every day. We’re on borrowed time as it is. If we
don’t move soon, the odds are that we’ll lose everything.”
“How about putting out some train travelers now, and closing
Harry up until the weather improves? The walkers would have a much
better chance in a month’s time.”
“Come on, Johnny,” said Roger. “You know the tunnel would
never make it through a big search if we used it once. Besides, it’s got to
be all or nothing. The entire plan depends on getting large numbers of
escapers out in one go—a few train travelers just wouldn’t do.”
It was useless to discuss it further, especially since Marshall
knew that all of Bushell’s points were valid. Still, the conversation forced
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Big X to reconsider the problem of the walkers, and after mulling it
over for the afternoon, he sought the advice of Wings Day. He told Wings
that he hated to make a decision that would jeopardize the hardarsers’
chances but that he saw no other alternatives.
Wings was quick with his reply. “We both know, Roger, that the
odds are stacked against the hardarser at the best of times. We’ve both
done our fair share of walking in the past—you know as well as I do
that the odds are a thousand to one against, even in the best conditions.
Besides, no one’s going to freeze to death—if things get bad they can
just turn themselves in. It’s usually warm enough in the cooler!”
Roger smiled when he saw Wings’s big grin. “That’s bloody
true enough!” he said grimly.
“In any case, there’s a bigger question here. You’ve said it
yourself a dozen times that the greatest value in an escape is the number
of chaps who get out in the first place, not the number who get home.
Even if none of the hardarsers lasts two days, they’ll have had an impact
just by getting outside the wire.”
Bushell was silent for a moment and then looked up and said
simply, “Thanks, you’re right,” before wandering off to his hut.
Wings watched him stride across the compound and reflected
on what the South African had been able to achieve. He had taken a
camp full of very different characters and given them a uniting purpose.
Soon he would turn loose up to two hundred escapers and, for the seventh
time, Wings Day would be one of them.
There was a heavy snowstorm that night and the issue was again
in doubt when the committee members met on the morning of the twentyfourth to come to a decision. At 11:30 A.M., they gathered in a room in
Hut 101. Just ten minutes later, they all emerged again. It was on.
Tim Walenn went straight off to start date-stamping and signing
the papers. This job had to be left until the very last minute so the escapers
could get the greatest possible use out of their limited time travel
documents. Also, most of the documents had to be signed, including
Roger Bushell’s genuine visa, which he had procured in the course of
one of his escapes. Cassie painted on the visa stamp in purplish pink
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watercolor and then signed it with the name of a chief of police whose
real signature they had. Alex practiced the signature for two days so
that he could get it just right.
Meanwhile, Crump went down Harry to do the final tunnel work.
He started by hanging two blankets in the exit chamber to block the
light and sound. As an added precaution, strips of cloth were nailed to
the first and last fifty feet of trolley rail. Blankets were also spread on
the floor of both the entry and exit shafts to deaden any sounds and
were laid down in both halfway houses so that the haulers wouldn’t get
their clothes filthy. Next, extra lights were installed every twenty five
feet to give a bit more illumination to comfort those who were inclined
toward claustrophobia. Finally, the trolleys had to be modified to handle
the large number of men who would be using them. Extra planks were
added on top to provide a better platform for the escapers to lie on, and
four hundred feet of one inch thick manila rope intended for the camp’s
boxing ring was taken down and attached to the trolleys. Finally, four
twisted shoring boards were replaced and a specially constructed wooden
shovel was taken to the exit shaft for use in breaking the tunnel.
Meanwhile, the Little X’s were making their way around the
various departments of the organization to pick up all of the gear for the
escapers in their hut. They had already grilled each escaper and carefully
examined his clothing, luggage, and papers and now had to hand over
the bundle of gear and a few last bits of advice. The Little X’s also gave
each man explicit instructions on when and how to go to Hut 104. For
days before the escape, watchers had kept a tally on the number of men
going in and out of the block on a normal day. To avoid an increase in
traffic on the day of the escape, these figures were used to arrive at a
series of routes and timetables. There was a thirty second interval between
movements, and each escaper had a specific time and direction to go.
When he got to 104, he would be directed to a bunk to wait for his
number to come up. The regular occupant of that bunk would then make
his way to the other fellow’s hut and remain there until the following
morning.
Around the camp, tension was mounting. There were a few more
forced grins, and many of the kriegies tried to calm their nerves with
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meaningless conversation. Len Hall’s afternoon meteorology class was
noticeably smaller than on previous days, and there were fewer people
hanging around the theater. The night before had seen a dress rehearsal
of the new production of Pygmalion, with Roger Bushell as Professor
Henry Higgins. An understudy waited in the wings, lest the star be
unavailable.
Back in his room, Hank Birkland hunched over one last letter to
his family. “I got a letter last month to which I will not be able to reply,”
he wrote in his typical straightforward style. “I am not in a position to
carry on a letter for letter correspondence for long.”
Just after six, a few men gathered in Johnny Travis’s room for a
last supper of bully beef fritters and barley glop, a mixture of barley,
Klim, sugar, and raisins. Roger Bushell, Bob van der Stok, Digger
McIntosh, and Shorty Armstrong were all there, but there was little
conversation. No one seemed to have much of an appetite, despite
Travis’s guarantee that the feast would keep you filled for days.
In Hut 112, George Wiley was setting a few things straight before
leaving for 104. Of all the escapers, George was the youngest-looking.
Though he had turned twenty two in January, his fair hair and gentle
features made him look about sixteen, and George was used to jibes
about the authorities having to let kids into the air force to do a man’s
job. This day, though, George’s boyish face showed as much trepidation
as excitement. He spoke no German and realized that his chances of
making a clean escape were almost nil, especially as his leg was again
giving him trouble in the cold. He expected to be picked up in the Sagan
area and thought he would probably spend a week or two in the cooler
before being put back in the compound.
As George was cleaning up his bunk, he chatted with Alan
Righetti, who would be staying behind in 112. The Australian could tell
that his roommate was uneasy and tried to buck him up with a few
words of encouragement. Alan had been involved in a couple of breaks
in Italy and knew what it was like for a first time escaper in the hours
before a break. George was comforted by Alan’s words but as he got up
to make his way to 104, the Canadian turned to his roommate and held
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out his watch and a few other things that he had collected over his year
in captivity.
“Alan, if I don’t make it,” he began, “will you see that these
things get back to my mother in Windsor?”
“Okay, George,” said Alan quietly. “You sure you don’t want to
hang on to them? You may see her before I do!” he added cheerfully.
Wiley smiled and clapped his pal on the back with a word of farewell.
As he turned to leave the room, Righetti couldn’t help but think that
George Wiley looked so young and innocent to be heading out into the
snowy unknown of a cold March night.
*
As dusk fell, the exodus continued. Pulling on his greatcoat,
Mike Casey bade farewell to his roommates in Hut 122. “I’m off, lads,”
he said with a wave. “It’s about time for my run in the woods!” Mike
reported to 122’s controller, who consulted his time sheet, got the nod
from his stooge, and pushed the Irishman out the door with a hearty
clap on the back. Casey walked east, around the south end of Hut 121
and then entered 109 by the south door. He went directly to Room 17,
where Wings Norman sat with another time sheet.
“Ah, Mike,” said Norman cheerily, “spot on time as usual. Off you
go, then, and don’t get yourself into any trouble!” With a firm handshake, Mike was sent on his way. He continued up the corridor to the
northern end of 109, where another stooge stood holding the door shut.
He peeked through the crack and then quickly opened the door and
gave Mike the thumbs-up as he passed. The Irishman crossed the path
running beside the firepool and paused on the southern steps of Hut
104.
The door swung open and Casey reported to Dave Torrens, who
gave him a room and bunk assignment. Mike had escaped before, but in
his nearly five years as a prisoner, he had never seen anything quite like
this. Inside the crowded hut was the oddest collection of characters,
some in rough working clothes and others in smart business suits. Some
were just standing and smoking, others were chatting softly, and two
pairs were huddled over a game of bridge. Many just sat and said nothing, glancing up briefly with a smile as Mike passed.
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Twice every minute, the door opened for another kriegie, who came
in quietly and was checked off by Torrens. Everything had gone exactly
according to plan so far. Then, at about a quarter to eight, the door opened
again. Instantly, a hush fell over the corridor and Casey poked his head
out of the room to see what was up. There, at the end of the hall, stood a
Luftwaffe corporal.
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Ace!
A Marine Night-Fighter Pilot in World War II
By Colonel R. Bruce Porter with Eric Hammel
“My first time at the controls of the N3N was a nightmare of jerky,
uncoordinated movements, over-corrections, needless exertions, and redfaced certainty that I did not, in fact, have the right stuff. The instructor
calmly got me—and himself—out of trouble and never uttered a sound
of dismay. Until we were safely on the ground. Then he looked at me—
a wet rag, sweating fear and embarrassment into my bulky flight suit—
and said just the thing to make my day: ‘Porter, you will never solo. You
are the dumbest cadet I have ever laid eyes on.’”
Ace! is Bruce Porter’s life as a Marine combat fighter pilot—from
his earliest days as a naval aviation cadet before World War II, to his
adventures guarding America’s forwardmost defense line in the South
Pacific, to his aerial combat over the Solomons. Follow Bruce Porter
through his exacting night-fighter training and fly with him on his rare
double-kill night mission over Okinawa in 1945.
Colonel Robert Bruce Porter, USMCR (Ret) reported for his Last
Flight on April 20, 2009.
What the Marine Aces said about Ace!
“From flight training, Bruce Porter’s aeronautical skills as a Marine
day- and night-fighter pilot defined the term—fighter ace! Bruce’s book
reflects the keen, analytical mind of a fighter pilot’s technical skills
projected into combat. This book is a ‘must’ for anyone interested in
combat aviation history.” ———Col Jeff De Blanc, Marine Medal of
Honor recipient
“[In his book], Bruce relives the challenges, frustrations, and triumphs
of training, on to his victories in the Corsair in the Solomons, and then
on to attain ace status with a flourish at Okinawa. Read and enjoy a
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fabulous Marine aviation combat story.” ———BriGen Joe Foss, Marine
Medal of Honor recipient
“Bruce Porter’s book is great! It shows the many details and answers
many questions about operating from an aircraft carrier. . . . It explains
why, even without enemy action, steady operations under poor conditions
will cost us pilots and aircraft. . . . I highly recommend Ace!” ———
BriGen Bob Galer, Marine Medal of Honor recipient
“You have to read this excellent book. It will keep you glued to the
pages as you sit in the cockpit with Bruce. . . . It is very well written and
personal.” ———Col Jim Swett, Marine Medal of Honor recipient
“Bruce Porter’s book, Ace!, tells of our flying Wildcats together before
Pearl Harbor, about his Corsair victories in the Solomon Islands, and
his splendid night flying from Okinawa. I highly recommend Ace!” —
——LtCol Ken Walsh, Marine Medal of Honor recipient
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book ACE!: A
Marine Night Fighter Pilot in World War II by Colonel R. Bruce
Porter with Eric Hammel. The book is currently available in a $24.95
trade paperback edition published by Pacifica Military History. It
is also available in ebook editions.
First Kill
by Colonel R. Bruce Porter with Eric Hammel
Copyright 1985 © by Robert Bruce Porter and Eric Hammel
Robert Bruce Porter earned his wings and was commissioned a Marine
second lieutenant in July, 1941. He shipped out to American Samoa in
March 1942, with the first U.S. fighter squadron to be sent to that
threatened front-line area. Following more than a year’s rigorous
training in Samoa, Porter was transferred to Marine Fighter Squadron
121 (VMF-121), which at the time was converting to the new F4U-1
Corsair fighter. The squadron was moved forward to Guadalcanal’s
Henderson Field on June 9, 1943, to begin its third combat tour in the
Solomons. By then a seasoned, senior pilot, and one of the first Marine
airmen to be assigned to front-line duty in the Pacific, Captain Bruce
Porter finally faced the prospect of experiencing combat against
Japanese warplanes.
My first air-alert scramble at Guadalcanal was on June 12, 1943. It was
to be my first intercept and my first combat.
I was then the squadron flight officer and, on June 12, was flight
leader of VMF-121’s two four-plane alert divisions.
Pilots not already waiting in their cockpits were in the squadron
ready room, a large tent near the edge of the main runway, within
sprinting distance of our Corsairs.
At the alert, I ran toward the airplanes, which were waiting like cow
ponies in the dispersal revetments beside the taxiway.
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I climbed up on the left wing of the first plane I could find and
vaulted into the cockpit. With the aid of the plane captain, I shrugged
into my seat and parachute harnesses and plugged in my throat mike
and earphones. As the plane captain climbed down off the wing and got
out of the way, I checked the lever that was set to lock me into the
cockpit.
Then, one by one, I heard the thrumming high-performance engines,
which had already been turned up by the plane captains, roar to full
power. At this point, all pilots checked the two magnetos to be sure they
were each bearing a full power load. If the magnetos gave a low reading,
or if some other problem was noted, the pilot would quickly shut off the
engine, reverse the entry procedure, and head for the nearest spare plane,
of which there were always one or two. Sometimes, if too many airplanes
were down, some pilots would miss getting into the air.
The eerie thing about scrambles was the complete absence of radio
chatter. The entire evolution was so automatic that, except in an extreme
emergency, there was zero conversation. We just boosted power and
rolled out to take off into the wind.
As my airplane vaulted into the air, I pulled up its landing gear lever
with my left hand. Then, as I climbed beyond danger of hitting the earth,
I switched the joystick to my left hand and pulled my birdcage canopy
shut with my right. Then I strapped on my oxygen mask, which was
mandatory above 10,000 feet.
Within a very few minutes, my half-squadron was clawing for an
altitude advantage over the onrushing enemy, seeking to meet that enemy
as far from friendly bases as we could manage. As we climbed, each of
us charged and test-fired all of his six Corsair’s six .50-caliber wing
guns. There was no point in flying on if the guns were inoperable.
The formation pretty much took care of itself. We nearly always had
a few stragglers or gaps in our formation right after reaching altitude.
That meant we had to reconstitute two-plane elements and divisions on
the way to combat.
*
We were at 18,000 feet and heading northwest, toward the Russell
Islands, which were about 80 miles from Henderson Field. The remainder
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of the squadron, and three other alert squadrons, were dispersed nearby
or right behind us, covering different altitudes and sectors. Thus, we
had 32 Corsairs and Wildcats flying as a leading wedge and nearly an
identical number coming on as a follow-up force. The New Zealanders
managed to launch another 30 P-40 fighters.
For all the long months of practice and performance in Samoa and
at Turtle Bay, I did not have a calm cell in my body. It is unusual to
sweat at altitude, even in the tropics, but bodily fluids were running off
me in rivulets. I was even concerned that my canopy would fog up from
so much moisture. I had no fear, but my bloodstream had an
overabundance of adrenalin and, I’m sure, other life-preserving
substances that gave off a rank odor and copious amounts of perspiration.
In a way, my discomfort shielded me from dwelling too much on the
possible consequences of the onrushing confrontation.
I do not think I was ever as exhilarated as I was during that flight.
The Russells had been recently seized by Marine Raiders, and a
new forward fighter strip was under construction. It was unclear if the
approaching Japanese wanted to strike at the new base or if they were
bound for Guadalcanal. Whatever the case, we had barely enough time
to intercept them just to the northwest of the Russells.
There was no end of chatter among the Corsair pilots, especially
“bogies”—unconfirmed, presumably hostile radar contacts from our
ground controllers at Guadalcanal.
We were over the Russell Islands within 30 minutes of the alert.
Below, I could see the wakes of boats as they plied the blue waters. I
was scanning the entire sky, looking for telltale movement among the
distant thunderheads and the lacy white cumulus clouds set against a
splendid blue canopy.
I was just commenting to myself what a beautiful day it was when
my earphones suddenly crackled with an incoming all-squadrons
message: “Tally ho! Zeros at eleven o’clock. Angels 25.” This meant
that enemy fighters had been spotted as they flew at an altitude of 25,000
feet and on a bearing just to the left of dead center. (Imagine a clock.
Dead ahead is 12 o’clock, dead astern is six o’clock, right is three o’clock,
and left is nine o’clock.)
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I charged my guns and turned on my reflector sight, which cast an
image of a gunsight, complete with distance calibrations, on the
windscreen in front of my face.
Within seconds, I saw silvery glints against the bright blue
background of the sky. The enemy fighter formations were coming in
from all directions.
No enemy bombers had been reported by coastwatchers occupying
various covert observation posts farther up the Solomons, and none was
sighted as the opposing forces rushed at one another in excess of 500
miles per hour. We were encountering a fighter sweep, pure and simple.
Over 70 Zeros had come only to challenge our fighters.
Well.
*
As I approached the swift silver streaks and tried to lock onto one of my
own, I could see in the middle distance that other Corsairs—from my
two divisions, as it turned out—had already engaged, for there was a
large brown smudge set against a lacy cumulus cloud to mark the spot
where a Zero had blown up. I saw no parachute.
Then we were into it.
To my left, my own division’s second element suddenly broke away
to take on an oncoming Zero. But I had only enough time to watch the
first spurt of tracer erupt from one of the Corsair’s six .50-caliber wing
guns.
All the best training in the world could not abate the instant of sheer
surprise when my eyes locked onto a target of their own.
The Zero was going to pass me from the right front to left rear as he
dived on one of the Corsairs of my engaged second element, which by
then was behind and below me. I was sure the Japanese pilot never saw
me as he opened with his two .30-caliber machine guns. I saw his pink
tracer reach out past my line of vision, which was obscured by my
Corsair’s long nose. Then, for good measure, he fired four 20mm cannon
rounds, which passed in front of me like fiery popcorn balls; I was
shocked to see how slowly they seemed to travel.
I never consciously pressed my gun-button knob. I had practiced
this encounter a thousand times, and I seemed to know enough to allow
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my instincts to prevail over my mind. My guns were boresighted to
converge in a cone about 300 yards ahead of my Corsair’s propeller
spinner. Anything within that cone would be hit by a stream of half-inch
steel-jacketed bullets.
My Corsair shuddered slightly as all the guns fired, and I saw my
tracer passing just over the Zero’s long birdcage canopy.
Then he was past me. I pulled around after him, to my left. So, I
hoped, did my wingman, 1st Lieutenant Phil Leeds, who was echeloned
to the right and rear, just off my right wing.
My turn was easy. I did not pull many Gs, so my head was absolutely
clear. I came up with a far deflection shot and decided to go for it. I gave
the Zero a good lead and fired all my guns again. As planned, my tracers
went ahead of him, but at just the right level. I kicked my left rudder to
pull my rounds in toward his nose.
If that Japanese pilot had flown straight ahead, he would have been
a dead man.
Instead, that superb pilot presented me with a demonstration of the
Zero’s best flight characteristic, the one thing a Zero could do that could
carry its pilot from the jaws of death just about every time. I had heard
of the maneuver I was about to experience from scores of awed F4F and
F4U pilots, but I had no conception of how aerodynamically fantastic
the Zero fighter really was until that split second.
As soon as my quarry saw my tracer pass in front of his airplane’s
nose, he simply pulled straight up and literally disappeared from within
my reflector sight and, indeed, my entire line of sight. My tracer reached
out into empty space. I was so in awe of the maneuver that I was literally
shaking with envy.
I had time to inscribe a fleeting image of my surroundings upon my
mind’s eye—the sky was filled with weaving airplanes, streamers of
smoke and flame, winking guns, and lines of tracer set against that superb
blue background, with its distant thunderheads and lacy cumulus clouds.
Then I pulled my joystick into my belly and banked as hard to the left as
I dared.
There he was! My reflector sight ring lay just to the right of him. He
was just beyond my reach. If I was to get a clear shot, I would have to
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pull up in an even steeper climb. Even then, he had the better climbing
speed, and he was steadily opening the range.
But I wanted the son of a bitch to avenge Sam Logan.
I held my breath and sucked in my gut to counteract the pressure,
but I felt the forces of gravity steadily mount up and press me into my
seat; I felt the thought-carrying blood being sucked from my brain. I
could not quite get him into my sights; he was just a little too high and
a little too far to the right.
He had me in a tight loop by then. I knew I would not be able to
maintain the mind-expanding maneuver indefinitely. It struck me that I
might be running low on ammunition.
All the alarm bells went off in my head at the same time, but I hung
on despite the gray pall that was simultaneously passing over my eyes
and my mind.
I finally reached the top of the loop, a point where all the forces
were in equilibrium. Suddenly, the G forces relaxed. I was not quite
weightless, but neither was I quite my full body weight. There was a
moment of grogginess, then the gray pall totally cleared. I noticed that
the horizon was upside down and that the Zero was . . . in my sights!
He was about 300 yards ahead of me, at extreme range, and slowly
pulling away.
It was now or never.
I blocked out everything else in the world except that silver Zero
and the tools I had at my disposal, now mere extensions of my mind and
my senses. Nothing else in the world mattered more than staying on that
Zero’s tail. I would have flown into the ocean at full throttle if that
enemy pilot led me there.
I squeezed the gun-button knob beneath my right index finger. The
eerie silence in my cockpit was broken by the steady roar of my machine
guns.
The Zero never had a chance. It flew directly into the cone of deadly
half-inch bullets. I was easily able to stay on it as the stream of tracer
first sawed into the leading edge of the left wing. I saw little pieces of
metal fly away from the impact area and clearly thought I should nudge
my gunsight—which is to say, my entire Corsair—a hair to the right.
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The stream of tracer worked its way to the cockpit. I clearly saw the
glass canopy shatter, but there was so much glinting, roiling glass and
debris that I could not see the pilot. The Zero wobbled, and my tracer
fell into first one wing root, then the other, striking the enemy’s
unprotected fuel tanks.
The Zero suddenly blew up, evaporated.
*
I instinctively ducked, certain that I would be struck by the debris, which
was hurtling by at many hundreds of miles per hour. I could feel things
hitting the Corsair, but I was quickly through the expanding greasy cloud
of detritus and soaring through clear sky.
As I fell back into the ironclad routine of rotating my head left, right
and up in search of enemy planes, I felt rather than saw Phil Leeds
closing in on my tail. Only then did I realize that trusty Phil had followed
me all the way through the grueling chase and on through the debris
cloud of the evaporated Zero.
Now it was his turn.
Only seconds after passing through the debris of my kill, another
Zero flashed by directly in front of us, from right to left and a hair above
us. Phil was in the best position to get him; we both knew that. While
Phil went after him like a hawk after a mouse, I dropped back and locked
on to Phil’s wing.
Phil peeled off to the left and struggled mightily to grab hold of the
Zero’s tail. As he turned, however, I saw a stream of pink tracer flash
past his windscreen from the right rear.
My eyes quickly shifted to my rear-view mirror on the right and
caught the glint of the sun on our assailant’s silvery fuselage. Phil saw
the second Zero too and led me sharply around to the left.
There, we both saw that a third Zero was coming toward us from
below!
Phil followed through right into a diving head-on attack against the
third Zero. Even as pink tracer from the second Zero’s guns flashed by
from the right rear, I saw that Phil was scoring solid hits on the third
Zero. I also noted that there was no return fire from the third Zero.
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Then it was time to get out of the way. We reversed course by flying
up into a tight loop. The instant we completed the high-G maneuver, the
second Zero overtook us and hurtled out from under my wing. Phil simply
fired all his guns at the second Zero as it passed beneath his wing.
I lost track of Phil’s bullets and all the Zeros for just an instant as I
checked to see if any more Zeros were converging on us. When I next
looked around, all I could see was a huge white parachute opening
beneath a great puff of black smoke. Nearby, the remains of the lifeless
second Zero spiralled down toward the sea. Neither the first nor third
Zeros were anywhere in our part of the sky.
I don’t think Phil’s kill took more than ten seconds.
*
The sky around us was empty; the air battle had passed us by. Far off, I
could see airplanes maneuvering against the backdrop of clouds. I briefly
considered joining the action, but I was worried about our supply of
.50-caliber ammunition. I well knew that only very foolish pilots
knowingly use all their bullets when enemy fighters are still around.
I motioned Phil to fall back on my tail, which he did as I checked
our position on my strip map. As soon as I had a fix on a distinctive
island below, I climbed back to 18,000 feet and shaped a course for
home, well to the southeast.
Only then did I realize that my flight suit was dripping wet from
perspiration. And I could feel a heavy pounding in my temples, indicating
that a vast quantity of adrenalin was coursing through my bloodstream.
My breathing became shallow, and I felt ever so faint. I took a few deep
pulls of pure oxygen, and that cleared me right up.
*
After a return flight of under 30 minutes, we made landfall over Cape
Esperance, Guadalcanal’s northwestern tip. It was about 1130. Then
and there, Phil and I both spotted a solitary Zero circling right over the
beach at about 5,000 feet, well below us. I had the vague impression
that the pilot might have been speaking by radio with someone on the
ground.
I knew I was very low on ammunition and would have left that Zero
alone, but Phil radioed that he wanted to take a crack at him, though he
had no idea how many bullets he had left.
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I turned the lead over to Phil and followed him in a steep dive right
out of the sun. The whole thing was over in seconds. Phil simply nailed
the Zero, which turned its nose down and dived straight into the sea. It
never even flamed.
We circled the Zero’s grave once, then turned for home, where we
made a routine landing and taxied out to the dispersal area to see how
our comrades had fared. As it happened, Phil and I were the first ones
back. We accepted handshakes from our plane captains after telling them
the good news, and then we bided our time by checking our Corsairs for
damage. Neither of the airplanes had sustained any bullet holes, but my
airplane’s nose and leading wing edges were pitted from debris, and
there was a large black smudge, probably flaming oil or aviation gasoline,
on my prop spinner and the nose of my fighter.
Everyone was back within 30 minutes or so. It turned out that VMF121 was the only squadron that scored that day. Captain Bob Baker was
credited with a probable Zero; Captain Ken Ford got two solid kills and
a probable; Captain Bill Harlan got one kill and two probables; Captain
Bruce Porter got a kill; and 1st Lieutenant Phil Leeds got two kills. That
is six kills and four probables against no losses of our own. A very good
day!
*
I had not only weathered first combat, I had scored my first kill. I had
been baptised. I had won my spurs.
It did not dawn on me until late that night that I had also killed a
man.
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ACES AGAINST GERMANY
The American Aces Speak
By Eric Hammel
In the second volume of his critically acclaimed series, The American
Aces Speak, military historian Eric Hammel brings fresh first person
accounts from U.S. Army Air Corps fighter aces who blasted their way
across the skies of North Africa, the Mediterranean, and northern and
southern Europe in the great crusade against Hitler’s vaunted Luftwaffe
and other Axis air forces. Coupled with a concise historical overview of
America’s air war against the Axis in Europe and North Africa, Hammel’s
detailed interviews bring out the most thrilling in the-cockpit experiences
of some of our country’s best pilots.
Climb aboard a P 38 Lightning as Maj. Bill Leverette fights America’s
highest scoring single personal air battle against the Luftwaffe. And get
into the cockpit of a P 47 Thunderbolt as 15 victory ace Capt. Don
Bryan scores his dream kill by outwitting the pilot of a far speedier
German jet in the closing days of the war in Europe.
As he has in four companion volumes, Hammel collected some of
the very best air combat tales from America’s war against Germany.
Nearly all the stories in Aces Against Germany have never before been
told, and the others have been enhanced by details and viewpoints
brought out by Hammel’s interviewing Together, the five volumes of
nearly 200 first person aerial combat stories from World War II, Korea,
and Vietnam stand as an enduring testament to the combat airmen who
fought their wars strapped into the cockpits of America’s lethal high
performance fighter aircraft.
Aces Against Germany is a highly charged emotional rendering of
the now-dim days of personal combat at the very edge of our living
national history. There was never a war like it, and there never will be
again. These are the stories of America’s eagles in their very own words.
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Critical Acclaim for The American Aces Speak Series
The Book World says: “Aces Against Japan is a thunderous, personal,
high-adventure book giving our ‘men in the sky’ their own voice”
Book Page says: “Eric Hammel’s book is recommended reading. It is a
must for any historian’s bookshelf.”
The Library Journal says: “No PR hype or dry-as-dust prose here.
Hammel allows his flyers to tell their stories in their own
way.Exciting stuff aviation and World War II buffs will love.”
The Providence Sunday Journal says: “A treat that deftly blends a
chronology of the Pacific War with tales that would rival a
Saturday action matinee.”
Infantry Magazine says: “If you would like to read one book that will
give you a broad overview and yet a detailed look at what a
fighter pilot’s air war was like?this is the book.”
The Bookshelf says: “Hammel is one of our best military historians
when it comes to presenting that often complex subject to the
general public. He has demonstrated this facility in a number of
fine books before [Aces Against Germany] and now he does so
again.Not to be missed by either buff or scholar.”
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Pacifica Military History
Note: The following article is excerpted from the book ACES
AGAINST GERMANY: The American Aces Speak by Eric Hammel.
The book is currently available in a $27.50 trade paperback edition
published by Pacifica Military History. It is also available in ebook
editions.
THE BIG B
by Eric Hammel
Copyright 1992 © by Eric Hammel.
Major TOM HAYES, USAAF
364th Fighter Squadron, 357th Fighter Group
Berlin, March 6, 1944
*
Portland, Oregon’s Thomas Lloyd Hayes, Jr., dreamed of flight
through-out his youth, but he saw no means for making his dreams real
until 1937, when he was a high-school senior. Early that year, a Soviet
airplane on a much-heralded flight from Moscow to San Francisco was
forced to end its journey in Portland’s neighbor, Vancouver, Wash-ington.
Young Tom Hayes was one of the first civilians to greet the Russian
aircrew. Emboldened by his brush with reflected glory, Hayes attempted
to enlist in the U.S. Navy flight program as soon as he graduated from
high school that June. He was turned away on account of his age and
advised to earn a college degree in order to qualify. Hayes dutifully
matriculated at Oregon State University, but all he really cared about
was qualifying for Navy flight school. However, in May 1940—the month
Germany invaded the Low Countries—Hayes attended an Army Air
Corps air show in Corvallis, Oregon. When he learned at the show that
he needed only two years of college to qualify, he signed up on the spot.
Within a month, Cadet Hayes was attending Primary flight training
at Glendale, California, and he graduated with Class 41-A at Kelly
Field, Texas, on February 7, 1941. Lieutenant Hayes was assigned to
the 35th Pursuit Group. In November 1941, the group was ordered to
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the Philippines, but by December 7 one-third of the group—Tom Hayes
included—had not yet shipped out. In January 1942, Hayes’s group of
pilots, crew chiefs, armorers, and P-40 fighters ended up on Java,
battling the Japanese. On February 19, Hayes was shot down by a
Japanese Zero fighter and severely injured. He was evacuated to
Australia just as the American survivors of the one-sided air battles
were being withdrawn. After recuperating from his injuries, Hayes helped
to recommission the 35th Pursuit Group. He flew Bell P-39 Airacobras
with the 35th in New Guinea until he was ordered home in October
1942 to help prepare newly trained fighter pilots for the rigors of combat
flying in the Pacific.
After completing a month-long War Bond tour, Captain Hayes was
assigned as a flight leader to a P-39 replacement training group in
northern California. In May 1943, he was selected by the commander
of the new 357th Fighter Group to replace a squadron commander who
had been killed in a training accident. Hayes assumed command of the
364th Fighter Squadron in Tonopah, Nevada, and helped train the new
P-39 unit. By October 1, 1944, the 357th Fighter Group was ready to
ship out from its base at Marysville, California; it had been trained to
perfection and was, in every respect, ready to go to war. Instead, the
group was ordered to leave immediately for several bomber bases in
Nebraska, Wyoming, and North Dakota.
*
We didn’t know what was going on. It turned out that we had been
scheduled all along to ship out to England on October 1. The new groups
bound for England were scheduled to complete their phases of train-ing
every six weeks and then move on to new bases. But, as we eventually
learned, we couldn’t go straight to England because our base there was
not ready. We were sent to the upper Midwest to mark time. As long as
we were there, we kept up our flying skills by simulating German fighter
attacks against heavy bombers. That helped get the B-17 and B-24 crews
certified a little more quickly for deployment overseas. The stopover
turned out to be of great value. We quickly learned that the war-time
shortage of small-arms ammunition had caused a huge increase in the
local population of pheasant and other game birds, so fifteen or twenty
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of us sent for our shotguns. After we finished flying each day—
sharpening our flying skills in aggressive, high-speed attacks that lacked
only real gunfire—we went bird hunting. We shot so many pheasant
that we were able to feed the entire squadron—300-plus people— every
night. More important, we sharpened our shooting eyes.
After about a month, we left the P-39s behind and boarded the Queen
Elizabeth for a high-speed run to Scotland. We spent Thanksgiving at
sea. When we finally got to England and had been assigned to the Ninth
Air Force, we were told that we were going to be the second fighter
group in England to be equipped with North American P-51 Mustangs.
We didn’t know a thing about the Mustang except that it was a so-so
dive-bomber with no high-altitude capability. We also didn’t know that
the 354th Fighter Group (our immediate predecessor in the Stateside
training cycle) had been reequipped with an upgraded ver-sion of the
Mustang when it arrived in England in mid-October.
The Mustang we knew about had been built by North American
Aviation under contract to the RAF as a ground-support airplane. The
early Army Air Forces version was known as the A-36, and it had been
used for some time as a dive-bomber. There was also a fighter ver-sion
known as the P-51 A, but it and the A-36 were equipped with a 1,200horsepower Allison engine that was inadequate. The P-51 A and A-36
could not get above 17,000 feet.
Unknown to us, the Mustang had been the object of an intense
development program beginning in late 1942. The key to that program
had been the marriage of the Mustang to the 1,430-horsepower Packard
Merlin engine, a licensed version of the Rolls Royce Merlin engine.
Very late in the process, the urgent need for long-range fighters in Europe
had resulted in the addition of an eighty-five-gallon fuel tank behind
the P-51’s cockpit, and this had led to some delays. The result, when all
the bugs had been ironed out, was the P-51B, which the 354th Fighter
Group was just about to take into combat when the 357th Fighter Group
arrived in England.
Unfortunately, there were not enough P-51Bs for us or for the 4th
Fighter Group, which was also supposed to be reequipped with the new
type. The 354th had been suffering operational and training losses, and
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it was bound to suffer combat losses as soon as it began escort duty with
the heavy bombers. The entire early production output had gone to the
354th, and all or most of the replacement Mustangs that arrived in
England would be used to keep the 354th up to strength.
By the time we had been in England for a month, we still had no
airplanes. All we did was slosh around in the mud and take classes in
the morning and in the afternoon on aircraft identification. But we were
doing no flying. I got checked out in a P-51, but only because I was a
squadron commander. We eventually got a few of our own, but barely
enough to check out the other pilots in the group.
Finally, on January 24, an important decision was made. Outside of
keeping the 354th up to strength, all the available P-51Bs in En-gland
would be assigned to the Eighth Air Force. A few days later, the 358th
Fighter Group, a P-47 group from the Eighth Air Force, was transferred
to the Ninth Air Force, and the 357th Fighter Group was reassigned to
the Eighth Air Force’s 66th Fighter Wing. Within a few days, the 358th
moved from its base, Leiston, to our base, Raydon Wood, and we moved
from Raydon Wood to Leiston. That way, we would be in the north,
about forty miles closer to the bomber routes to Ger-many, and the 358th
would be in the south, closer to France.
The Eighth Air Force couldn’t get us operational quickly enough. In
a week’s time, our group’s strength in P-51Bs went from something like
a dozen airplanes to seventy-five. It was busy. In addition to checking
out the airplanes, we had to get all the pilots checked out. And, in the
meantime, our command pilots—group, squadron, and flight leaders—
started going out on missions with the 354th Fighter Group to learn
about the war over northern Europe.
The 357th Fighter Group was declared operational on February 8,
1944. Following three relatively easy group combat missions over
France—on February 11, 12, and 13—we went to Germany for the first
time on February 20. It was the first mission of Big Week, and the target
was Leipzig. The 362d and 363d Fighter squadrons posted their first
victories on that mission. My 364th Fighter Squadron posted its first
three victories during the February 22 mission, which was against the
Me-109 factory at Regensburg, Germany, and the ball-bearing plant at
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Schweinfurt. We were grounded by weather on February 23, but on
February 24, while escorting the heavy bombers to the Me-110 fac-tory
at Gotha, Germany, I received credit for an Me-109 probable over the
target. We flew to Regensburg on February 25 and to Brunswick on
February 29. I shot down an Me-109 on our March 2 mission to Frankfurt.
In all, by then, the group had been credited with twenty confirmed
victories, and we were sharp and confident.
By the close of Big Week, on February 29, people had been start-ing
to talk about Berlin. Several times, we had flown close enough to the
German capital to see it, but the Eighth Air Force had not yet flown a
single mission there. Everyone was asking, “When the hell are we going
to hit the Big B?” Before every mission, we’d go into the briefing hut,
and they’d open the curtains that covered the map showing our route to
the target. We were just waiting to see the red tapes marking the route to
Berlin.
When we finally saw that it was going to be Berlin on March 3, our
feelings sure changed. The bravado left us. The weather was ter-rible.
Of the entire Eighth Air Force, only the 4th Fighter Group and one of
the P-38 groups flew all the way to the target, but they never even saw
the ground. All the bombers were recalled or went after secondary targets.
The weather was so bad over England that we couldn’t get the 357th
together at all. We were finally recalled. I logged ninety minutes of
flight time, all of it on instruments.
We lost two pilots on March 3, and nobody knows how. In my
opinion, these losses were due to the weather. If the group lacked
anything, it was instrument training. It is extremely easy to lose a sense
of up and down in the clouds. Unless you overcome your instincts and
force yourself to fly the instruments, you can easily enter an
uncontrollable spin or even fly the airplane right into the ground. The
weather over north-ern Europe that time of year was terrible, and I am
sure that all the groups were losing pilots and airplanes because of
disorientation or mid-air collisions in the clouds.
They sent about 500 B-17s and over 750 fighters to Berlin on March
4, but there were only a few holes in the clouds, and only a few German
fighters could find us. Just one combat wing composed of thirty-eight
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bombers actually reached Berlin, and these planes bombed the holes in
the clouds without knowing what was underneath them—residen-tial
suburbs. There was almost no fighter action. Only seven German
airplanes were destroyed by our fighters that day, but pilots from the
357th got two of them.
On March 5, we escorted the 2d Bomber Division B-24s to
Bor-deaux, in southern France. On the way to the target, some of the B24s dropped supplies to French Resistance fighters in the foothills to
the French Alps. Over Bordeaux, our group encountered several FW190s, which were shot down, and our pilots also got three four-engine
FW-200 Condors that were taking off from a grass airfield. We had one
airplane shot down, but the pilot, Flight Officer Chuck Yeager, eventually
returned to the group by way of Spain. Unfortunately, on the way home,
during a low-level strafing run, the group commander, Colonel Henry
Spicer, was shot down by flak and captured. The group deputy
commander, Lieutenant Colonel Don Graham, assumed com-mand of
the group when we got home.
On the night of March 5, all the smart money was on another mis-sion
to Berlin. I, of course, knew it was going to be Berlin when we received
word that we would be going out on a “maximum effort.” We were also
told that the weather was supposed to be improving.
Maintenance said they could get only forty-eight Mustangs in the
air the next morning—exactly what we needed, but with no spares. We
therefore scheduled the first team, our very best and most-experienced
pilots. There was no horsing around that night. We had a job to do, so
everyone went to bed early.
The bombers had to take off hours before any of the fighters. There
were hundreds of them, and they had to form up into their combat boxes,
combat wings, and combat divisions. That took a long time. Also, the
Germans had deployed a belt of 88mm and other flak guns along the
Dutch and Belgian coasts, where the bombers usually crossed in. The
bombers liked to pass over the flak guns at least at 20,000 feet, and that
meant they had to circle higher and higher with their heavy bomb loads
while they were still over England. Hundreds of bombers were circling
long before it was time for us to get up. As usual, I was awakened by the
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drone of their engines. Because the bombers were overhead, I knew the
mission was on long before it was announced officially. I also knew
that, unfortunately, their contrails were creat-ing an overcast through
which we would have to take off later that beautiful spring morning.
I was going out as the deputy mission leader, so I met up with Don
Graham early to go over last-minute arrangements for the entire group.
This was Don’s first mission as the group leader and my first as the
backup. We arranged a few non-verbal signals so we could com-municate
off the air in the event one or the other of us ran into prob-lems. We also
decided what the group was going to do on the way home, depending
on what happened before we were released from escort duty.
The pilots went over to the mess hall for breakfast, then we had the
group briefing—the basic information that was going to get all of us to
the target. The weather was good over England, but we were told that
the front was moving east. The closer we got to Berlin the worse the
weather was going to get. If it was clear, we only needed to fol-low the
bomber stream out of England and overtake the lead bomb-ers before
they reached the target. But, if the weather was bad, we couldn’t fly up
the bomber stream for fear of colliding with the bombers in the clouds.
Or, in the case of this mission, the bombers weren’t even fly-ing directly
to Berlin. In an attempt to confuse the Germans—make them think the
target was somewhere else—the bombers were flying along a route that
would have been too long for us to follow anyway— from Munster to
Meppen, Goslar to Uelzen, and Halle to Ratheneau. Halle was southwest
of Berlin. In order to conserve our fuel, we were to fly practically due
east all the way from the Dutch coast to Berlin.
As one of only three or four P-51 groups available for the mission,
the 357th would, as usual, pick up the lead box of bombers at around
1300 hours and plus or minus seventy-five miles from the target. We
were to sweep ahead of the bombers as they came in over the target, and
then we were to hand the escort off to fresh P-47 or P-38 groups plus or
minus seventy-five miles along the route home. On March 6, the bombers
would actually be passing Berlin so they could make their bombing
runs on different parts of the city from either west to east or south to
north. That way, they would already be pointing toward home when
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they toggled their bombs. We would join them as they completed their
run-up to the target from Halle, and we would leave them along the first
leg toward England.
Following the group briefing, the pilots broke up for squadron
briefings. Here, parachutes, oxygen masks, and escape kits were handed
out, and the squadron leaders arranged the order of flights and made
any nec-essary last-minute changes in flight and element leaders. Also,
each squadron leader told the pilots what the squadron was going to do
on the way home from the target, in case it was a milk run. After we had
finished up with the escort part of the March 6 mission, my 364th Fighter
Squadron was going to go home on the deck. If we had enough gas, we
might go over into Austria to shoot up some of the German flying schools.
If not, we would use up our ammunition strafing targets of opportunity
on the direct course through Germany toward the North Sea.
We took fifteen or twenty minutes for the squadron briefing, and
then we went out to the flight line, to our airplanes. Each pilot checked
his own airplane, strapped in, and went through the usual pre-flight
routine with the crew chief. We started taking off at 1030.
We had a policy about aborts, and it was the same as all the other
fighter groups in the Eighth Air Force. Ideally, we wanted to get to the
target area with three squadrons of sixteen airplanes per squad-ron. On
most missions, we took up to four spares most of the way across the
North Sea. If there were any aborts, the spares could fill in. If there were
fewer aborts than spares, the remaining spares went home be-fore the
group crossed in. If anyone thought he couldn’t complete the entire
mission—if there was any problem or if a pilot thought there was going
to be any problem—he had to turn around and get the hell home while
we were still over the North Sea. That way, we wouldn’t have to send a
good combat airplane to protect the airplane with the problem.
Just as we were approaching the Dutch coast, Don Graham porpoised
his airplane—the signal that he was aborting. When I acknowledged, he
immediately banked and turned for home. Shortly after Don left, a few
others turned for home, too. When we made landfall over Hol-land, we
were down to forty airplanes.
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The problem was that we had been flying every day for six straight
days, and we had no spares on March 6; we had exactly forty-eight
planes in commission that day. The 357th Fighter Group was still in the
learning process. I imagine some pilots were still, shall we say, queasy
about flying in combat. And Berlin was thought to be an es-pecially
dangerous place. We still hadn’t seen what the German fighters would
do to protect their capital city. Maybe a lot of pilots had but-terflies that
day, or maybe the heavy schedule of combat missions— six in six days—
had caused more wear and tear to the airplanes than we realized.
Whatever the reasons, we kept losing airplanes after we made landfall.
Altogether, fifteen of our forty-eight Mustangs aborted before we reached
Berlin. My own section of two flights, which was supposed to be eight
airplanes, ended up with an oddball five.
I had the group. I had to navigate us to Berlin and find the bomb-ers
in the overcast before they reached the target. I knew it was a matter of
staying on course and getting where we were supposed to be on time. It
was time and distance. The weather got worse and worse as we flew.
We stopped flying the usual tight formation and spread the squadrons
out between the two main layers of clouds. There was a thick layer of
undercast that varied between 15,000 and 20,000 feet, and another good
one started at about 28,000 feet. We flew between those layers, spread
apart. We were flying along great, but I had no idea where the hell we
were, no idea at all. I couldn’t see any landmarks on the ground, and I
had to assume that the wind was right, as stated in our briefing. If it
wasn’t, I could be way off course and never know about it. All I could
do was fly the briefed heading and pray.
As I flew along, I switched over to the bomber frequency a few
times, to find out what was going on. I was able to cross-check with
them to at least see that my schedule was still okay. I might be off course,
but if I was on course, I would meet up with the bombers on time. Around
noon, I heard that German fighters were going after the bombers and
that our P-47 groups were engaging them. But I was still an hour away
from the rendezvous. I could only listen and hope I’d find the bombers.
I was getting concerned. I checked with Captain William “Obee”
O’Brien, of the 363d Fighter Squadron, to find out if he thought we
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were on course. Some of the other pilots broke radio silence to needle
me a little. They said things like, “Where the hell are we?” and “I bet we
overshot the target.” Just what I needed to hear! When someone said,
“Christ, we must be over Russia!” I said, “Gowdy Red, here. Radio
silence! Got it?” I knew their voices; I knew who was needling me.
They didn’t make it any easier on my frame of mind. I had to worry
about making the rendezvous in that lousy weather, but I also had to
worry that maybe the bombers would be in the damn overcast and that
I’d find them by running into them. And I was really concerned that I
hadn’t made the course good, or that the bombers were ahead or behind
schedule—or something.
Suddenly I was looking at a big break in the clouds. For the first
time on the whole mission, since I’d left England, I could see the ground.
And all I could see was a huge urban area. There were red-tile roofs as
far as the eye could see. What with the time on the clock—1300,
exactly— it had to be Berlin. Voices on the group radio net started coming
up with, “Hey, that looks like Berlin!” and “Yeah, it must be.” Then
someone called out, “There’re the bombers!”
I looked to my left, and there they were—B-17s. And then, right
then, someone else called, “Bogies! Two and three o’clock!” It was a
three-way rendezvous. I found out later that we were about twenty-five
miles southwest of the city center. That meant we were a little behind
schedule, or the bombers were a little ahead. But it was a perfect
rendezvous anyway.
I had been flying at 26,000 feet all the way in. My high squadron
was at around 27,000 feet and my low squadron was at about 25,000
feet. The bombers were stacked between 22,000 and 26,000 feet. There
were clouds over us at about 28,000 feet and clouds underneath us at
about 15,000 feet. It was hazy between the cloud layers, but the vis-ibility
was adequate.
There were German fighters stacked all the way from the level of
the bombers to the upper cloud ceiling. They were still just specks when
I saw them. They looked like a swarm of bees, maybe seven to ten miles
distant. They were going flat-out head-on to the bombers. Thirty or forty
twin-engine fighters were going in first to fire rockets in order to break
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up the bomber boxes. And coming up behind the twin-engine fighters
were many single-engine fighters, Me-109s and FW-190s. Higher up
was their top cover, thirty or forty Me-109s. Between all of them and
the bombers was the 357th Fighter Group—thirty-three of us.
We had just enough time to change to internal tanks and kick off our
drop tanks before the first Mustangs were close enough to open fire on
the twin-engine fighters. There wasn’t even time for me to call out any
orders.
I was in the middle, leading what was left of the 364th Fighter
Squadron. The 362d and 363d squadrons were weaving above and below
me, about a mile away on either side. If the Germans ignored us and
continued on straight for the bombers, our standard tactic was for the
high squadron, the 363d, to take care of their top cover while the middle
squadron, the 364th, turned in to engage the Germans from ahead and
the low squadron, the 362d, turned wide to engage the Germans from
behind. But the plan went to hell as soon as we saw the Germans; there
wasn’t any time to put it into action. As the Germans came in range, the
362d just weaved to its left, came in directly behind the first wave of
single-engine fighters, and started knocking them down.
I no sooner kicked off my drop tanks than I was in a left turn to get
in behind the Germans. Instead of going straight in for the bomb-ers,
some of the Germans turned to fight us. That was natural, but about half
of the twin-engine fighters dove away into the lower clouds. These might
have been night fighters that had been pressed into service to protect the
capital. If so, this wasn’t their kind of fight, and they were showing it.
We flew straight into the main German formation. We could have
done more damage if there had been more of us, but we were appar-ently
able to break up their main attack. Within seconds, it was just a hell of a
mess. Everything was going in all directions at once. Indi-vidual
dogfights were breaking out all over the place.
I managed to keep my section of five airplanes together. When the
German twin-engine fighters turned into us or dove away, I left them
for other P-51s and turned to engage the German top cover. By then,
there were only eight or ten Me-109s above us, but they were coming
down to hit us from our rear. I turned into the bunch of them and hollered
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out, “I’m taking the top guy!” I assumed he was their leader because the
others were echeloned off him.
Things got blurred and happened fast. The next thing I knew, I had
my hands full with that 109. We were turning and turning, but nei-ther
of us was shooting. We were climbing, descending, and climb-ing again,
turning all the while. The 109 was ahead of me. He was after me and I
was after him in a tight left-hand circle. The Me-109 was a good airplane
at altitude, and the German pilot kept trying to climb, to get some
advantage. Finally, I was able to gain on him. And then he split-essed
out of it, heading straight down.
I was too far behind to fire, but I was closing the gap. From previ-ous
experience and lots of advice, I knew that all I had to do was follow the
109 and keep him in sight. If we ended up on the deck, a Mus-tang
could overtake a 109.
There was no cloud cover in the area, but the Germans had smoke
generators all around Berlin, and the smoke was up to 15,000 feet. Even
though I was closing on it, the 109 became obscured in the smoke, and
then it disappeared altogether. I pulled out at about 15,000 feet.
As I pulled around to look for the 109—or anyone else—something
went by, straight down. Then, all of a sudden, something else went by,
and this time I could identify it. It was a stick of 500-pound bombs. It
looked like a ladder going straight down—all rungs and no rails. I was
in the wrong place! I looked around, and there were plenty more ladders.
I looked up, and all I could see were four-engine bombers. Holy God!
Bombers were over me and Berlin was under me! I was thinking,
Which way do I turn? I kicked the airplane and snap-rolled straight
down. At least now I was parallel to the falling bombs. I pulled out at
500 feet and must have flown between the bombs. Heading for the closest
rural area off to the west, I started back up.
As I was getting back to about 15,000 feet, lo and behold, I picked
up my original section of P-51s, plus Obee O’Brien, from the 363d.
While I had been busy with my 109, three of these pilots had shot down
two Me-110s.
I took the lead and climbed back up to help escort the bombers that
were still approaching the city. We assumed a position on the west side
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of the bomber stream and patrolled back and forth, looking for German
fighters. At about 1320, we found an Me-110 at low altitude. We all
went down. The guy who’d called it out shot the 110 down while the
rest of us covered him.
Next other fighters arrived to relieve us. We all had ammunition
left, so we stayed at 500 feet, looking for targets on the ground. We took
a heading of about 280 degrees, back toward the Dutch North Sea coast
and home.
As we were coming up on Uelzen at about 1420, I saw a singleengine fighter ahead of us. It was at 500 feet on an opposite course and
a few miles to my right. I thought it might be a P-51 whose pilot needed
company, so I turned ninety degrees to my right to look it over. As I
closed on it, I could see that it was an Me-109.
The German didn’t see us as we continued to turn in behind him.
The 109 was flying so slowly and I was approaching it so quickly that I
was only 200 yards away when I opened fire. I no sooner squeezed the
trigger than I had to drop my nose to duck underneath the 109. I don’t
think the pilot ever saw me.
The 109 fell straight into the ground and burst into flames. As it did,
someone hollered, “There’s an airfield!” It was nearly dead ahead.
Apparently, the 109 had been coming in for a landing. That explained
why he had been flying so slowly, but his approach was too long and he
should have been looking for us.
There were He-111 bombers lined up along the edge of the airfield.
I opened fire on them as soon as I saw them, and the other pilots in my
section did the same as they followed me across the airfield. I hit at least
one of the bombers, and the others shot up whatever happened to be
right in front of them. We didn’t get any of the He-111s burn-ing, but I
was sure we did a lot of damage. On the way out, I said over the radio,
“Okay, enough’s enough. Let’s get out of here before they start shooting
at us.” We turned back on course for home. On the way to Holland, we
shot up a few trains and trucks. We landed at 1600 hours. It had been a
five-and-a-half-hour flight.
The thirty-three of us received credit for twenty of the eighty-one
fighters the Germans lost to our fighters on March 6, 1944. If we had
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been able to get more of our airplanes over Berlin that day, we could
have done more damage. We suffered no losses.
*
Major Tom Hayes scored his third victory, an Me-410, on the March 8
mission to Berlin, and an Me-110 on the March 16 mission to Berlin. He
was made group deputy commander on March 28, and he was promoted
to the rank of lieutenant colonel shortly after he achieved ace status by
downing an Me-109 on April 19, 1944. Thereafter, Hayes downed an
Me-109 on May 28, an Me-109 and a shared Me-410 on June 29, and a
final Me-109 on July 14, 1944. He rotated back to the United States in
September 1944 to become deputy for operations of the training facility
at Luke Field, Arizona. Tom Hayes retired from the Air Force as a
brigadier general in 1970.
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ACES AGAINST JAPAN
The American Aces Speak
By Eric Hammel
In this superb, originally conceived offering, noted military historian,
Eric Hammel brings us first-person accounts from thirty-nine of the
American fighter aces who blasted their way across the skies of the
Pacific and East Asia from December 7, 1941, until the final air battles
over Japan itself in August 1945.
Coupled with a clear view of America’s far-flung air war against
Japan, Hammel’s detailed interviews bring out the most thrilling in-thecockpit experiences of the air combat that the Pacific War’s best Army,
Navy, and Marine pilots have chosen to tell.
Meet Frank Holmes, who defied death in an outmoded P-36 while
still clad in a seersucker suit he had worn to mass earlier that morning.
Fly with Scott McCuskey as, single-handed at Midway, he takes out
two waves of Japanese dive-bombers that are attacking his precious
aircraft carrier. Sweat out the last precious drops of fuel in a defective
Marine Wildcat fighter as Medal of Honor recipient Jeff DeBlanc bores
ahead to his target to keep the faith with the bomber crews he has been
assigned to protect. Experience the ecstasy of total victory as Ralph
Hanks becomes the Navy’s first Hellcat ace-in-a-day when he destroys
five Japanese fighters over the Gilbert Islands in a single mission.
A superb interviewer, Hammel has collected some of the very best
air-combat tales from America’s war with Japan. Combined with the
four other volumes in The American Aces Speak series, this work will
stand as an enduring testament to the brave men who fought the first
and last air war in which high-performance, piston-engine fighters held
sway. These are stories of bravery and survival, of men and machines
pitted against one another in heart-stopping, unforgiving high-speed
aerial combat. The American Aces Speak is a highly-charged emotional
rendering of what men felt in the now-dim days of personal combat at
the very edge of our living national history. There was never a war like
it, and there never will be again. These are America’s eagles, and the
stories are their own, in their very own words.
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Critical Acclaim for The American Aces Speak Series
The Marine Corps Aviation Association Yellow Sheet says: “The
recounting of each story is done in the pilot’s own words. This is a
powerful technique that draws readers into the action and introduces
them to the world of the fighter pilot”
The American Fighter Aces Bulletin says: “Some of [the] episodes
are well-known; others have never been written before. But each account
delivers something intensely personal about the Pacific Air War.”
The Library Journal says: “No PR hype or dry-as-dust prose here.
Hammel allows his flyers to tell their stories in their own way . . . Exciting
stuff aviation and World War II buffs will love.”
Book Page says: “For those who have an interest in World War II, or
those who simply like to read of drama in the skies, Eric Hammel’s
[Aces Against Japan] is recommended reading. It is a must for any
historian’s bookshelf.”
WWII Aviation Booklist says: “Hammel provides a veritable feast of
aviation combat narrative. As always in this series, the entries [in Aces
at War] have been carefully selected to provide the most entertaining
ride possible for his readers. Easily the best series available on air combat!
Get them all!”
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Pacifica Military History
Note: The following article is excerpted from the book ACES
AGAINST JAPAN: The American Aces Speak by Eric Hammel. The
book is currently available in a $27.50 trade paperback edition
published by Pacifica Military History. It is also available in ebook
editions.
CRIPPLED
by Eric Hammel
Copyright 1992 © by Eric Hammel
1st Lieutenant CORKY SMITH, USAAF
80th Fighter Squadron, 8th Fighter Group
Cape Gloucester, December 26, 1943
*
Cornelius Marcellus Smith of Brooklyn, New York, graduated from
Roanoke College, in Salem, Virginia, in June 1940. He worked in industry
for over a year, then quit his job to join the Army Air Corps at the outbreak
of the war. He earned his wings in September 1942, trained in P-39s in
Florida, and departed for New Guinea to join the 8th Fighter Group in
November 1942.
It took six months for Lieutenant Smith to hit the charts, but he did
so in a big way. On June 21,1943, he shot down 3 Zeros and claimed 1
Zero probable in action near Lae. Smith got another Zero probable on
September 15, over Wewak; a confirmed Tony fighter, also over Wewak,
on October 16; and another confirmed Zero over Rabaul on October
24, 1943.
*
The 80th Fighter Squadron, also known as the Headhunters, had been
engaged in the war since August 1942. Equipped with P-39 and P-400
fighters and initially stationed at Port Moresby, the squadron had moved
to Milne Bay, on the southern tip of New Guinea, in early October 1942.
While at Port Moresby, the squadron had seen active combat, and its
pilots had downed 6 Zeros. Despite the downing of another Zero in
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January 1943 at Milne Bay, the morale of the pilots was low due to the
few recent occasions on which they had seen combat. The P-39 had
proved ineffective against the faster and more maneuverable enemy fighters. Its range and altitude limitations were also major draw-backs. Additionally, an epidemic of malaria and dengue fever had rendered many
of the pilots and ground-crew personnel hors de combat. It was time for
a change.
In late January, the unit was withdrawn from New Guinea and moved
to Mareeba, Australia. Rest and rehabilitation to recover from malaria
and dengue was the primary reason for the move, but more important
was the news that our P-39 and P-400 aircraft were to be replaced by
highly regarded Lockheed P-38 Lightning twin-engine fighters mounted
with four .50-caliber machine guns and a 20mm cannon. Morale soared.
The move was completed in early February.
In early April 1943, the Headhunters brought their new P-38s back
to Port Moresby. Our camp was Kila Airdrome, more commonly known
as 3-Mile Strip. In the following %Vi months, the squadron proved itself
an outstanding combat unit. The P-38 was superior in most aspects to
the Japanese Zero fighter aircraft we were facing. By the middle of
December, we had contributed a total of 136 confirmed kills to the war
effort. All but 7 of these had fallen to P-38 guns.
I had joined the Headhunters at Milne Bay in late November 1942.
A year later, I was credited with 5 aerial victories, all in the P-38. Morale
of both pilots and ground-crew personnel was at an all-time high. We
welcomed the increasing opportunities to bring the war to the enemy
with our long-legged fighter.
On December 12, 1943, the 80th Fighter Squadron completed a
permanent move from Kila to the multibase airdrome complex recently
constructed at Dobodura, on the east coast of New Guinea. During
October and November 1943, our air strikes against forward Japanese
air and sea strongpoints on New Britain and along the more northern
shore of eastern New Guinea had critically interfered with the enemy’s
ability to pose a major threat to our air installations. We had seized
control of the New Britain and southern New Guinea airspace and
shipping lanes necessary for our logistical support. General Mac Arthur’s
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leap-frog strategy was moving northward. Lae and Salamaua had fallen
to our forces, and we had greatly negated the capability of the Japanese
to operate in strength from Rabaul, Wewak, Madang, and Cape
Gloucester. We had also seized Finschhafen, an enemy air base on the
coast of New Guinea only some 80 miles distant from the western end
of New Britain. On New Britain, Cape Gloucester harbored an airfield
still held by the Japanese. Finschhafen had been developed as a new air
base by our engineers and was fully operational. In short, the stage had
been set for our forces to undertake the long-awaited initiative and push
the enemy back.
Unbeknown to us when we arrived at Dobodura on December 12
were plans to invade the Japanese bases at Arawe and Cape Gloucester,
New Britain, in the immediate future. Cape Gloucester was to be
developed for Allied use as a forward air base. Madang and Wewak, on
the New Guinea coast, were to be bypassed, and the Japanese bases on
Manus Island (some 50 miles off Wewak), Aitape (north of Wewak),
and Hollandia (farther to the north) were to be seized and made into
ad-vanced U.S. bases. Once this had been accomplished, we would strike
at and seize key areas of northern New Guinea; Java and its surrounding
waters; and, eventually, the Philippines.
Initial operations against Arawe took place immediately follow-ing
our arrival at Dobodura. The Headhunters took part in preinvasion
missions on December 14 and covered the actual invasion on December
15. On December 18, we took part in covering bombers on a mission to
soften up Cape Gloucester in the morning and went back to Arawe in
the afternoon. There was no Japanese air activity on either mission. On
December 22,1 shot down a Zero fighter—my sixth victory—while
escorting bombers against Wewak, and I got shot up myself. I made it
back on one engine. On December 25,1 helped cover a U.S. naval convoy
going into Finschhafen.
During the evening of December 25, we were informed by 8th Fighter
Group headquarters that we would provide air cover for an amphibi-ous
landing at Cape Gloucester the next day. This was good news; we went
to bed in high spirits.
On the morning of December 26, we were called to a meeting at our
flight-line operations hut and briefed on the mission. We were to provide
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air cover over the new beachhead, some 200 miles distant, beginning at
1400. Control of all flights over the beachhead would be handled by a
team aboard a destroyer. We would contact the ship upon arrival to
receive further instructions. Major Edward “Porky” Cragg, our CO,
would lead the mission. Major Carl “Freddie” Taylor, our operations
officer, would also participate. As it looked like a big operation with the
probability of seeing combat, the more-experienced pilots were chosen
to fly. Our call sign would be the same as always: Copper. We would fly
sixteen P-38s in the usual flight formation. Call signs of Red, White,
Blue, and Yellow would be utilized in that order. Major Cragg was Copper
Red-1, his wingman Copper Red-2, and so forth. I was to be the element
leader in the fourth flight, Copper Yellow-3.
Since we were to start engines at approximately 1145, we were to
be in our cockpits or close by the aircraft by 1130. Taxi would be in
order of flights. Takeoff would be by two-ship elements. Climb out and
assembly would be the usual circular left-hand pattern. We would climb
to 12,000 feet and, using the direct route, maintain loose for-mation to
the coast of New Britain. Then the formation would tighten up for the
remainder of the distance across the island to Cape Gloucester. Radio
silence was to be maintained by all following takeoff. Abort-ing aircraft,
if any, would indicate intentions by rocking their wings before departing
from the formation. Unless in extreme difficulty, aborting aircraft would
not be escorted back. Following departure from Cape Gloucester, the
route home would be determined by remaining fuel. If possible, aborting
aircraft would return to Dobodura. If necessary, Finschhafen or Nadzab
would be alternates. The weather forecast was CAVU throughout the
mission, but scattered low clouds might be encoun-tered in the beachhead
area during the afternoon. We were to use our drop tanks and run them
dry unless we got into a combat situation.
If we encountered enemy aircraft, they would probably be fight-ers
with dive-bombers, coming from Rabaul. Their most likely approach
was from the east to the south of the hilly-to-mountainous terrain running
through the center of New Britain from east to west. We were told to be
especially alert for aircraft emerging from behind this ridge.
We were to relieve P-38s from another squadron that were already
in the area. P-47s from the 348th Fighter Group would also provide
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cover. No P-40s or P-39s were expected in the vicinity; their mission
would be to provide air cover for Finschhafen, our alternate destina-tion.
In short, the only friendly single-engine aircraft we would see near the
cape would be P-47s. The large size of that type of fighter would be
sufficient to identify it as friendly.
All of us pilots were at our aircraft long before 1130. Shortly
thereafter, a jeep came by with the word to start engines. Following
start-up, the tower gave the word to taxi. We took off in two-ship
formations, as planned; we climbed to 12,000 feet; and headed on course
at approximately 1215. The weather was perfect en route. Copper Red1 contacted our ship control at about 1345 hours. We were instructed to
maintain our 12,000-foot altitude and patrol the beach area.
We tooled around for about 20 minutes, watching LSTs and other
naval craft running to and from the beach. I observed some shelling by
various naval vessels and saw some of our Marines and their ve-hicles
on the beach. Everything seemed to be going well, but there was less
activity than I had expected.
The calm atmosphere was broken when our control ship advised us
that a large blip had appeared on radar 20 to 25 miles out to sea north of
the beachhead. We were instructed to climb to 20,000 feet and given an
intercept heading. The radar sighting indicated a large force of aircraft
at high altitude. We spent about 10 minutes under radar control, following
heading and altitude instructions, but we saw nothing. We were then
informed that the blip had completely disappeared from radar and that
we were to return immediately to the beachhead. We did a quick 180degree turn and headed back while descending to our original 12,000foot assigned altitude. We had no more than started our return when the
destroyer contact told us that a large force of en-emy fighters and divebombers had come in from the south—screened by the mountains—and
was attacking the beachhead and shipping in the area.
The word was given by Copper Red-1 to drop belly tanks and get in
trail formation. When this was accomplished, we were instructed by the
controller to split our force. The first two flights—Red and White—
were to engage the enemy aircraft by attacking the area at low level.
The last two flights—Blue and Yellow—were to remain at 10,000 to
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12,000 feet to intercept a second wave of fighters and dive-bombers
should any appear. Since I was in Yellow Flight, I would remain with
the high group.
In our brief absence from the beachhead, low clouds had formed
against the hills and over portions of the beach. Although thin and
scattered, these hindered our view of the coast. Several naval vessels
were firing at low-flying enemy aircraft, and I observed sundry
ex-plosions in the beach area.
Red and White flights had left our altitude and were closing rap-idly
with the land. When Blue and Yellow flights arrived over the beach at
our assigned altitude, we placed ourselves above the ridgeline to serve
as a shield against any attacking force. I could not see either Red or
White flights due to low clouds. Blue Flight was then directed to support
our first two flights at low altitude. Yellow Flight was to hold our patrol
altitude.
We had no more than reinitiated our patrol than my radio receiver
went dead. All sound ceased. I hit my mike button to call my wingman,
but I received no response. He could easily see me in the cockpit, so I
informed him of my predicament by pointing to my headset and shaking
my head. He got the picture and indicated that he could not hear any
transmission from me. I intended to follow the flight from above and to
the rear. That accomplished, I checked my headset and various channels
on my radio, but to no avail. I was kaput as far as communications were
concerned.
This was for the birds. I wanted to join in whatever was going on
beneath me, not fly around looking for enemy aircraft that I had no
means of reporting should any arrive. I pulled abreast of my flight leader,
waggled my wings, and waved good-bye to signify I was going to leave.
He grinned and stuck his thumb up to bid me well. I peeled off and
started down to find something to shoot at.
When I arrived below the clouds, I found eight or nine P-47
Thun-derbolts engaged in a dogfight with four Oscars north and east of
the beachhead and about two miles away from my position. No P-38s
were in sight. I decided to help out the 47s. As I headed toward the
fracas, three of the Oscars broke off and headed southeast—the P-47s
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already outnumbered them, and the arrival of my P-38 only les-sened
their chances. However, one of the Oscar pilots decided to stick it out a
bit longer and continued to go around with the 47s. When I got to within
about 2,000 yards, he decided to leave and took off with three of the
Thunderbolts on his tail, some 500 yards back.
I had played around in mock combat with 47s before and knew that
they could not outrun a 38. Moreover, I did not believe a 47 could catch
an Oscar in a low-altitude chase. Hence, I took out after them even
though I was at a greater distance back than I had originally believed.
The start of the chase was at about 4,000—possibly 4,500—feet of
alti-tude. The Oscar was about a quarter mile out to sea and running
east at a good clip, parallel to the coast, in a slight descent. Its speed
surprised me, but I felt that I could catch the Oscar in the long run if it
kept on a straight-away course without attempting to turn and en-gage.
I planned to get real close, fill my gunsight, and hit the Oscar full bore
with the four .50-cals and 20mm, all at once. Hopefully, the 47s would
bring up the rear and provide cover for me should any other Japanese
fighters appear. But this was not to be the case. Each 47 peeled off and
headed back for the beachhead area as I overtook it. I then realized that
I had put 15 to 20 miles between me and the beachhead. Although alone,
I felt the urge to continue the chase. My adrenaline was at high pitch!
We were now close to the surface of the sea, and the Oscar had
begun to level out. I was hardly overtaking it. I was well aware of my
vulnerability to attack from any other Japanese fighter, should any turn
back to render assistance. I kept alert, looking for any to appear. My
visibility over the water was clear, but the low clouds over land ob-scured
my view in that direction.
My intention was to wait until the Oscar more than filled my gunsight
before I opened fire. This would ensure destruction. When I was about
500 yards away, a Zero appeared at 1 o’clock, diving toward us through
the clouds. He was coming fast. I knew it was touch and go as to whether
I could hold fire long enough to guaranty the kill before the Zero opened
fire at me. I knew the pilot would be confronted with a difficult deflection
shot, though, so I took the gamble and concentrated on the Oscar.
When the Oscar filled my gunsight, I let go with my .50s and 20mm,
hitting it with everything I had from the tail up through the fuselage and
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cockpit. The Oscar did not blow up, but pieces of the ship, includ-ing a
large portion of the tail section, flew everywhere. A sure kill!
The Zero was close upon me and firing as I pulled up in a steep right
turn to gain altitude and headed 90 degrees from course. I felt my 38 get
hit by his fire, apparently in the right-engine area. I flew over the coast
in a shallow high-speed climb, trying to put as much distance between
me and my attacker as possible and, at the same time, gain some altitude
to enhance my maneuverability in case he pressed his attack. My right
engine started overheating, which indicated damage and loss of coolant.
I leveled out at about 5,000 feet, still going south. I was well over the
land when I shut the engine down and feathered the prop. I scanned the
skies through all points of the compass, but with nary a sighting of my
attacker.
I had no desire to bail out or crash-land over any part of New Britain
in the event my good left engine failed or if any attacking Zero downed
me. Hostile natives reportedly lopped the heads off the American airmen,
and the Japanese were known to do the same. Subjecting myself to
capture held no appeal. I headed back toward the coast and the friendlier
sea.
There was still no sign of my attacker, so I decided to get four or
five miles offshore and then head toward Finschhafen via Cape
Gloucester. I climbed back to about 10,000 feet, well over the sea, and
set course. The left engine ran okay, flight controls gave no indication
of dam-age, the voltmeter was okay, and I could not see any sign of
damage to the aircraft. However, I knew my right engine had taken
some hits, and I had no intention of trying to restart it. The P-38 flew
well on one engine. I had no doubts as to my ability to reach Finschhafen.
I had previously made four one-engine landings in 38s, so I felt quite
confident. Fuel posed no problem; I had dropped my two belly tanks at
Cape Gloucester, but I had ample gas in my main and reserve tanks.
I passed the cape about four miles out to sea and saw a few P-47s
over the beach area. One ship was burning off the coast. It appeared to
be a destroyer, but, at my altitude and distance, I could not be sure.
Other than those sightings, the area was clear. I never saw my attacker—
or any other enemy aircraft—during the course of my flight. Over the
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sea between New Britain and the New Guinea coast, I saw one flight of
P-39s but nothing more.
As I neared Finschhafen, I saw that the strip and adjacent airspace
were very active. Many aircraft, mostly P-38s and P-47s, were taking
off, flying in the traffic pattern, and maneuvering in the vicinity of the
field. It was no place to attempt a single-engine landing without
communication. I could not alert anyone to my predicament. If I joined
up with another plane to visually indicate my situation so he could talk
to the tower, I would have to descend. Loss of altitude held no appeal; I
would need all the altitude I could get should my good left engine act
up. Also, the strip at Finschhafen ran from the sea to neighboring high
jungle growth—landings were made from the sea. In the event I overshot
the strip in attempting to land, I would have to go around on one engine.
This was not a recommended procedure, especially with a wall of tall
trees to contend with at the end of the strip. I elected to continue on to
Nadzab and land at one of several strips there. This would lengthen my
flight by 50 to 75 miles, but it posed no problems. I headed on course.
About 10 miles past Finschhafen, my left engine started missing—
not a good sign. I immediately turned 180 degrees and headed back,
checking the cockpit instruments. Fuel pressure was okay, but my RPM
was fluctuating noticeably and would not stabilize. I had come back on
the throttles first thing and found that the engine ran fairly smoothly at
about 15 inches of manifold pressure and about 1,600 RPM. How-ever,
any increase in throttle setting or RPM resulted in engine misfires, and
increasing the RPM increased the fluctuation. A land-ing was essential.
I was losing altitude and could not fool around. I also noticed that my
voltmeter needle was doing a good bit of waver-ing, which signified an
electrical problem. Everything was coming loose at once!
I was close enough to the field to glide and make it. I wondered
about the health of the hydraulic system and wondered if I could lower
the landing gear. I was not elated over the possibility of a wheels-up
landing, especially on the Pierced Steel Planking (PSP) strip. Land-ing
without wheels would enhance the danger of fire and could ren-der the
strip inoperative if the planking was torn up. Also, I would have no
control of the aircraft if I overshot and slid into the trees at the far end.
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If my hydraulic system was not operating properly, I planned to bail
out.
I had no way to alert the tower other than to come over the strip at a
good clip with the wheels down and my landing and fuselage lights on,
rocking my wings to get attention. From past experience, I knew that if
I came over at 800 to 1,000 feet at 150 miles per hour or more with the
gear down, I could execute a widow-maker, a 360-degree circle descent
to the approach end of the runway. If I was not too hot, I could utilize
flaps to prevent landing too far down the strip.
I turned on my navigation and landing lights and headed down. I
dropped my gear at about 2,000 feet. Fortunately, the gear indicator
showed “Down and locked.” I decided to dead-stick the landing, as I
could not depend on my left engine.
Now my only problem was getting the tower’s attention so the crew
could advise other aircraft to clear the area for my approach. I observed
several planes taxiing toward takeoff position, and others were in the
traffic pattern. The tower gave no notice of me. I came over the strip at
about 1,000 feet, real hot—about 200 miles per hour—and rocked my
wings hard. I peeled off about halfway down the runway in a steep turn,
climbing a bit to kill some speed and stay fairly close to the field. Leveling
off at about 1,200 feet abreast of the approach end of the runway, I hit
one-quarter flaps and continued the turn. I was indicat-ing about 120
miles per hour—still hot—so I dumped half flaps. At that moment, I got
a green flare and brought the airspeed down to just below 100 miles per
hour. I set my glide angle and cut my main ig-nition switch and fuel
mixture off to safeguard against fire in event the gear collapsed. I set it
down about 500 feet from the approach end and came to a rolling stop
off the right side of the strip. I made a final cockpit check, climbed out
with my chute and other gear, and was greeted by a bunch of line
personnel.
In the morning, I was informed that a P-38 on the strip needed to be
ferried to its home outfit at Dobodura. I volunteered to fly the plane to
its home base and was quickly taken up on the offer. I gave it a quick
check ride, landed, signed it off as okay, and flew it home. The receiving
unit, based at another strip, gave me a ride to the Headhunters’ camp.
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Upon arrival, I learned that our CO, Major Porky Cragg, had been
shot down at Cape Gloucester along with our operations officer, Major
Freddy Taylor. Both were listed as MIA.
During the afternoon of December 28, Freddy Taylor came home,
much to everyone’s surprise. His return lifted morale tremendously and
gave us hope that Porky Cragg might also have survived. Unfortunately,
Porky never returned. He was a fine man, a natural leader in every respect.
At the time of his loss, he had a total of 15 confirmed aerial victories
and was one of the leading American aces.
I considered myself most fortunate, for I had had an engine shot out
over Wewak on December 22, just four days prior to losing an engine at
Cape Gloucester. Two single-engine return trips in the month! I didn’t
need any more!
*
By the time Captain Corky Smith returned to the United States in May
1944, he had driven his total of confirmed victories to 11, includ-ing 2
Zeros destroyed on January 18, 1944, at Wewak; a Mitsubishi Ki-46
Dinah high-speed reconnaissance bomber over Hollandia on March
31; and a Ki-61 Tony fighter over Lake Santani on April 12. He went on
a War Bond tour and then served for the rest of the war as a P-38
instructor at Santa Rosa, California. Smith remained in the Air Force
after the war and retired as a colonel in December 1968.
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ACES AGAINST JAPAN II
The American Aces Speak
By Eric Hammel
Combat historian Eric Hammel comes through with an engrossing new
collection of first-person accounts by American World War II fighter
aces.
Coupled with a clear overview of America’s air war against Japan,
Hammel’s detailed interviews bring forth the most thrilling in-the-cockpit
experiences that World War II’s fabled Army, Navy, Marine, and Flying
Tiger aces have chosen to tell.
Ride with 2d Lieutenant Jack Donalson as he downs three Zeros
over Luzon on the second desperate day of World War II in the Philippines. Share three lonely air battles over Burma and China with Flying
Tiger aces RT Smith, Dick Rossi, and Joe Rosbert. Hear the cry of victory as 2d Lieutenant Don McGee survives yet another encounter with
Zeros over embattled Port Moresby, New Guinea, in his P-39. Feel the
anxiety as an injured Ensign Ed Wendorf races against time to land his
damaged Hellcat aboard the USS Lexington before he bleeds to death.
And thrill to the hunt as Pearl Harbor veteran 1st Lieutenant Frank
Holmes seeks personal revenge against Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto on
one of history’s most important and most thrilling fighter missions.
The American Aces Speak is a highly charged five-volume excursion into life and death in the air, told by men who excelled and triumphed in aerial combat and lived to tell about it.
Critical Acclaim for The American Aces Speak Series
The Book World says: “Aces Against Japan is a thunderous, personal,
high-adventure book giving our ‘men in the sky’ their own voice.”
Book Page says: “Eric Hammel’s book is recommended reading. It is a
must for any historian’s bookshelf.”
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The Library Journal says: “No PR hype or dry-as-dust prose here.
Hammel allows his flyers to tell their stories in their own way. Exciting
stuff aviation and World War II buffs will love.”
The Friday Review of Defense Literature says: “Aces Against Japan
is replete with individual heroism and personal feats that almost defy
comprehension. A thoroughly enjoyable foray into the cockpits of World
War II fighter pilots.”
The Providence Sunday Journal says: “A treat that deftly blends a
chronology of the Pacific War with tales that would rival a Saturday
action matinee.”
Infantry Magazine says: “If you would like to read one book that will
give you a broad overview and yet a detailed look at what a fighter
pilot’s air war was like, this is the book.”
The Bookshelf says: “Hammel is one of our best military historians
when it comes to presenting that often complex subject to the general
public. He has demonstrated this facility in a number of fine books before
[Aces Against Germany] and now he does so again. Not to be missed by
either buff or scholar.”
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book ACES
AGAINST JAPAN II: The American Aces Speak by Eric Hammel.
The book is currently available in a $27.50 trade paperback edition
published by Pacifica Military History. It is also available in ebook
editions.
BLOOD OVER KWAJALEIN
by Eric Hammel
Copyright 1996 © by Eric Hammel.
Ensign WENDY WENDORF, USN
VF-16 (USS Lexington)
Kwajalein Atoll—December 4, 1943
*
Edward George Wendorf was born on February 22, 1922, in the small
central Texas town of West, about 80 miles south of Dallas. He was
raised in West and attended school there until 1939, when he went off to
the University Texas in Austin on a football scholarship. Between his
freshman and sophomore years, Wendorf became interested in aviation.
When a friend suggested that for just fifty dollars they could take the
Civilian Pilot Training course at Hillsboro Junior College, which was
just fifteen miles north of West, Wendorf agreed. At Hillsboro, the young
men received all the necessary ground courses and about forty hours of
flight time in Piper Cub and Taylorcraft airplanes. Upon completion,
they were awarded private pilot’s licenses.
Shortly after Pearl Harbor, Ed Wendorf enlisted in the Naval Aviation
Cadet program with the stipulation that he would not enter pilot training
until June 1, 1942, so he could complete his second year of college. In
June, on schedule, the Navy assigned him to the Secondary Civilian
Pilot Training center at Browning Field in Austin, where he trained in
Waco biplanes. Upon completion of the course at Browning in September
1942, Cadet Wendorf was sent to the Navy’s pre-flight school at Athens,
Georgia. In December, he was assigned to the Naval Air Station, Dallas,
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for Primary Flight training. He then went on to Corpus Christi for Basic
and Advanced flight training. He was commissioned an ensign and
designated a Naval Aviator in June 1943.
After earning his wings, Ensign Wendorf was assigned to Lee Field
in Jacksonville, Florida, to train in Grumman F4F Wildcat fighters with
an operational training unit. Next he went to Glenview, Illinois, where
he qualified for carriers aboard the converted lake steamer USS Sable.
He then received orders to report to San Diego for further assignment,
and after only one day in San Diego he was put aboard a ship bound for
Pearl Harbor.
*
I reported and was assigned to Fighting-16, which was then at
Kaneohe Naval Air Station. I was given an F6F Hellcat operations
handbook on a Friday evening and told to be ready for a familiarization
hop at 0800 the next morning. I was checked out as scheduled, and
proceeded to fly formation and gunnery flights in the afternoon. I was
given a carrier qualification bounce drill on Sunday morning.
The USS Lexington (CV-16) departed Pearl Harbor early on Monday
morning. Ensign Edward “Tiger” Rucinski, another replacement, and I
flew out to the ship and were carrier qualified with six landings apiece
while en route to battle. Here I was, with fewer than 200 total flight
hours and not even 10 hours in the F6F, and I was on my way to my first
combat—the taking of Tarawa by the U.S. Marines. The time frame of
this departure was mid-November 1944.
We were several days en route to the Tarawa area, and upon arriving
Air Group 16 was assigned several responsibilities. First, we made
several strikes against the facilities, aircraft, and defense systems in
Tarawa Atoll prior to the amphibious assault at Betio by the Marines.
Second, we patrolled the area between the beaches of Tarawa and islands
to the north in order to intercept and prevent any attacks on the assault
forces. And third, we occasionally were called upon to provide close air
support—bombing and attacking any particular stronghold that was
giving the Marines a problem. We provided the patrol and intercept
services for a week or ten days, occasionally chasing a random bogey
out of the area but not really seeing anything significant.
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When the Marines had secured their beachhead at Tarawa, I guess it
was decided to stage a hit-and-run attack on Kwajalein Atoll—
particularly the airfield on Roi Island—to do whatever damage to aircraft
and installations we could, and obtain some photographs of the beaches
and defenses for use in the landings that were to be made there.
Upon joining the squadron, I had been assigned to fly wing on one
of the division leaders, Lieutenant Jim “Alkie” Seybert. The nickname
“Alkie” was short for Alcohol, perhaps referring to his earlier imbibing
habits but certainly not reflecting his drinking during the time that I
knew him. Jim was an outstanding pilot and a wonderful human being.
We developed a very close bond during the ensuing months and vowed
to protect each other’s tail at all costs. Since we both survived the tour
safely, we considered our accomplishment a success.
My big day arrived on December 4, 1943. We went into Kwajalein
Atoll as a group with three levels of cover to protect the dive-bombers
and torpedo bombers. We had low-level cover at 7,000 feet, mid-level
cover at 12,000 feet, and high cover at 18,000 feet. Jim’s division was
assigned as mid-level cover. We arrived in the target area early in the
morning, around 0700, and proceeded to sweep the area for enemy
bogeys. Seeing no opposition in the air, we were directed to strafe Roi
Airfield. Our main targets were parked aircraft, of which there were
only a few, and the hangar areas.
Alkie put me in a right echelon to his Hellcat, gave me the Break
signal, and peeled off to the left. I waited several seconds and commenced
my own attack. I kept Alkie in sight but took a lateral spacing off to his
right so that I could concentrate on my strafing targets and keep him in
sight as well. I fired a few long bursts into a couple of aircraft on the
hangar apron, then shifted my sights to an open hangar and fired a long
burst into it. It was about this time that I experienced several jolts from
antiaircraft shells that burst in close proximity to my airplane, so I jinked
and juked (changed altitude and direction) several times to throw off
their aim.
Alkie and I had agreed to rendezvous to the left, over the water, at
5,000 feet, but the AA was so intense that I had to break to the right. I
was commencing my recovery when I spotted a lone Betty twin-engine
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bomber scooting low on the water. I don’t know whether it had just
taken off or was returning from another field. Anyway, I had to take off
a lot of throttle as the speed from my dive was going to take me past him
in a hurry.
I swung out to the right and then back in on the Betty. Then I fired a
short burst from all six .50-caliber guns. The bullets went over the top
of him, so I lowered my nose and sights, and fired a two long bursts into
the bomber. It started disintegrating while trailing heavy smoke and
commenced a slow diving turn to starboard until it crashed into the
water.
I went to full throttle and started a slow climbing turn to port, looking
for Alkie Seybert’s F6F. As I climbed through about 7,000 feet, I spotted
a flight of four aircraft high in the sun. I assumed they were friendly,
because we had been pretty much observing radio silence and I hadn’t
heard any reports of enemy aircraft in the air. Little did I know that the
jolts I had felt during my strafing run had been several actual hits in my
fuselage by 37mm AA, which had knocked my radio out of commission.
I was unobserved by the pilots as I approached the flight of four
aircraft from inside and underneath. As I neared the formation, I was
shocked to see they all sported the red “meatball” of the Rising Sun and
were actually a flight of four Zeros.
There was little I could do except slide out to the starboard side, line
up the two outside aircraft, and open fire. The outside Zero exploded
almost immediately, and the second one began to burn as it fell off to
the right. By this time, evidently, the leader and other wingman had
spotted me. When they broke in opposite directions, my only recourse
was to follow one of them, and I selected the leader. However, he turned
steeply to the port and I soon lost him.
Meanwhile, the other wingman had pulled around and was on my
tail. As I turned sharply to the right, I saw a couple of bursts of tracers
go over my head. I dove to try to lose him but he stayed close on my tail,
so I executed a sharp pull-up. As I neared the top and began to drain off
my speed, I decided to pull it on through and complete a loop. As I came
over into the inverted position, I could see the Zero pulling through like
mad, and I realized that he was going to be in an excellent position to
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rake me on the recovery. I decided to push forward on the stick and fly
inverted for a couple of seconds. The Zero pilot was so intent on pulling
inside me that I think the move surprised him. He lost sight of me and
continued his pullout. After delaying my pullout a couple more seconds,
I found him just about in my sights on the recovery. I was slightly out of
range at first and had to add throttle to close before firing. I don’t think
he saw me until I opened fire, and by then it was too late. He soon began
to burn and crashed into the sea.
It had been an exciting couple of minutes and resulted in four
victories—the Betty and three Zeros. There were several engagements
going on, so I decided to climb above the closest one, dive to get some
speed advantage, and see if I could help pull an enemy aircraft off of
someone’s tail.
As I was climbing to get in the fray, I must admit that all my attention
was directed above me and not to my rear. All of a sudden, I saw 7.7mm
bullets and 20mm cannon shells ripping off pieces of my wing covering
and some tracer fire going past me. My first reaction was to look to the
rear and peek out from around my armor-plated setback. I just started to
peek when a 7.7mm bullet came over my left shoulder, hit me in the
temple above my left eye, and went through and out the front right side
of my canopy. It felt like someone had hit me alongside the head with a
two-by-four board. I was temporarily stunned and dazed, and I don’t
remember how long it took me to realize that I had been hit. My first
thought then was to get the hell out of there.
We had been instructed that one of the best evasive maneuvers was
to dive to terminal velocity—I think the Red Line maximum speed
allowed was around 400 to 425 knots—and make a sharp turn to the
right. This I did, and evidently it worked, because the Zero pilot did not
elect to stay with me, for which I was most thankful.
As I pulled out from the high-speed dive, I noticed that blood was
spurting and landing on my left hand, which was positioned on the
throttle. I immediately placed my left hand on the artery leading to my
wound and applied pressure. This seemed to stop most of the bleeding,
but some blood was still running down my arm and onto my leg.
A friendly submarine was positioned a few miles off the coast to
rescue aviators who had been hit. I think the sub was off the northeast
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side of Kwajalein Atoll, but it stayed submerged until it was notified by
someone that a flyer was down in the area. Since I was alone and had no
radio due to the AA fire, there was no way to communicate with the sub.
I was bleeding quite profusely, so it was decision time! Would I
retain consciousness long enough to ditch in the area of the sub, get in
my raft, and take a chance on someone seeing me and notifying the sub
of my location? Or would I last long enough to stay in the air for 45
minutes, to make it back to the ship? I considered my options for only a
few moments and decided on the latter—return to the ship.
The correct compass heading for my return was around 45 degrees.
As I attempted to take up this heading, I noticed that my Remote
Indicating Compass (RMI) was inoperative—also due to that AA hit—
and that the liquid compass was swinging through 30 to 40 degrees and
thus extremely inaccurate. I decided to take a heading that bisected the
north-south and east-west runways at Roi, line up on two clouds, and
fly in that direction. When I would pass over one of the clouds used to
line up the 45-degree heading, I would line up two more.
The weather was mostly clear, with scattered clouds and about four
to five miles of visibility. I flew most of the way above the scattered
clouds. After 45 minutes, I decided to let down below the overcast and
commence an “expanding square” search until I spotted the Lexington.
I had just completed two legs of the search when I spotted a carrier’s
wake. I felt tremendously relieved.
Unfortunately, the number on the fantail of the ship was “10”—that
of our sister ship, the USS Yorktown. My wound had slowed to a trickle
by then, but I was still losing blood and was therefore anxious to recover
on any carrier.
As I flew by the Yorktown’s island, I waggled my wings to indicate
that I had no radio. As I did, I noticed that there were many TBFs, SBDs,
and F6Fs turning up on deck, ready to launch for another strike at
Kwajalein. The visibility was still four to five miles, so I looked all
around for the Lexington, but I did not see her.
The people on the Yorktown understood my problem. They used
white material of some sort to make an arrow pointing in a southerly
direction, and also the number “12” to indicated the distance in miles to
my carrier. I waggled my wings again to indicate that I understood the
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message, and then I turned to that heading and began looking for the
Lex.
After only several minutes of flight, I picked up the wake of the
ship. When I saw her, I noticed that the deck was clear and ready to
accept aircraft. The ship immediately gave me a Prep Charlie in Morse
code with an Aldis lamp, indicating that it was okay to begin my
approach. Soon they transmitted a Charlie, also by Aldis lamp, meaning
it was okay to land.
I turned downwind and began my approach. Much to my chagrin, I
discovered that my tail-hook rail had been shot away and that I had no
hydraulic pressure to lower my wheels or flaps. There was a compressedair bottle to blow down the wheels in an emergency, and since I definitely
considered this an emergency, I used it to lower my gear as I continued
my approach. The deck was clear, but as I approached the ramp, I was
given a Wave-off by the LSO. As I flew past, he gave me the signal that
I needed to lower my tail hook and flaps. I waggled my wings again to
indicate that I understood but that I was unable to do either.
I continued upwind and began another approach. I had opened my
canopy and was trying to use both hands to fly the plane. The wind was
blowing in my face and I could no longer hold the pressure point on my
temple, which caused the wound to bleed freely. The flowing blood was
completely obstructing the vision in my left eye. Believe me, is difficult
enough to land on a carrier deck with both eyes functioning, but with
only one eye, it was extremely difficult!
As I neared the ramp on my second approach, I noticed that there
was a Hellcat crashed on deck in a wheels-up condition. As I learned
later, it had taken several 20mm hits in the cockpit that severely wounded
the pilot in the hand. The LSO had brought this F6F in on a straight-in
approach, but the wounded pilot had been unable to lower his gear and
flaps prior to the landing.
I was feeling okay except for the bleeding. I was not feeling faint or
light-headed, and the wound above my eye was sort of numb. The caked
blood was helping to stem some of the flow. Though I was not feeling
much pain, I certainly did not relish the thought of circling while the
deck crew cleaned up the deck crash. But I really had no other choice.
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After I had circled for about fifteen minutes, they again gave me the
Charlie signal to land. This time, realizing I had no tail hook or flaps,
the deck crew had rigged the barrier across the flight deck. The barrier
consisted of several strands of one-inch wire cabling that would stop
the aircraft on its runout.
I made my second approach and soon discovered that I could not
see well enough to make the trap unless I held my left hand to my temple
to stop the flow of blood. I made the approach holding my temple with
my left hand, flying the aircraft and making throttle adjustments, and
eventually taking the Cut, all with my right hand. I landed successfully
and slowed my roll to almost a stop before I struck the barrier and nosed
up. It had been an ordeal, but I had survived.
They removed me from the plane, placed me on a stretcher, and
took me to the sickbay. My flight suit was drenched in blood, and blood
had even run down my leg and into my left shoe, which squished during
the few steps I took on my own. The flight surgeon later told me that he
estimated I had lost nearly two quarts of blood.
I was sedated and remember little else about the next twenty-four
hours. But as exciting as my day had been, it was not yet over.
The air groups made repeated attacks on Kwajalein during the day
and then the task force withdrew to the east and took up a course to
return to Pearl Harbor. As we withdrew, we came under attack by several
Bettys, which tracked the carriers and attempted to launch aerial
torpedoes our way. At approximately 2200, one of them was successful
and the Lex took a hit below decks in the vicinity of the sickbay. I
understand that several people were killed, including the corpsman who
was holding a compress to my head to stop the bleeding, and that the
compartment was partially flooded.
As I later learned, the gun captain of the 40mm mount just outside
my bunkroom had heard that I was wounded, and came down to the
sickbay to visit me just as the torpedo hit the ship. When he looked
through the Plexiglas inspection window into the sickbay compartment,
he saw that another wounded pilot and I were moving about in bed, so
he entered and pulled us both out to safety. I understand that the
compartment I was in eventually flooded completely. Had the gun captain
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not decided to come visit me at just that time, it is doubtful that anyone
else would have noticed us and made the rescue.
What a day! It was filled with lots of luck. I’m sure I owe my good
fortune to the intervention of Divine Providence—I prayed long and
loud throughout the ordeal—and to a strong will to survive. I know that
I was just not ready to go that day—it was just not my time to go.
I was hospitalized for about a week at Pearl and then returned to the
squadron. After I regained complete sight in my left eye, about a month,
I returned to flight status and resumed my tour aboard the USS Lexington
for another seven months. I returned to the States and was reassigned in
July 1944.
Comparing the performance of the Hellcat versus the Zero, I feel
that the Hellcat was by far the more durable of the two aircraft, due
mainly to fact that the wing fuel tanks were self-sealing—a bullet or
incendiary could pass through the wing tank, which would seal
immediately without causing a fire or explosion—and because the pilot
had a lead silhouette of armor protecting his backside.
On the other hand, the Zero was faster and more maneuverable,
thanks to the weight-saving features of not having the self-sealing fuel
tanks and the armor plating protecting the pilot. This I think was a net
disadvantage. A number of times in later fights I was outmaneuvered—
the Zero turned inside me—and my plane was hit, but it was not disabled.
By contrast, only a few rounds fired into the Zero usually resulted in the
pilot being hit and the Zero crashing into the sea, or a fire starting and
the airplane either burning or exploding.
As an example of the ruggedness of the Hellcat, the plane that I flew
back the day I was shot had three 37mm holes, about seven 20mm holes,
and more than 250 7.7mm bullet holes or small fragment holes from
antiaircraft fire. Several of the smaller fragment holes were in the engine
area, but the good old Pratt & Whitney continued to purr right down to
the time that I nosed-up on deck.
The abilities and caliber of the Japanese pilots I engaged also declined
tremendously with the progression of the war. I speak only for our
experience in VF-16, but I would expect it to compare with that of other
squadrons operating at the same time. Early in the war, around Kwajalein,
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the Japanese pilots were extremely tough, and our kill ratio was only
about 5:1. Later, around Truk, Palau, and Hollandia, our ratio grew to
about 12:1. And around the Mariannas, VF-16 shot down an estimated
twenty-five to thirty Japanese aircraft during that one-day “Turkey
Shoot”—without losing a single plane or pilot to enemy aircraft. I feel
sure that this was due to the attrition of first-rate Japanese pilots and
Japan’s inability to train replacements in an orderly manner.
*
In addition to the Japanese aircraft he downed over Kwajalein on
December 4, 1943, Ensign Wendy Wendorf shot down an Imperial Army
Ki-61 Tony fighter over Truk on April 29, 1944, and a bomber in the
Marianas on June 19, 1944.
Following a well-deserved home leave, Lieutenant (jg) Wendorf
joined a group of six “nuggets”—recently designated and commissioned
aviators—whom he shepherded through operational training and carrier
qualifications before all were assigned to the escort carrier USS Savo
Island. The ship and its composite squadron joined several similar units
in Adak, Alaska, where they were preparing for the upcoming invasion
of Japan when the atomic bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and
Nagasaki, and the war quickly ended.
After the war, Lieutenant Wendorf was given a commission in the
Regular Navy. During the first of two back-to-back tours as a flight
instructor at Pensacola, Wendorf became engaged to and soon married
a Navy air traffic controller. He retired from the Navy in 1968 and worked
for nearly two decades in the aircraft industry.
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ACES AT WAR
The American Aces Speak
By Eric Hammel
Adding to the first three volumes of his acclaimed series, The American
Aces Speak, leading combat historian Eric Hammel comes through with
yet another engrossing collection of thirty-eight first-person accounts
by American fighter aces serving in World War II, the Israeli War of
Independence, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War
As are the three earlier volumes, Aces At War is a highly charged
excursion into life and death in the air, told by men who excelled at
piston-engine and jet-engine aerial combat and lived to tell about it. It is
an emotional rendering of what brave airmen felt and how they fought
in the now-dim days of America’s living national history.
Ride with Flying Tigers ace Charlie Bond as he is shot down in
flames over the Chinese city he alone has been able to defend against
Japanese bombers. Share the loneliness of command as Lieutenant Commander Tom Blackburn decides the fate of the fellow Navy pilot whose
F4U Corsair malfunctions in a desperate battle over Rabaul. Feel 2d
Lieutenant Deacon Priest’s overwhelming sense of duty to a friend as
he lands his P-51 Mustang behind German lines to rescue his downed
squadron commander. Share Lieutenant Colonel Ed Heller’s desperation as he fights his way out of his uncontrollable F-86 Sabre jet over
the wrong side of the Yalu River. And join Major Jim Kasler as he leads
what might be the most important air strike of the Vietnam War.
These are America’s eagles, and the stories they tell are their own,
in their very own words.
Critical Acclaim for The American Aces Speak Series
The Book World says: “Aces Against Japan is a thunderous, personal,
high-adventure book giving our ‘men in the sky’ their own voice.”
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Book Page says: “Eric Hammel’s book is recommended reading. It is a
must for any historian’s bookshelf.”
The Library Journal says: “No PR hype or dry-as-dust prose here.
Hammel allows his flyers to tell their stories in their own way.
Exciting stuff aviation and World War II buffs will love.”
The Providence Sunday Journal says: “A treat that deftly blends a
chronology of the Pacific War with tales that would rival a
Saturday action matinee.”
Infantry Magazine says: “If you would like to read one book that will
give you a broad overview and yet a detailed look at what a
fighter pilot’s air war was like, this is the book.”
The Bookshelf says: “Hammel is one of our best military historians
when it comes to presenting that often complex subject to the
general public. He has demonstrated this facility in a number of
fine books before [Aces Against Germany] and now he does so
again. Not to be missed by either buff or scholar.”
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book ACES AT
WAR: The American Aces Speak by Eric Hammel. The book is
currently available in a $27.50 trade paperback edition published
by Pacifica Military History. It is also available in ebook editions.
SAVE THE BOMBERS
by Eric Hammel
Copyright 1997 © by Eric Hammel
1st Lieutenant FRANK GERARD, USAAF
503d Fighter Squadron, 339th Fighter Group
Annaberg, Germany—September 11, 1944
*
Francis Robert Gerard was born in Belleville, New Jersey, on July 11,
1924. He graduated from high school in June 1941, and on October 22,
biked from his home in Newark to the recruiting station in Lyndhurst. It
was his intention to enlist in the Marine Corps, but he was arrested at
the entrance to the building by a sign depicting Uncle Sam pointing his
finger and emblazoned with the question, “Can You Fly?” A crack athlete
and a top scholar, young Gerard said to himself, Why not?, and proceeded
to the Army Air Forces recruiter. He passed the written exam with ease,
but when he returned for his physical the next day, he could not get the
recruiter to commit to an early departure for training, so he threatened
to join the Marines. At this point, the teenager was ushered into the
office of a full colonel, who questioned him on various aspects of his
life. At last, the colonel promised to have the young pilot recruit sworn
in on October 26 and on his way as soon as possible. The colonel’s
word was golden—Gerard was sworn into the Army on October 26,
1942, and on his way to training on December 18.
Second Lieutenant Frank Gerard, age nineteen, emerged from flight
training with class 43-H at Craig Field, Alabama, on August 30, 1943.
After completing his training with a replacement training unit, he was
assigned to the 339th Fighter-Bomber Group, which had been formed
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as a light dive-bomber unit in mid-1942 and now was undergoing training
as a P-39 fighter-bomber unit at Rice Field, California.
The group was shipped to England in March 1944 and there it
transitioned to P-51s for escort duty with the VIII Fighter Command’s
66th Fighter Wing. The group flew its first mission, a fighter sweep
ahead of the heavy bombers, on April 30, 1944.
First Lieutenant Frank Gerard scored his first aerial victory, a Bf109 he downed with only 42 bullets, while escorting bombers near Gotha,
Germany, on August 16, 1944.
*
I flew my entire combat tour as a member of the 503rd Fighter
Squadron, 339th Fighter Group, based at Station 378, Fowlmere,
England.
On September 11, 1944, we were awakened early by the many B17s and B-24s droning overhead to complete their join-ups in the murky
weather prevalent in England at that time of the year. I remember so
well that it was pretty foggy that morning, and so I hoped that I would
be able to sleep a little while longer. That was not to be, so my five
Nissen hut buddies and I donned our damp flying suits and sloshed
through the mud to have our sumptuous breakfast. Afterwards, we
bicycled to the briefing hut to receive our mission for the day.
It was a typical briefing at the start, but when it came to the type of
tactics that the bomber boxes were to employ that day enroute to Grimma,
Germany, and how we were to effect the rendezvous and the escort
procedures, I could sense the perking interest of my fellow pilots and
operations officers. En route to the target near Leipzig, we were told,
we would not use the normal formation of boxes in trail. Rather, the
bomber boxes would fly basically line abreast into Germany and then
wheel into trail at a designated point before the Initial Point (IP). We
could only conclude that this method of approach was to confuse the
German air defenses. And it did cause confusion, no doubt about it, but
mostly on the part of the Eighth Air Force escorts, both P-51s and P47s. When the time came for the Fortresses to wheel into position toward
the IP, the 503d Fighter Squadron, with a total of fourteen Mustangs,
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was the only fighter unit in the proper position to offer protection to the
many boxes of bombers.
While we were still en route to the target area, the Germans sent up
several decoy Bf-109s to entice our fighter units away from the bomber
force. Our squadron was led by Major John Aitken, an experienced fighter
pilot. We stayed with the B-17s, ignored the decoys, and maneuvered
toward the front of the scattered bomber formation.
When we were in the vicinity of Annaburg, I called in a mass of
bandits, and Major Aitken gave the order to drop our external fuel tanks.
It certainly was a frightening spectacle to spot the two gaggles of fighters
approaching the bombers. The gaggles were composed of more than
fifty enemy aircraft each, and the sight of them raised the hackles of my
hair, as I am sure it did to the thirteen other Mustang pilots in our
formation. I thought, This is it! However, we pressed on even though
our instincts warned us that we would not return from this mission. But
it was our duty to protect the bombers to the best of our daring and skill.
As the enemy aircraft approached the bomber force, we dove down
and began the attack. At first, I didn’t think of anything except trying to
distract the 109s from their goal of destroying the B-17s by getting them
to mix it up with us. To this end, I fired a burst in their general direction,
but I was firing from out of range. This premature action had no effect
upon the deadly determination of the 109s and 190s.
I was flying as the element lead in Major Aitken’s flight, and initially
I was slightly ahead of the others, in the nearest position to the enemy
gaggles. After my futile attempt to distract the enemy I said to myself,
Steady, boy. Concentrate on one at a time. Then I picked out a 109 that
was about 300 yards out and crossing in front of me at about a 40degree angle. He was the tail-end charlie of a flight of 109s.
I put all my football-passing and skeet-shooting experience to good
use then. I gave him a good lead while aiming a little high, because of
the distance. Then I gave him a short burst from my six .50-caliber
machine guns. He blew up with coolant and flames streaming out. My
wingman, 2d Lieutenant Raymond Mayer, saw him spin out with his
wheels down and pieces flying off, so it was a confirmed victory. Scared
as I was at the time, my lucky hits gave me a lot of confidence and
elation.
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I pressed on through the melee, and as we reached the American
bombers, I maneuvered frantically to get in position while protecting
my tail. All hell was breaking loose around me, and there were so many
aircraft involved that it was difficult to distinguish friends from enemies,
but thank God there were so many of them and few of us. I finally
picked out an FW-190 that was in a slight dive. I got on his tail and gave
him a short burst, and he immediately exploded. Captain James Robinson
confirmed this kill. I then damaged another 109, but in the confusion of
diving through the bomber formation—I swear that I could hear the
rapid fire from the heavy armament of the B-17s, and the sky around me
was filled with parachutes and pieces of debris flying through the air—
I wasn’t able to follow him to confirm this kill. Much remained to be
done to assist the bomber crews and their aircraft.
Opening to max throttle, I attacked another 109 that was going down
in a dive, but as I was positioning on him, I spotted two more 109s
coming in on my tail. As we were already getting into a sort of Lufbery,
I accelerated my turn and got it in so tight that I thought my G-suit
would break me in half. (We were one of the pioneer groups to test the
pneumatic G-suit, and I said at the time that I never wanted to fly combat
in a fighter without wearing one.) Because of the benefits of the G-suit,
I was able to twist my head without blacking out, and I was able to
outmaneuver the two 109s. I was determined that they would never fight
against our valiant bomber crews again.
I put that P--51 through every gyration it was designed for, and more.
In fact, I snapped it around so forcefully that I was concerned about the
wings coming off, --but I gave it a go.
After two or three turns, I was on their tails. Though I was pulling a
lot of Gs, I lined up on the nearer of the two 109s and gave him two or
three short bursts. The pilot must have been amazed at this turn of events,
for his previous target was now the aggressor—and was scoring hits all
over his airplane. He blew up and started his final descent. I followed
him in a steep dive and saw him spin into the ground.
While I was in this steep dive, Major Aitken passed me. He was on
the tail of another 109, and he was getting serious strikes all over it. I
pulled up because my speed was excessive, and this afforded me the
opportunity to bounce another 109. I pressed the attack for what seemed
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like quite a while before I was in a position to fire. This 109 pilot was
aggressive. He tried to lose me with various maneuvers and tactics,
descending all the time. However, I was determined not to let this one
fight another day. It was crazy up there at the time, but I got into position
for a good deflection shot. When I was close enough I gave him a short
burst, and he blew up and entered a crazy spin. As I pulled up in a tight
turn to clear my tail and look for other enemy aircraft, I saw my 109 hit
the ground. When he hit, he was still spinning.
Next, I spotted six more 109s break for the deck. I rolled after them,
but I had only 110 gallons of gas left, so I broke off the attack, climbed
to 15,000 feet, and began my long and lonely flight back to Fowlmere.
It had been a long day. The mission was seven hours and forty
minutes, but adding the time for the fog-delayed takeoff, I was strapped
into that Mustang for more than nine hours. My muscles and my mind
were sorely challenged. I thought of a lot of different things that day,
but most of all I was proud to be part of the 503d Fighter Squadron and
thankful for the wisdom of Major Aitken for not being lured by the
decoys, and for his dedication to protecting the bomber crews by
following orders and not chasing across the skies for personal glory.
We did our best that day, but it was not good enough. Twelve B-17s
went down in flames before other American fighters finally arrived to
protect them on the flight home. I do not think I had the courage to be a
bomber pilot over Germany. I had—and still have—the utmost respect
for the valor and dedication of those brave crews.
The 503d Fighter Squadron shot down fifteen German fighters in
that action, and we damaged many others. The 339th Fighter Group
was awarded the Presidential Unit Citation for its achievements on
September 10 and 11, 1944, and I was awarded the Silver Star for
“Gallantry in Action.”
*
Frank Gerard was awarded four confirmed victories for the twelveminute September 11 fight over Annaburg; he was a five-kill ace, and
only a month past his twentieth birthday. He went on to down two Bf109s, and damage a third, near Magdeburg on March 2, 1945; and
shortly after being promoted to the rank of captain, he scored his eighth
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and final victory on March 18, 1945, when he downed an FW-190 near
Dummer Lake.
After World War II, Frank Gerard served with the New Jersey Air
National Guard while completing college. He earned his law degree in
1949, but his legal career was cut short when he was called to active
duty during the Korean War. Thereater, he divided his time between
various civilian pursuits, the New Jersey Air National Guard, and
numerous stints on active duty with the Air Force, including a tour during
the 1962 Berlin Crisis. He flew jet fighters until 1976 and retired from
the Air Force several years later with the rank of major general.
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ACES IN COMBAT
The American Aces Speak
By Eric Hammel
Adding to the acclaimed first four volumes of his exciting, in-the-cockpit
series, The American Aces Speak, leading combat historian Eric Hammel
comes through with yet another engrossing collection of first-person
accounts by American fighter aces serving in World War II and the
Korean War.
As are the four earlier volumes, Aces In Combat is a highly charged
excursion into life and death in the air, told by men who excelled at
piston-engine and jet-engine aerial combat and lived to tell about it. It is
an emotional rendering of what brave airmen felt and how they fought
in the now-dim days of America’s living national history.
View the Battle of Midway through Lieutenant Jim Gray’s eyes as
he must balance the needs of fellow pilots against the needs of his nation. Share the fear with Captain Charlie Sullivan as would-be rescuers
deep in the New Guinea jungle attempt to turn him into a blood sacrifice. Crew a Canadian Mosquito night fighter as Lieutenant Lou Luma
stalks the wily Hun—and bags an ace—over an airfield deep in Germany. Share Lieutenant Bud Fortier’s and Major George Loving’s grief
when, on missions nearly eight years apart, they look on helplessly as
trusted wingmen dive to their deaths in treacherous ground-attack runs.
And watch anxiously as Captain Tom Maloney hovers between life and
death for ten lonely days after stepping on a mine on an enemy-held
beach.
These are America’s eagles, and the stories they tell are their own,
in their very own words.
Critical Acclaim for The American Aces Speak Series
The Book World says: “Aces Against Japan is a thunderous, personal,
high-adventure book giving our ‘men in the sky’ their own voice.”
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Book Page says: “Eric Hammel’s book is recommended reading. It is a
must for any historian’s bookshelf.”
The Library Journal says: “No PR hype or dry-as-dust prose here.
Hammel allows his flyers to tell their stories in their own way.
Exciting stuff aviation and World War II buffs will love.”
The Providence Sunday Journal says: “A treat that deftly blends a
chronology of the Pacific War with tales that would rival a
Saturday action matinee.”
Infantry Magazine says: “If you would like to read one book that will
give you a broad overview and yet a detailed look at what a
fighter pilot’s air war was like, this is the book.”
The Bookshelf says: “Hammel is one of our best military historians
when it comes to presenting that often complex subject to the
general public. He has demonstrated this facility in a number of
fine books before [Aces Against Germany] and now he does so
again. Not to be missed by either buff or scholar.”
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book ACES IN
COMBAT: The American Aces Speak by Eric Hammel. The book is
currently available in a $27.50 trade paperback edition published
by Pacifica Military History. It is also available in ebook editions.
DESCENT INTO HELL
by Eric Hammel
Copyright 1998 © by Eric Hammel
Captain TOM MALONEY, USAAF
27th Fighter Squadron, 1st Fighter Group
Near Aix-en-Provence, France—August 19-September 1, 1944
*
Thomas Edward Maloney was born in Cushing, Oklahoma, on March
21, 1923. He enlisted in the Army Air Corps shortly after graduating
from high school and was inducted on June 13, 1941. He qualified for
flight instruction in early 1942 and began training in September of that
year. Cadet Maloney completed Primary flight training at Thunderbird
Field, Arizona, in March 1943; Basic at Pecos, Texas, in May 1943;
and Advanced at Williams Field, Arizona. He was commissioned as a
second lieutenant and pinned on his wings as a member of Class 43-G
at Williams Field on July 2, 1943.
Second Lieutenant Maloney was selected for fighters, and was trained
in P-38s at Muroc Army Air Base and Lomita Air Force Station,
California, then departed the United States in September 1943, bound
for North Africa. He was assigned as a replacement pilot to the veteran
1st Fighter Group’s 27th Fighter Squadron, then a part of the Twelfth
Air Force. Based at Mateur, Tunisia, the 1st Fighter Group had served
chiefly as escort for medium bombers flying against tactical targets in
Italy. However, on December 9, the 1st Fighter Group was transferred
to the new Fifteenth Air Force and assigned to long-range escort duties
for B-24s and B-17s attacking strategic targets throughout southern
Europe.
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Second Lieutenant Tom Maloney drew first blood on March 28, 1944,
when he shot down a Bf-109 (and probably shot down a second) over
Italy. On April 23, he shot down two Me-110s (and damaged a Bf-109)
while escorting heavy bombers over Hungary and Austria. Next, on May
28, 1944, he shot down a Do-217 medium bomber over Buzim,
Yugoslavia, and on May 31, 1944, he achieved ace status when he shot
down a Bf-109 while escorting the heavy bombers over Ploesti, Romania.
First Lieutenant Maloney’s sixth victory credit was for an FW-190 he
downed over Oberstdorf, Germany, on July 18; and he rounded out his
score with a pair of Bf-109s he shot down near St. Tropez, France, on
August 15, 1944. By doing so, he became the 27th Fighter Squadron’s
highest-scoring ace of the war, a distinction that one of his
squadronmates would subsequently match but none would exceed.
*
During the Allied invasion of southern France, which commenced on
August 15, 1944, two P-38 groups—the 1st and the 14th—were sent on
detached service from Foggia, Italy, to Corsica in order to support the
landings. The main reason for the P-38 being there was to fly cover over
the beachhead. It was felt they were easily recognizabe to Allied troops
as friendly planes, which meant that trigger-happy American, British,
and French gunners on the ground wouldn’t be shooting at us, as they
had done in earlier landing operations.
I would like to comment briefly on the plane we flew, the Lockheed
P-38 Lightning fighter. Many aviation writers tend to downplay the
effectiveness of the P-38 because of the various troubles and lack of
success endured by the three Eighth Air Force fighter groups flying the
P-38 out of England. I was fortunate to be given some insight into their
problem when I was sent to England along with five squadronmates to
bring back three-month-old P-38s from a group that was getting the
latest model. As it was, this group’s old P-38s were newer models than
what we had! I was reunited there with many of my Class 43-G
classmates who had been assigned to this group before it was shipped
overseas. These pilots were scared to death. They had many engine
failures, suffered from a lack of leadership, and suffered especially from
a lack of combat experience. The entire group had started combat with
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no experience, and the pilots gained it only as they went. By contrast, I
was fortunate to be sent to one of the very first units to fly the P-38
combat, so when we went on missions, the 27th Fighter Squadron was
composed of experienced pilots with fifty or more missions, as well as
new pilots with to no missions.
I have never encountered a pilot who flew the P-38 in combat who
didn’t love the plane, and that included many who also flew the P-51. In
fairness, I must say that the P-38’s engines were very touchy and needed
to be handled with kid gloves. Most writers overlook the fact that the P51 was originally the A-36 ground-support fghter, and that the A-36
used the same Allison engine the P-38 used. The A-36 was certainly no
great shakes as a fighter. I’ve always wondered what the P-38 could
have been with two Merlin engines, the same engines the P-51 finally
received.
The flying characteristics of the P-38 were superb. It was gentle as a
lamb, gave plenty of notice of a stall, and could turn with any fighter
except the Spitfire and the Zero. Plus, its counter-rotating props
eliminated the problem of torque so common to single-engine fighters.
Very early in its operational history, the P-38 developed a reputation for
being very difficult to fly. This wasn’t the case, but being the first really
high-performance fighter to enter service in the Army Air Forces caused
it to be feared by many people who felt it was too complicated for one
man to fly.
On the morning of August 19, 1944, I flew a beachhead cover mission,
and that afternoon our new squadron commander, Major Frank Pope,
wanted to lead a four-ship flight from the 27th on a dive-bombing mission
that was led by a four-ship 94th Fighter Squadron flight commanded by
Captain Ed LaClare. The target was a railroad bridge in the city of
Avignon, just below the confluence of the Durance and Rhone rivers.
There was the possibility we might be intercepted by German fighters
that far north of the invasion area. Major Pope had flown a tour in Alaska
prior to joining the 27th as its CO, and he didn’t have much combat
experience with the Germans at this time. I was the 27th Squadron’s
operations officer, and the most experienced pilot in the group, so I
thought it was advisable for me to fly the mission as Major Pope’s
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element leader, in case we were jumped. This was my sixty-fourth combat
mission.
The mission proceeded as planned, bt with only fair results. Since we
carried only one bomb apiece and had used belly tanks most of the way
to the target, we still had practically full internal fuel tanks. One of the
94th Squadron P-38s developed a problem during the dive-bombing
and returned to base, but the rest of us went looking for targets of
opportunity by following the rail line leading to the west-southwest
looking for a train or military trucks to shoot up.
We skirted Nimes and proceeded down the railroad line, and in short
order we came upon a train in a small station later identified as Le Cres.
The locomotive appeared to be taking on water. First the locomotive
was disabled by our guns. The cars it was pulling appeared to be flatcars
loaded with German Army trucks, a tank or two, and other military gear.
This small station was in relatively open country and there were no
soldiers visible in the area. There was no evidence that anyone was
firing at us.
Because the train seemed to ve carrying valuable military cargo, our
mission leader, Ed LaClare, made a decision to violate our strafing code
of one pass only. I agreed with him. We formed a circle and took out
each rail car in order. Quite a number of the rail cars exploded, which
caused us to fly through the resulting fire storm. The debris this created
was like flak.
As I came off my third target, a 94th Squadron plane which was third
in the circle flew straight ahead with its right engine on fire. Since he
was the last 94th plane, no one in his own flight saw him go, so I flew
up just behind him on the right and urged him to bail out. After about
five miles, the pilot made a left 170-degree turn and belly-landed on a
fairly level area. He went running off the wing before the airplane came
to a complete stop. I didn’t know until many years later that the pilot
was 1st Lieutenant Dick Arrowsmith, and that he successfully evaded
capture, was later led back to our lines by French Resistance fighters,
and returned to his squadron to finish his combat tour.
As I was returning to the train, my right engine began knocking. A
check of the oil pressure and temperature revealed that I’d lost the oil
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from that engine, so I feathered the propeller and called Major Pope to
inform him that I was heading out to the Mediterranean and returning to
Corsica. The major and the other two 27th Squadron planes broke off
their strafing passes to escort me.
After about ten minutes, I noticed that my left engine nacelle had oil
dripping from it. A check of the oil pressure revealed I’d soon lose that
engine, too. I was five or six miles off the French coast, and there was a
solid overcast at about 800 feet. I decided to land in the water, even
though there were waves crossing my line of flight. I had no trouble
landing on the crest of a wave after I jettisoned my canopy, but I
immediately discovered that the P-38 floats like a crowbar.
My dinghy was attached to my Mae West by means of a woven halfinch strand, and as I jerked on the strand it appeared the dinghy wouldn’t
separate from the parachute pack and was going to take me under with
it. After a frantic last pull, it came up, and I inflated it. What a surprise!
The dinghy was just large enough so that one side fit under my knees
and the other side was below my shoulders. Only my head and knees
were out of the water.
The three P-38s from my flight stayed over me as long as their fuel
permitted. Shortly after the last one left, two ships came up over the
horizon, moving slowly toward me from the direction of our beachhead.
Though it was near dusk when they arrived, it appeared at first that the
nearer ship was going to run right over me, but as it came closer I could
see that it was 150 to 200 yards seaward of me. I could see sailors on
deck looking for me, but the swells kept me from their sight. They slowly
sailed past me about a mile, turned around to seaward, and came back.
But they never came as close as on the first pass. It was dark by then,
but they stayed in the area at least another hour, shooting flares and
lighting up the sea. Eventually they left, and I was alone on a pitch
black night.
Much later, near midnight, I began hearing breakers, faintly at first
and then louder. It dawned on me that the tide and waves coming from
the south had washed me to shore. I knew that I went down roughly
twenty-five miles west of Marseille, and since this was four days after
the invasion, I thought the shoreline here would probably be heavily
patrolled by German soldiers. Nevertheless, I made it ashore without
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incident. I was quite tired and sleepy because I had been up since 0600
hours and had flown two missions, but I needed to find someplace to
hide my dinghy and Mae West. If these were found by a sentry at
daybreak, the Germans would surely know that someone had made a
mini-invasion during the night.
I crept cautiously inland, looking for some shrubs in which I could
hide the dinghy and Mae West and conceal myself so that I wouldn’t
waken to someone prodding me with a gun. The night was so dark, I
could not see my hand in front of my face.
I had moved inland between fifty to seventy-five feet when I froze at
the sound of a click, like someone working the bolt of a rifle.
On the ship that had carried me from the United States to North Africa,
I had had plenty of time to think about going to war. I often thought how
very lucky I was to be a pilot. I was glad I wasn’t going to be in a
submarine, where I could be drowned or marooned forever; and I was
glad I wasn’t an infantryman, who would have to contend with land
mines he couldn’t see. Immediately after hearing the click, I realized
one of my two worst fears was about to be realized.
The mine that went off under me shattered both of my feet, and
inflicted compound fractures in both legs just above the ankles. In
addition, several large pieces of metal had been driven into my left knee,
gaping holes had been torn in both legs from the calves to the hips, a
piece of metal had cut through my left bicep and numbed my arm, my
face was torn by shrapnel and powder-burned, and my pantslegs had
been blown off six inches below the waist.
I was aware of a king-size hotfoot on my left foot. My right shoe was
blown off, but my left shoe had remained on. When I tried to remove the
left shoe, I found the foot had been impaled by a shard of the mine that
had penetrated the bottom of the shoe, gone through the foot, and on
through the top of the shoe. The pain was unbearable, but I had to pull
the shard back through the bottom of the left shoe in order to remove the
shoe.
My escape kit was still attached to my belt, so I opened it and found
a little tube of sulfathiazole ointment. I spread the pitifully small contents
of the tube on the wounds I could feel on my feet; then I passed out.
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When I awoke on the morning of August 20, I saw that I had come
ashore on a quite level, somewhat sandy area covered with very low
scrubby vegetation. There was no one around. Very close to me were
several trip wires for more mines. Knowing I was seventy-five or more
miles behind enemy lines, it seemed to me that there was no hope of my
being rescued. Having been raised a good Catholic boy, I said as good
an Act of Contrition as I could and resigned myself to dying there.
The truth is, few of those who made it through the war are luckier
than I am to be alive. By all odds, I should be dead.
On the morning of the second day, I tried to get a drink from the
canteen in my escape kit, but it was empty. For the rest of the day, I
alternately passed out and woke up. I was conscious for short periods
only.
During the third and fourth days—August 21 and 22—it became
apparent that I was going to die of thirst, if not from my wounds, so I
started moving toward a two- or three-foot rise that had a row of bushes
on top. The bushes were about fifty feet away. I would pick up one leg,
set it down, then move the other, all the while being careful not to hit
another mine or tripwire as I dragged myself along. Because I was
conscious for only short periods of time, it took me several periods of
consciousness to move the fifty feet. On the other side of the rise was a
six-inch-deep pool of standing water, and I gratefully drnk from it even
though it was dirty. I spent that night and the next day, August 23, by the
edge of that pool. As before, I was unconscious most of the time.
During one of the periods when I as awake, I became conscious of a
feeling of movement in some of my wounds. A check revealed that all
my open wounds were full of maggots, which caused me to think I was
being eaten alive. Each time I was conscious thereafter, I killed as many
maggots as I could. (It wasn’t until much later that doctors told me the
maggots were only eating the dead flesh, thereby delaying the onset of
gangrene.)
On the fifth day, August 24, I raised my head as far as possible to see
whether there was anything nearby that I could try to reach for help. To
the east, about a half-mile away, I could see the top of a tall wooden
observation tower. Surely, I thought it would be manned, and by this
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time I would have welcomed a German coming to take me prisoner. By
the end of the day, however, I had made no progress toward the tower,
and I slept where I had awakened.
On the sixth day, August 25, I moved toward the tower and had gotten
to within a hundred yards of it by nightfall. There was a swamp between
me and the tower, and by sunset I could see that there was a log cabin—
it appeared to be a hunting cabin—at the base of the tower. Both the
tower and the cabin were obviously abandoned.
On the seventh day, August 26, I entered the swamp, which turned
out to be about two to four feet deep. It so happened that I had come
ashore in a vast swampy area known as the Camargue, at the mouth of
the Rhone River.
I was able to move along quite well in the water because my legs
were buoyant. I pulled myself to the cabin as cautiously as I could,
because there were signs in German —Achtung! Minen—and I knew
what that meant.
The swamp next to the cabin was about 100 feet wide and 150 yards
long, and at the far end it turned a corner. There was a footbridge that
crossed from the cabin to the shorter side of the swam. It was made of
rough timbers about ten feet long and three feet wide, and held together
with a kind of baling wire.
During the next two days, August 27 and 28, I labored to take the
bridge apart and construct a raft with four of the timbers held together
with the wire. Late the second day, I completed the raft and, with two
long sticks, poled my way down the swamp, hoping t would lead to the
open ocean.
Upon rounding the corner, however, I found that the swamp deadended about twenty-five feet further on. It was quite late, so I poled
ashore, secured the raft as best I could, and pulled myself about six feet
out of the swamp. I spent the night there on the bank. I later learned that
the Camargue was one of the top five mosquito-infested areas in the
world. The mosquitoes were so big and so thick, they created a continual
hum. I simply covered my face with my hands and let them have at me.
The next morning, August 29, I got back on the raft to return to the
cabin. As I rounded the corner, I could see people at the cabin, and I
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called out to them as I got near. They were six Frenchmen who had
come out to start cleaning up the mess made by the Germans.
They placed me in the bed of their old truck and started to drive up a
trail. The jolting of the ride was more than I could physically bear, so
they took the long front seat from the cab and placed me on it. Four of
the men picked up the seat, one at each corner, and carried me up the
trail. The truck driver drove ahead to arrange for an ambulance. The last
man spelled one of the men who was carrying me, and they continued to
spell one another until we reached the road, where an ambulance was
waiting.
On the way to the hospital, the ambulance stopped at a house where
a French lady fed me some soup, my first meal in ten days. Needless to
say, I thought the soup was the best I had ever eaten. Next, the ambulance
took me to a hospital in Aix-en-Provence, which was close to the bythen liberated city of Marseille.
My stay in the French hospital was almost as bad as my ten days on
the beach and in the swamp. Until then, shock had spared me the
excruciating pain that now came over me. No one at the hospital spoke
any English, and I spoke no French, so there was little communication
with the hospital staff. On my second day there, August 31, they put me
on an operating table, and ten or twelve people stood around me. The
doctor had antiseptics but no anesthetics, and the additional people were
there to hold me down while the doctor dug shrapnel out of my legs and
left knee. After this ordeal, I found an orderly who understood a little
English and I convinced him to go find any Allied soldier and bring him
back to the hospital. Shortly, the orderly returned with a British soldier
whose Cockney accent made him almost as hard to understand as the
French. I gave the soldier one of my dogtags and begged him to find an
American officer and explain to him where I was. I asked the soldier to
hurry, because I was not sure I would be able to endure the medical
treatment I was receiving.
When no one showed up that day or the next, September 1, I became
very discouraged. Late that night, however, I was awakened by a U.S.
Army captain with medical insignia on his shirt collar. He gave me a
shot for the pain, and I passed out.
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I was taken by ambulance to a field hospital, which had been located
near our base in Mateur, Tunisia, when I first joined the 27th Fighter
Squadron. Back then, the nurses had been very popular with my squadron
mates, and we had socialized with them. When I woke up, I was being
tended by a nurse I recognized. My spirits improved rapidly. During my
stay at the field hospital, necessary surgery was performed on my
numerous wounds in order to prepare me for evacuation.
In short order, I was flown to the 118th Station Hospital in Naples,
Italy, where I received a lot of medical attention. When word was sent
to the 1st Fighter Group commander, Colonel Robert Richard, that I
was alive and in a hospital in Italy, he issued an order that every day the
weather permitted, a 27th Fighter Squadron P-38 pilot was to land at the
nearby Capodichino Airdrome and visit with me.
In Naples the doctors decided it was best to amputate my legs. I
implored Colonel Richard to get the doctors to reconsider. With his help,
and the help of our wing commander, the doctors decided to try to save
the legs.
They flew me back home in October. The date of the flight was known
at 1st Fighter Group headquarters, so after the C-54 I was aboard lifted
away from Capodichino and leveled out at altitude, a dozen red-tailed
P-38s from the 27th Fighter Squadron appeared and settled down on
both sides of the transport. They looked like silver ghosts. They escorted
me for a hundred miles out over the blue Mediterranean, then silently
peeled off, one by one, and went back to the war.
Years later, I learned that Colonel Richard had issued an order that
from then on, in the 27th Fighter Squadron, any plane with the number
23—my old plane number—would forever be known as Maloney’s Pony.
This order was not followed for thirty years after World War II, but ever
since 1975, when the 27th, 71st, and 94th squadrons were rejoined as
the 1st Fighter Wing, plane Number 23 of the 27th Fighter Squadron is
named Maloney’s Pony.
I arrived in the United States in November 1944, and was stationed
as close to my home as possible, at McCloskey General Hospital in
Temple, Texas. I was operated on many times and was bedridden until
September 1945, at which time I was able to take a few steps with the
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aid of crutches. I went home on leave, married my childhood sweetheart,
Miss Patricia Jean Driggs, and returned to the hospital for another
operation.
In February 1946, with McCloskey Hospital scheduled to be closed,
I was transferred to William Beaumont General Hospital in El Paso.
While there, I received only rehabilitative care. Next, I was transferred
to the neurological center at O’Reilly General Hospital in Springfield,
Missouri, in order to repair damage to the peronneal nerve in my left
leg. When the doctors at O’Reilly decided the nerve injury was
inoperable, I was transferred in September 1946 to Pratt General Hospital
in Coral Gables, Florida, for further treatment. I received only
rehabilitative treatment there, and the hospital closed in April 1947. I
was finally sent to Letterman General Hospital in San Francisco, and
there I received treatment to both legs and feet. I was sent before the
retirement board in October 1947 and was retired for physical disability
with the rank of major, to which I had been promoted in April 1946.
*
After leaving Letterman General Hospital, Tom Maloney enrolled at
Oklahoma State University and began the spring semester there in
January 1948. In January 1951, he received a degree in accounting and
went to work for an oil-and-gas drilling company. In 1954, he helped
form his own drilling company, but in December 1976, problems related
to his injuries forced him to sell his share. He later returned to work at
the firm, finally retiring in 1985.
In 1992, Tom Maloney was inducted into the Oklahoma Aviation and
Space Hall of Fame.
In late 1995, Tom Maloney was contacted by Jean Robin, an amateur
historian who lived in the vicinity of the Le Cres railroad station, which
had been the target of the August 19, 1944, strafing attack. The letter
revealed that, in a matter of minutes, the flight of seven 1st Fighter
Group P-38s had done extensive harm to the German war effort in
recently invaded southern France.
There were two trains in the station when the attack commenced at
1920 hours. One was on a siding without a locomotive. It consisted of
thirteen closed rail cars containing “fire bombs”—possibly incendiary
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ammunition of some sort. Explosive and incendiary bullets fired by the
P-38s’ .50-caliber machine guns and 20mm cannon started fires in these
cars, and the rail cars and their contents were “entirely destroyed and
blown to pieces.”
Moments before the strafing attack commenced, the second train had
been brought to a halt in the station by a red-light signal. This was no
doubt the train Captain Tom Maloney saw when the attack got underway.
It was composed of fifty-two flatbed cars and closed goods wagons. A
number of Royal Tiger heavy tanks were on the flatcars, and ammunition
was stored in many of the closed cars. Waffen SS tank crews and
Panzergrenadiers were also in the closed rail cars.
As the strafing attack began, the locomotive was perforated by bullets
and stopped for good. Of the fifty-two cars it was pulling, nineteen were
blown off the rails and destroyed. Twenty-six others remained on the
rails but were “entirely blown, torn to bits.” When the P-38s left the
scene, only seven flatcars and goods wagons were left intact.
Beyond the outright destruction of the engine and fifty-eight rail cars
and their contents, the attack blocked the main rail line with all the
neighboring rail sidings with debris that, in some cases, continued to
cook off through the night and burn out of control for several days. Live
ammunition was scattered all over the station area and several nearby
vineyards. The switching station was demolished and phone lines running
through the station were severed. Apparently, many Waffen SS troops
were killed in the attack or trapped in the wreckage, where they perished
in the subsequent explosions and fires.
Jean Robin, who passed through the area after the war, described it
to Tom Maloney as “a tangled heap of ruins, an absolute hell!” He also
reported that only one French railwayman was injured by an ammunition
explosion. “Your action,” the Frenchman wrote in 1995, “completely
disrupted the German retreat by railway. All convoys [up the line] from
Montpellier were then destroyed by Allied planes or by the Germans
themselves.”
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AIR WAR EUROPA
Chronology
America’s Air War Against Germany in Europe and North Africa,
1942–1945
By Eric Hammel
THE GREAT AERIAL CRUSADE OF WORLD WAR II: There was
never a military
campaign like it, and there never will be another. Here is an opportunity
to follow the great crusade as it unfolded in the air over the Nazi empire
in North Africa and Europe. This exhaustive chronology sheds a
fascinating light on the course of America’s air war against Germany
and her allies.
* The Air War Europa Chronology is a day-by-day accounting of all the
major combat
missions undertaken by United States Army Air Forces and United States
Navy aviation
units in the European, Mediterranean, and North African theaters of
operations in World
War II.
* A special introductory narrative explains the crucial evolution of fighter
tactics over
western Europe—and how it led to the inexorable defeat of Hitler’s
vaunted Luftwaffe.
* All U.S. Army Air Forces theater fighter aces are covered— including
unit affiliation,
date and time ace status was attained, and date and time of highest victory tally (over ten).
* Information pertaining to the arrival, activation, transfer, departure,
and decommissioning of air commands, combat units, and special
units. Comings and goings of the commanders of major aviation
units are also covered.
* Provides a rich contextual framework pertaining to related ground
campaigns; international and high-command conferences and deci-
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sions influencing air strategies and campaigns; and breakthroughs
in the development of special techniques and equipment, such as
the evolution of the role of escorts and the strategically crucial introduction of fighter auxiliary fuel tanks.
* Bibliography, guide to abbreviations, maps, and two indexes.
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book AIR WAR
EUROPA: Chronology—America’s Air War Against Germany in
Europe and North Africa, 1942-1945 by Eric Hammel. The book is
currently available in a $35.00 trade paperback edition published
by Pacifica Military History. It is also available in ebook editions.
DECEMBER 1942
by Eric Hammel
Copyright © 1994 by Eric Hammel
December 1, 1942
ENGLAND: Upon receiving orders from LtGen Dwight D. Eisenhower,
LtGen Carl Spaatz leaves for Algeria to serve as Eisenhower’s air adviser. MajGen Ira C. Eaker replaces Spaatz as commanding general of
the Eighth Air Force.
TUNISIA: A regular pattern of air attacks is opened by the Twelfth Air
Force against Tunis/El Aouina Airdrome. In the first of these, conducted
before 0900 hours, the base is attacked by six A-20s and 13 B-17s,
which are followed closely by nine A-20s and six RAF Bristol Bisley
light bombers. An estimated 30 aircraft are destroyed on the ground,
and a 14th Fighter Group P-38 pilot downs an Bf-109 in the air over the
airdrome. During the afternoon, an attack by 12 B-26s destroys an estimated 15 GAF aircraft on the ground.
XII Fighter Command P-38s attack German Army tanks near
Djedeida.
December 2, 1942
ENGLAND: BriGen Newton Longfellow replaces MajGen Ira C. Eaker
as commanding general of the VIII Bomber Command.
TUNISIA: Twelfth Air Force A-20s, followed by B-26s, attack Tunis/
El Aouina Airdrome; Twelfth Air Force B-17s attack Bizerte/Sidi Ahmed
Airdrome and Bizerte harbor; and Twelfth Air Force B-25s attack flak
batteries near Gabes Airdrome.
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A total of nine GAF fighters are downed during the day by pilots
of the 1st, 14th, and 52d Fighter groups undertaking a number of escort
missions and aggressive sweeps into enemy territory.
December 3, 1942
TUNISIA: 97th Heavy Bombardment Group B-17s attack shipping and
port facilities at Bizerte at about 1030 hours. Forewarned by radar, GAF
fighters attack the bombers, but they are attacked in turn by 1st Fighter
Group P-38s. Three Bf-109s are downed against the loss of five P-38s.
15th Light Bombardment Squadron A-20s, escorted by P-38s,
attack Tunis/El Aouina Airdrome, and P-38s and Spitfires attack a variety
of ground targets while on far-ranging sweeps and reconnaissance
missions. While on these missions, pilots of the 14th and 52d Fighter
groups down three Bf-109s.
December 4, 1942
ITALY: In the first USAAF air attack directly upon the territory of a
European Axis nation, Italian Navy warships and port facilities in Naples
harbor are attacked by 20 IX Bomber Command B-24s. Hits are claimed
on several of the warships, including a battleship. There are no USAAF
losses.
TUNISIA: XII Bomber Command B-17s, followed a half hour later by
B-26s, attack shipping and port facilities in Bizerte harbor. While escorting the bombers and conducting far-ranging sweeps and reconnaissance missions, pilots of the 1st, 14th, and 52d Fighter groups down
five Bf-109s and a Bf-110.
December 5, 1942
ALGERIA: LtGen Carl Spaatz is named Acting Deputy Commanderin-Chief for Air of the Allied Force in Northwest Africa.
The 3d Reconnaissance Group, equipped with F-4 and F-5
aircraft (P-38 variants), arrives at Oran/La Senia Airdrome to support
the Twelfth Air Force.
LIBYA: The Ninth Air Force’s 12th Medium Bombardment Group, in
B-25s, is recommitted to combat following a period of retraining. From
its new base at Gambut, the group is to join the 57th Fighter Group and
RAF light-bomber units in applying pressure to Axis air groups sup-
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porting the German Army battle line at El Agheila. During the early part
of the month, USAAF and RAF pressure specifically against the Axis
air establishment eventually drives all Axis aircraft from all the landing
grounds within 90 miles of the front.
TUNISIA: Aircraft of the Twelfth Air Force’s XII Bomber Command
and XII Air Support Command open a concerted bombing campaign
against German-held port facilities in Tunisia. The objective is to hamper the flow of German troops and supplies into Tunisia while Allied
ground forces prepare for an all-out offensive to liberate the entire country. Kicking off the new venture, XII Bomber Command B-17s, escorted
by 14th Fighter Group P-38s, attack shipping and port facilities at Tunis.
14th Fighter Group P-38 pilots down two Bf-109s near Bizerte Airdrome.
Twelfth Air Force B-25s attack Bizerte/Sidi Ahmed Airdrome,
and A-20s attack German Army positions at Faid Pass.
December 6, 1942
ENGLAND: The 93d Heavy Bombardment Group, in B-24s, is reassigned to the VIII Bomber Command’s 2d Heavy Bombardment Wing.
FRANCE: In the day’s main effort, 37 of 66 VIII Bomber Command
B-17s dispatched attack a locomotive factory at Lille. Losses are one B17 downed and nine damaged, one crewman killed, two crewmen
wounded, and ten crewmen missing.
Although 44th Heavy Bombardment Group B-24s are recalled
from a mission against Abbeville/Drucat Airdrome, a squadron of six of
the heavy bombers fails to receive the order and presses on. One B-24 is
lost and another is damaged, at a cost of ten crewmen missing and three
crewmen wounded.
TUNISIA: Fifteen XII Bomber Command B-17s attack the port of Tunis;
15th Light Bombardment Squadron A-20s attack the bridge over the
Medjerda River at El Bathan; and 14th Fighter Group P-38 pilots down
a Ju-88, two Bf-110s, and a Ju-52 in two separate actions.
The 33d Fighter Group’s 58th Fighter Squadron, in P-40s, moves
to the rather sparse forward fighter field at Thelepte and thus becomes
the first USAAF unit to be based inside Tunisia. The unit will be primarily
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responsible for supporting ground troops and for undertaking low-level
attacks on transportation targets such as rail lines, bridges, and road
traffic.
December 7, 1942
ALGERIA: Three squadrons of the Eighth Air Force’s 93d Heavy Bombardment Group, in B-24s, arrive in Algeria to bolster XII Bomber Command. (The group’s fourth squadron remains in England to conduct
night-operations experiments.)
TUNISIA: XII Bomber Command B-17s, escorted by P-38s, attack
shipping and port facilities at Bizerte. Also, A-20s, escorted by P-38s,
attack German Army tanks in the Teboura–El Bathan area, but other A20s dispatched to attack La Hencha and Sousse are turned back by bad
weather.
Two Ju-52 tri-motor transports are downed by a pair of 14th
Fighter Group P-38 pilots near Sfax.
December 8, 1942
FRANCE: Findings of a recent bomb- damage assessment reveal that
low-level bombing of submarine pens in western France has not been
able to penetrate the roofs of the pens with the bombs available in the
U.K. at this time.
ITALY: IX Bomber Command B-24s attack targets at Naples. One 376th
Heavy Bombardment Group B-24 is downed by flak.
LIBYA: 57th Fighter Group P-40 pilots down seven Bf-109s in a morning battle over the Marble Arch Airdrome.
TUNISIA: Although bad weather halts bomber operations, numerous
sweeps and reconnaissance missions are mounted by Twelfth Air Force
fighter units.
December 9, 1942
ALGERIA: One Ju-88 medium bomber is downed by a 33d Fighter
Group P-40 pilot in his unit’s first combat encounter of the war.
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December 10, 1942
EGYPT: On the first anniversary of Germany’s and Italy’s declarations
of war on the United States, a 57th Fighter Group P-40 pilot downs an
BF-109 in a battle over the Marble Arch Airdrome.
December 11, 1942
ALGERIA: Col Charles T. Phillips replaces Col Claude E. Duncan as
commanding officer of the XII Bomber Command.
To better oversee flight operations and administration in the huge
area for which it is responsible, Twelfth Air Force establishes five
regional commands: the Moroccan Composite Wing, the West Algerian
Composite Wing, the Central Algerian Composite Wing, XII Bomber
Command; and XII Fighter Command.
ITALY: IX Bomber Command B-24s attack port facilities and the area
surrounding the Naples port. One 98th Heavy Bombardment Group B24 is downed by flak.
LIBYA: In anticipation of a British Eighth Army offensive against the
Axis El Agheila Line—set to begin December 14—the 57th Fighter
Group moves forward to a landing ground at Belandah.
TUNISIA: XII Bomber Command B-25s, with fighter escort, attack
rail bridges at La Hencha.
December 12, 1942
ALGERIA: A pair of 1st Fighter Group P-38 pilots down an Italian Air
Force flying boat over the Mediterranean north of Philippeville.
ENGLAND: The 315th Troop Carrier Group air echelon arrives from
the United States following a forced one-month layover in Greenland
caused by bad weather. The C-47 unit is assigned to the VIII Air Support Command as a general transportation organization.
FRANCE: Seventy-eight VIII Bomber Command B-17s are dispatched
against Romilly-sur-Seine Airdrome, but they are prevented from bombing by heavy cloud cover. In the end, 17 of these B-17s do manage to
locate the Rouen/Sotteville marshalling yard, upon which they drop 40
tons of bombs.
TUNISIA: XII Bomber Command B-17s attack the port facilities at
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Sfax for the first time; B-17s, escorted by P-38s, also attack port and
rail facilities at Tunis; and B-26s dispatched to Sousse and La Hencha
abort due to bad weather.
1stLt Virgil H. Smith, a P-38 pilot with the 14th Fighter Group’s
48th Fighter Squadron, achieves ace status when he downs an FW-190
over Gabes Airdrome during an afternoon mission.
December 13, 1942
LIBYA: Following a stalemate of several weeks—during which the
British Eighth Army prepares for an all-out offensive to clear Libya—
German Army forces holding the El Agheila Line suddenly withdraw at
the last minute toward Tunisia. As British ground forces struggle to
pursue the Germans, the WDAF, including the Ninth Air Force’s 12th
Medium Bombardment Group and 57th Fighter Group, maintain pressure and attempt to interdict routes of retreat.
57th Fighter Group P-40 pilots down two Bf-109s near El
Agheila.
TUNISIA: Seventeen 97th Heavy Bombardment Group B-17s attack
port facilities at Tunis; ten 301st Heavy Bombardment Group B-17s
and 19 93d Heavy Bombardment Group B-24s attack port facilities at
Bizerte; B-25s attack port facilities at Sousse; B-26s attack a bridge
north of Sfax; P-38s escort the medium-bomber missions, fly patrols,
and attack Axis road convoys and individual vehicles north of Gabes.
December 14, 1942
ENGLAND: A new report points out that efforts to build up and supply
the Twelfth Air Force at the expense of the Eighth Air Force is producing a critical drain on the latter’s ability to complete training cycles and
mount combat operations.
LIBYA: 57th Fighter Group P-40 pilots down two Bf-109s at the cost
of one P-40 and its pilot lost.
TUNISIA: XII Bomber Command B-24s attack shipping and port facilities at Bizerte, and B-17s attack shipping and port facilities at Tunis.
During the morning, nine 15th Light Bombardment Squadron
A-20s, escorted by eight 14th Fighter Group P-38s and twelve 33d
Fighter Group P-40s, attack the Sfax railroad station. During the
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afternoon, nine 15th Light Bombardment Squadron A-20s, escorted by
P-38s, attack the same target.
P-38s attack several Axis vessels at sea off the Tunisian coast,
strafe traffic on the coast highway between Tunis and Bizerte, and strafe
trains near Kerker and La Hencha.
December 15, 1942
ALGERIA: Col Carlyle H. Ridenour replaces Col Charles T. Phillips
as commanding officer of the XII Bomber Command.
LIBYA: Ninth Air Force B-25s and P-40s continue to attack tactical
ground targets in support of the British Eighth Army. Eighteen 12th
Medium Bombardment Group B-25s join with 36 RAF light bombers
in a particularly effective attack against a motor-vehicle concentration
west of the Marble Arch.
While flying with the 57th Fighter Group, a 79th Fighter Group
P-40 pilot draws “first blood” for his unit when he downs a Bf-109.
TUNISIA: Three 15th Light Bombardment Squadron A-20s attack several bridges linking Gabes with Sfax; six A-20s attack Pont-du-Fahs;
XII Bomber Command B-26s attack Tunis/El Aouina Airdrome; and
XII Bomber Command B-17s attack port facilities at Bizerte.
In the IX Bomber Command’s first mission to Tunisia—to help
XII Bomber Command close Tunisian ports and lines of supply to
German reinforcements and supplies—nine 376th Heavy Bombardment
Group B-24s attack a railroad yard, roundhouse, and repair facilities at
Sfax. The B-24s obliterate a locomotive repair shop.
December 16, 1942
LIBYA: Ninth Air Force B-25s and P-40s attack and harass German
Army troops in the El Agheila area.
TUNISIA: In separate missions, A-20s of the 15th Light Bombardment
Squadron and the 47th Light Bombardment Group’s 86th Light Bombardment Squadron (the latter on their unit’s first combat mission of the
war) attack Axis vehicle columns on the road between Mateur and
Massicault. These are the first of many such attacks that will destroy an
estimated 100 vehicles along this road by the end of the month.
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XII Fighter Command P-38s attacking Axis ships at sea off
Tunisia’s northern coast claim a direct bomb hit on one vessel, and a
pair of 1st Fighter Group P-38 pilots down a lone Ju-88 at around noon.
December 17, 1942
TUNISIA: A total of 36 XII Bomber Command B-17s attack port facilities at Tunis and Bizerte; A-20s attack targets north and west of Gabes
Airdrome and the Axis landing ground at Sidi Tabet; XII Bomber Command B-25s and B-26s dispatched to attack Axis ships in the Gulf of
Tunis fail to locate their targets; XII Fighter Command P-38s escort all
the bombing missions; and 1st Fighter Group P-38 pilots down a Ju-88
and two Bf-109s in separate midday actions.
December 18, 1942
LIBYA: The pursuit by the British Eighth Army of German forces retreating toward Tunisia bogs down.
XII Bomber Command B-17s attack shipping and port facilities
at Sousse.
The Eighth Air Force’s 93d Heavy Bombardment Group, in B24s, is transferred from the operational control of the Twelfth Air Force
to that of the Ninth Air Force. The group begins moving to the Gambut
Main Airdrome.
TUNISIA: Thirty-six XII Bomber Command B-17s, escorted by 16 1st
Fighter Group P-38s, attacking Bizerte through German fighters and
flak claim a direct hit on one vessel. However, four P-38s and a B-17
are downed over the target by GAF fighters, and another B-17 is written
off after it crash-lands at a friendly base.
Eleven XII Bomber Command B-26s, escorted by P-38s, attack
a marshalling yard and other rail facilities at Sousse. Flak downs two B26s.
Twelfth Air Force A-20s, escorted by P-38s, attack a landing
ground, dispersal areas, and the rail facilities at Mateur.
One Ju-88 and an FW-190 are downed during the day by 33d
Fighter Group P-40 pilots.
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December 19, 1942
TUNISIA: Twelfth Air Force A-20s, escorted by 33d Fighter Group P40s, attack the marshalling yards at Sfax, and a 33d Fighter Group P-40
pilot downs a Ju-88 near Sfax.
December 20, 1942
FRANCE: In the first mission in which the Eighth Air Force’s four
operational B-17 groups operate under the supervision of the 1st Heavy
Bombardment Wing and its one operational B-24 group operates under
the supervision of the 2d Heavy Bombardment Wing, 60 B-17s and 12
B-24s drop more than 167 tons of bombs on Romilly-sur-Seine Airdrome. Fighter opposition is extremely heavy. Whereas bomber gunners claim an incredible 53 GAF fighters downed and 13 probably
downed, enemy fighters and flak definitely down six B-17s, cause
unrepairable damage to one B-17, and damage 29 B-17s and one B-24.
Also, two B-17s crash-land in England. Crew losses amount to two killed,
58 missing, and 12 wounded. Overall, these are the worst losses for a
single day sustained by the Eighth Air Force so far in the war.
TUNISIA: IX Bomber Command B-24s dispatched against Sousse harbor abort in the face of bad weather, but three of them claim the destruction of an Axis ship north of Sfax.
December 21, 1942
ALGERIA: 14th Fighter Group P-38s scrambled from their base at
Youk-les-Bains down three Ju-88s during the afternoon.
TUNISIA: XII Bomber Command B-17s are prevented by bad weather
from attacking Sfax or Gabes, and 93d Heavy Bombardment Group B24s, operating under IX Bomber Command control, are prevented by
bad weather from attacking the port at Sousse. However, XII Fighter
Command P-40s destroy a tank and several motor vehicles near
Kairouan.
December 22, 1942
TUNISIA: Bad weather prevents XII Bomber Command B-17s from
attacking Bizerte or secondary targets at Sfax and Sousse; and only two
93d Heavy Bombardment Group B-24s dispatched against Sousse pen-
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etrate bad weather to the target, but a number of those aborting manage
to attack Monastir and railway facilities at Mahdia.
Two GAF medium bombers are downed during a midday mission
by 33d Fighter Group P-40 pilots.
December 23, 1942
ALGERIA: The 17th Medium Bombardment Group, in B-26s, arrives
following a direct move from the United States via the southern ferry
route.
BAY OF BISCAY: Two Ju-88 medium bombers are downed by 82d
Fighter Group P-38 pilots while the unit is transiting from England to
Gibraltar for eventual deployment in North Africa as part of the XII
Fighter Command. This unexpected encounter is the 82d Fighter Group’s
combat debut.
EGYPT: The 376th Heavy Bombardment Group, in B-24s, moves to a
base in Egypt from Palestine, and the 8th Fighter Wing headquarters
begins overseeing several Ninth Air Force fighter groups.
ITALY: During the night of December 23–24, IX Bomber Command
B-24s attack Naples harbor and one B-24 attacks Taranto.
TUNISIA: The winter rainy season officially begins. Impenetrable cloud
cover causes XII Bomber Command B-17s to abort their briefed attacks
on airdromes at Tunis and Bizerte.
December 24, 1942
ENGLAND: The first consignment of USAAF P-47 fighters arrives
aboard ship from the United States.
TUNISIA: LtGen Dwight D. Eisenhower decides to abandon the Allied ground attack on Tunis until the rainy season ends in early 1943.
However, the British Eighth Army will continue a cautious advance in
Libya.
IX Bomber Command B-24s dispatched to attack Tunis abort in
the face of bad weather.
December 25, 1942
ALGERIA: 82d Fighter Group P-38s arrive at Oran/Tafaraoui Airdrome
from England by way of Gibraltar. A number of them are immediately
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dispatched to fly a long anti-submarine patrol to protect two Allied convoys that are moving into the area.
ICELAND: The 25th Composite Wing is activated in Iceland to oversee USAAF units and personnel assigned to the defense of the strategically important island.
TUNISIA: XII Fighter Command P-40s bomb German Army troops
near Sfax.
A pair of Italian Air Force Mc.202 fighters are downed by a pair
of 52d Fighter Group Spitfire pilots.
December 26, 1942
TUNISIA: XII Bomber Command B-17s attack shipping and port facilities at Sfax. GAF fighters and heavy flak down two B-17s and two
P-38s, but a flight of four P-38 pilots from the 1st Fighter Group’s 94th
Fighter Squadron down three of the GAF fighters.
XII Bomber Command B-17s, escorted by P-40s, claim three
Axis ships damaged while mounting a second attack against shipping
and port facilities at Sfax.
While conducting reconnaissance patrols, XII Fighter Command
P-38s strafe three locomotives and a number of motor vehicles.
During the night of December 26–27, three IX Bomber Command
B-24s attack port facilities at Tunis, one B-24 attacks Sfax, and one B24 attacks Sousse.
December 27, 1942
TUNISIA: XII Bomber Command B-17s, escorted by P-38s, attack
shipping and port facilities at Sousse and claim direct hits on four vessels.
December 28, 1942
TUNISIA: IX Bomber Command, XII Bomber Command, and RAF
heavy bombers (the latter controlled by IX Bomber Command) mount
four separate attacks during the day and evening against shipping and
port facilities at Sousse. Claims are made for heavy damage to shore
facilities and direct hits on several vessels.
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During the course of several air-to-air actions through the day,
P-38 pilots of the 1st and 14th Fighter groups down a Ju-88 and four Bf109s.
December 29, 1942
ALGERIA: A 52d Fighter Group Spitfire pilot downs a BF-109 near
Bone.
TUNISIA: XII Bomber Command B-17s, escorted by P-38s, attack the
harbor at Sousse; Twelfth Air Force A-20s attack bridges at La Hencha,
and escorting P-40s strafe a locomotive and rail cars at Ste.-Juliette;
and XII Fighter Command P-38s attack a German Army tank depot near
Pont-du-Fahs, followed by an attack on the same target by A-20s.
IX Bomber Command B-24s dispatched to attack Tunis harbor
during the night of December 29–30 are diverted to Sousse because of
bad weather.
December 30, 1942
FRANCE: Forty of 77 VIII Bomber Command B-17s dispatched attack the U-boat base at Lorient with nearly 80 tons of bombs. Bomber
gunners claim 29 GAF fighters downed and seven probably downed.
Three B-17s are lost and 22 are damaged, with crew losses put at two
killed, 30 missing, and 17 wounded.
TUNISIA: In their unit’s combat debut, six 17th Medium Bombardment Group B-26s, escorted by 14th Fighter Group P-38s, attack Gabes
Airdrome during the afternoon. Five of the B-26s sustain damage from
flak and attacks by Bf-109s, and one B-26 is written off following a
belly landing at Telergma Airdrome. A P-38 pilot downs one Bf-109
near the target.
XII Bomber Command B-17s, escorted by P-38s, attack the
marshalling yards and port facilities at Sfax, and then XII Bomber
Command B-25s attack the marshalling yards again; Twelfth Air Force
A-20s attack German Army troop concentrations, Gabes Airdrome, and
a fuel dump near El Aouinet; and P-40s escorting the A-20s strafe ground
targets of opportunity near El Guettar.
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1stLt Virgil H. Smith, a P-38 pilot with the 14th Fighter Group’s
48th Fighter Squadron, who achieved ace status on December 11, is
shot down and killed near Gabes.
December 31, 1942
TUNISIA: IX Bomber Command B-24s, accompanied by RAF Liberators, attack shipping and port facilities at Sfax; XII Bomber Command B-17s, with fighter escort, also attack Sfax harbor; Twelfth Air
Force A-20s, with fighter escort, mount two attacks against the marshalling yards and port at Sousse; Twelfth Air Force B-26s, with fighter
escort, attack Gabes Airdrome and shipping and rail bridges in the Bizerte
and Tunis areas; and XII Fighter Command P-38s on reconnaissance
missions claim the destruction of several motor vehicles.
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AIR WAR PACIFIC
Chronology
America’s Air War Against Japan in East Asia and the Pacific,
1941–1945
By Eric Hammel
THE GREAT AMERICAN AERIAL CRUSADE OF WORLD WAR II:
There was never a military campaign like it, and there never will be
another. Here is an opportunity to follow the great crusade as it unfolded
in the air over the Japan’s ill-gotten empire in East Asia and the Pacific.
This exhaustive chronology sheds a fascinating light on the course of
America’s air war against Japan in all the active theaters.
* The Air War Pacific Chronology is a day-by-day accounting of all the
major combat aviation missions undertaken by United States Army
Air Forces, United States Navy, United States Marine Corps, and
American Volunteer Group units and commands in China, Burma,
India, and throughout the Pacific during World War II.
* All Army Air Forces, Navy, Marine, and Flying Tiger theater fighter
aces are covered including unit affiliation, date and time ace status
was attained, and date and time of highest victory tally (over ten).
* Information pertaining to the arrival, activation, transfer, departure,
and decommissioning of air commands, combat units, and special
units. Comings and goings of the commanders of major aviation
units are also covered.
* Provides a rich contextual framework pertaining to related ground
campaigns; international and high-command conferences and decisions influencing air strategies and campaigns; and breakthroughs
in the development of special techniques and equipment.
* Includes a bibliography, guide to abbreviations, maps, and two indexes.
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book AIR WAR
PACIFIC: Chronology—America’s Air War Against Japan in East
Asia and the Pacific, 1941-1945 by Eric Hammel. The book is
currently available only in ebook editions.
NOVEMBER 1943
by Eric Hammel
Copyright © 1998 by Eric Hammel
November 1, 1943
ALASKA: The Alaska Theater of Operations is established and the
Alaska Defense Command is separated from the Western Defense Command, renamed the Alaskan Department, and placed under the direct
control of the U.S. War Department.
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: Two 347th Fighter Group P-38 pilots down a G4M near Cape St. George at 0950 hours. This is the first
victory by Solomons-based fighters in the Bismarck Archipelago.
IJN carrier aircraft—40 B5Ns, 45 D3As, 82 A6Ms, and six
reconnaissance aircraft—arriving at Rabaul from Japan by way of Truk
Atoll bolster the approximately 200 aircraft already based there.
During the night of November 1–2, two 394th Heavy
Bombardment Squadron SB-24s attack a convoy west of Cape St.
George.
CHINA: Six 11th Medium Bombardment Squadron B-25s and nine P40s attack the rail yards at Yoyang.
NEW GUINEA: V Fighter Command fighters begin making use of the
dirt airstrip at Gusap, which is slated to be expanded into a major airdrome. Concurrent with the build-up on new and improved airfields is a
major road-building effort aimed at keeping the remote inland airfields
stocked with fuel, parts, and other necessities. Indeed, one aviation engineer battalion is used to help build a road from Lae to Nadzab.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: Covered by three AirSols F4U squadrons and
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assisted by naval gunfire, 31 USMC TBFs and eight VC-38 SBDs attack the Cape Torokina invasion beaches in Bougainville’s Empress
Augusta Bay ahead of the lead waves of the U.S. 3d Marine Division.
Commencing Operation RO—a plan for the defense of the
northern Solomon Islands—IJN air attacks against the invasion fleet
delay unloading operations, but the invasion is considered successful
despite the fierce opposition of a small defense force that restricts the
Marines to a shallow beachhead.
AirSols fighters based in the central Solomons provide extensive
cover for the invasion force, and AirSols land-based and USN carrierbased fighters and light bombers from Task Force 38*, as well as USN
surface warships completely neutralize the now-bypassed IJN airbases
in southern Bougainville and the Shortland Islands. Nevertheless, at
0735 hours, nine Rabaul-based D3As, escorted by 44 A6Ms, attack the
invasion flotilla through an AirSols covering force of eight VF-17 F4Us
and eight RNZAF Kittyhawks. One USN destroyer is lightly damaged
by a near miss. A second Rabaul-based air attack in the early afternoon
results in no damage, but one USN transport runs aground while
maneuvering to avoid the bombers.
RNZAF Kittyhawk pilots down seven A6Ms and VF-17 F4U
pilots down five A6Ms over Empress Augusta Bay between 0745 and
0800 hours; 347th Fighter Group P-38 pilots down seven A6Ms over
Empress Augusta Bay between 0810 and 0820; VF-17 F4U pilots down
an A6M over Empress Augusta Bay at 1330 hours; and VMF-215 F4U
pilots down four A6Ms and a B5N over Empress Augusta Bay between
1345 and 1347 hours. Four Allied fighters are lost during the day.
1stLt Robert M. Hanson, a VMF-215 F4U pilot, achieves ace
status when he downs a B5N and two A6Ms over Empress Augusta Bay
at about 1345 hours.
Twenty-one XIII Bomber Command B-24s attack Bougainville/
Kahili Airdrome; AirSols B-24s, SBDs, and fighters attack Bougainville/
Kara Airdrome; and 42d Medium Bombardment Group B-25s attack
barges and docks at Faisi.
On this first day of the Bouginville offensive, AirSols has at its
immediate disposal the following units and aircraft: At Guadalcanal—
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VB-102 in 15 PB4Ys, VB-104 in 12 PB4Ys, the 5th and 307th Heavy
Bombardment groups in 48 B-24s and four SB-24s, VS-54 in 14 SBDs,
the 18th Fighter Group’s 44th Fighter Squadron in 25 P-38s, 3 RNZAF
Squadron in 15 PVs, VP-23 in 12 PBYs, VP-54 in six PBYs, VP-71 in
15 PBYs, VS-64 in eight OS2Us, VS-68 in eight OS2Us, SCAT in 21
C-47s and R4Ds, VD-1 in seven photo-reconnaissance PB4Ys, three
17th Photographic-Reconnaissance Squadron F-5s, 10 reserve P-39s,
and 10 reserve P-40s; at Munda—VF(N)-75 in six F4U night fighters,
the 18th Fighter Group’s 12th Figher Squadron in 25 P-39s, VC-24 in
24 SBDs, VC-38 in nine SBDs and nine TBFs, VC-40 in nine SBDs and
nine TBFs, VMSB-144 in 24 SBDs, VMSB-234 in 10 SBDs, VMSB244 in 24 SBDs, VMTB-143 in 10 TBFs, VMTB-232 in 20 TBFs, and
three 17th Photographic-Reconnaissance Squadron F-5s; in the Russell
Islands—three squadons of the 42d Medium Bombardment Group in
48 B-25s, VB-138 in 12 PVs, VB-140 in 15 PVs, VMF-211 in 20 F4Us,
and VMF(N)-531 in five PV night fighters; at Segi—VF-33 in 26 F6Fs,
VF-38 in 12 F6Fs, and VF-40 in 12 F6Fs; at Ondonga—VF-17 in 36
F4Us, the 347th Fighter Group’s 70th Fighter Squadron in 25 P-39s, 15
RNZAF Squadron in 21 Kittyhawks, and 17 RNZAF Squadron in 21
Kittyhawks; and at Barakoma—VMF-212 in 20 F4Us, VMF-215 in 20
F4Us, and VMF-221 in 20 F4Us.
During the night of November 1–2, two 394th Heavy
Bombardment Squadron SB-24s locate an IJN surface task force
speeding toward the Empress Augusta Bay invasion fleet. They sound
the alarm and attack the IJN flagship, a heavy cruiser. This action
precipitates the Battle of Empress Augusta Bay, a decisive night naval
surface engagement that forces the IJN force to retire following the loss
of a light cruiser and destroyer to gunfire from USN surface warships.
* Task Force 38 [RAdm Frederick C. Sherman, Commander, Carrier
Division 1]: USS Saratoga (Fleet Carrier Air Group 12) and
USS Princeton (Light Carrier Air Group 23).
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November 2, 1943
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: In support of the landings at
Bougainville and the Treasury Islands, 78 V Bomber Command B-25s,
escorted by 70 V Fighter Command P-38s and P-47s (including two
squadrons assigned to strafe in advance of the bombers), attack antiaircraft emplacements and shipping in Simpson Harbor. The mastheadhigh bombing is highly accurate, and three IJN destroyers and eight
freighters are claimed as sunk or sinking. Nevertheless, in the strongest
opposition encountered by the Fifth Air Force in World War II, IJN fighters and antiaircraft down eight B-25s and nine P-38s.
V Fighter Command P-38 and P-47 pilots down 31 Japanese
fighters in the Rabaul area between 1315 and 1400 hours.
Maj Raymond H. Wilkins, the commanding officer of the 3d
Light Bombardment Group’s 8th Light Bombardment Squadron, sinks
two Japanese ships and then deliberately draws enemy antiaircraft fire
toward his B-25 in order to allow other airplanes in his unit to withdraw
safely. Maj Wilkins’ airplane is shot down and all aboard are lost. Maj
Wilkins is awarded a posthumous Medal of Honor.
1stLt Grover D. Gholson, a P-38 pilot with the 475th Fighter
Group’s 432d Fighter Squadron, achieves ace status when he downs an
A6M and a Ki-43 over Rabaul at 1330 hours; 1stLt Marion F. Kirby, a
P-38 pilot with the 475th Fighter Group’s 431st Fighter Squadron,
achieves ace status when he downs two A6Ms over Rabaul at 1340
hours; 1stLt Lowell C. Lutton, a P-38 pilot with the 475th Fighter Group’s
431st Fighter Squadron, achieves ace status when he downs an A6M
near Rabaul at 1340 hours, but he is himself shot down and killed in this
engagement; 1stLt Arthur E. Wenige, a P-38 pilot with the 475th Fighter
Group’s 431st Fighter Squadron, achieves ace status when he downs
two A6Ms near Rabaul at 1340 hours; and Capt William F. Haney, a P38 pilot with the 49th Fighter Group’s 9th Fighter Squadron, achieves
ace status when he downs two A6Ms over Rabaul at 1345 hours.
During the night of November 2–3, RAAF Beauforts attack
Rabaul/Tobera Airdrome.
CHINA: Five 11th Medium Bombardment Squadron B-25s and 12
Fourteenth Air Force P-40s attack warehouses and port facilities at Shasi.
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NEW GUINEA: V Bomber Command B-25s attack lines of communication around Fortification Point; and V Fighter Command P-39 fighterbombers attack targets in the Bogadjim area.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: In a continuation of the Battle of Empress
Augusta Bay, more than 100 IJN carrier bombers and fighters based at
Rabaul attack the USN surface force at 0800 hours. Antiaircraft fire
deflects most of the attackers, and only very light damage is sustained
by a light cruiser from two direct hits.
Twenty XIII Bomber Command B-24s attack Bougainville/
Kahili Airdrome; and USN aircraft from Task Force 38 mount two
punishing strikes against Buka and Bougainville/Bonis airdromes. Task
Force 38 then departs the area to refuel.
VF-33 F6F pilots down a G4M, three D3As, and two A6Ms
over the USN surface battle force in Empress Augusta Bay at 0815 hours;
a VF-12 F6F pilot downs a Ki-21 at sea at 0838 hours; and a VMF-221
F4U pilot downs two D3As over a U.S. Navy task force at 1830 hours.
One USMC F4U is lost.
Marine BriGen Field Harris establishes a new Aircraft, Northern
Solomons (AirNorSols) headquarters ashore at Cape Torokina to
coordinate air activities over and around the Bougainville beachhead.
November 3, 1943
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: V Bomber Command B-24s mount
light antishipping strikes at Cape Gloucester and Talasea, but planned
attacks against Rabaul are canceled in the face of bad weather over the
target area.
BURMA: Eight Fourteenth Air Force P-40 fighter-bombers attack
Lashio Airdrome.
CHINA: Twenty-one 308th Heavy Bombardment Group B-24s attack
the port at Kowloon; and nine 11th Medium Bombardment Group B25s and nine P-40s attack targets around Hwajung, Owchihkow, and
Shihshow.
74th Fighter Squadron P-40 pilots down three A6Ms near Canton
during the early afternoon.
NEW GUINEA: V Bomber Command B-25s attack targets around
Madang; and V Fighter Command P-39s strafe Bogadjim.
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SOLOMON ISLANDS: Nineteen XIII Bomber Command B-24s that
attack a convoy near Mussau Island claim hits on three ships.
November 4, 1943
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: V Bomber Command B-24s on
armed-reconnaissance strikes sink a ship north of New Britain, but
planned attacks against IJN warships in Rabaul harbor are canceled in
the face of bad weather over the target area.
AirSols PB4Ys on patrol over the Bismarck Sea locate and attack
a Japanese convoy carrying reinforcements from Rabaul to Bougainville
and an IJN surface battle force. Two two transports are damaged. These
finds precipitate a sally by a USN surface battle force and an antishipping
attack on Rabaul by USN carrier aircraft that will take place the next
day.
BURMA: Chinese Army infantry forces pinned down at Ngajatzup in
northern Burma must be resupplied by Tenth Air Force cargo aircraft.
CHINA: The CACW makes its combat debut when 1st CACW Medium Bombardment Group B-25s attack military targets at Amoy and
Swatow.
NEW GUINEA: V Fighter Command P-40 fighter-bombers attack IJA
ground troops in the battle area.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: Twenty-three XIII Bomber Command B-24s
attack Buka Airdrome.
Having failed in large measure to draw much attention from
Japanese forces, the U.S. 2d Marine Parachute Battalion on Choiseul is
withdrawn under cover of AirSols light bombers and fighters.
UNITED STATES: The U.S. War Department’s Operations Division
recommends that, among other matters relating to the U.S. involvement
in China, the Fourteenth Air Force inaugurate a limited but ongoing
bombing offensive against Japanese bases and lines of supply and communications.
November 5, 1943
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: Commencing at 1010 hours, while
USN F6Fs based at Vella Lavella/Barakoma Field cover the carriers, 22
SBDs, 23 TBFs, and 52 F6Fs from Task Force 38 attack ships and fa-
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cilities in Rabaul harbor. At a cost of one SBD, four TBFs, and five
F6Fs lost (mostly to antiaircraft fire), four IJN heavy cruisers, two light
cruisers, and two destroyers are severely damaged (mainly by the SBDs),
and USN F6F pilots (and several SBD and TBF crews) down one Ki-21
and 27 A6Ms and Ki-61s. Five F6Fs and five USN carriers bombers are
lost with seven pilots and eight aircrewmen. As a result of this attack,
all IJN surface warships at Rabaul are ordered to Truk Atoll, thus ending the threat of a surface attack against the Bougainville invasion fleet.
Upon completion of the day’s strike against Rabaul, Task Force 38 withdraws from range of Japanese land-based aircraft.
As Japanese aircraft based at Rabaul search in vain for the USN
carriers, 90 V Bomber Command B-17s and B-24s escorted by 67 V
Fighter Command P-38s pass up the deserted Rabaul-area airdromes
and attack the Rabaul wharf area instead. (This is the final appearance
of B-17s in the SWPA.)
A 49th Fighter Group P-38 pilot downs two A6Ms over Rabaul
at 1215 hours.
The USN and USAAF combined bomber assault on Rabaul
neutralizes the threat IJN surface forces pose to the Bougainville invasion
fleet.
CENTRAL PACIFIC: VD-3 PB4Ys mount their first mission to the
Marshall Islands, where they photograph defenses and facilities in Mille
Atoll.
NEW GUINEA: 22d Medium Bmbardment Group B-25s and B-26s
attack IJA infantry positions near Bogadjim with 23 tons of bombs
dropped from very low altitude; V Bomber Command B-25s attack
ground positions near Dumpu; and V Fighter Command P-39 fighterbombers attack Madang.
The V Bomber Command’s 22d Medium Bombardment Group,
in B-25s and B-26s, is awarded a Distinguished Unit Citation for
precision bombing of IJA infantry trenches in very close proximity to
Australian Army ground forces.
348th Fighter Group P-47 pilots down five Ki-61s and an A6M
near Wewak at 1105 hours.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: Six 42d Medium Bombardment Group B-25s
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on a sweep around Bougainville attack a bivouac at Kieta and sundry
barges.
Following the supposed sighting of Task Force 38 at 1445 hours
by Rabaul-based search aircraft, 18 Rabaul-based B5Ns attack a tiny
convoy composed of one USN landing-craft gunboat, one PT-boat, and
one landing craft. The PT-boat is damaged when a B5N crashes into it,
and the gunboat is damaged by a torpedo that does not explode. Despite
this, the returning IJN pilots report the sinking of two carriers, three
cruisers, and a destroyer. One B5N crashes into the PT-boat and another
is downed by ships’ fire.
November 6, 1943
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: V Fighter Command P-40s attack
Gasmata, but a planned heavy-bomber attack against Rabaul is recalled
due to bad weather.
CENTRAL PACIFIC: In support of the upcomng invasion of the Gilbert Islands, the Seventh Air Force, VII Bomber Command, VII Fighter
Command, and VII Air Force Services Command all establish advance
headquarters at Funafuti Airdrome.
NEW GUINEA: Japanese bombers mount uncontested attacks against
Dumpu, Finschhafen, and Nadzab.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: Nine 42d Medium Bombardment Group B25s attack Buka harbor and airdrome; one B-25 attacks Kieta; AirSols
SBDs and fighters attack Bougainville/Kara Airdrome, and then 24 42d
Medium Bombardment Group B-25s attack Bougainville/Kara Airdrome
again; and 17 XIII Bomber Command B-24s attack Bougainville/Bonis
Airdrome.
Four VF-17 F4U pilots down a G4M over Bougainville at 1040
hours; and a 6th Night Fighter Squadron P-38 pilot downs an A6M near
Santa Isabel at 1300 hours.
SOUTH PACIFIC AREA: VMF-216, in F4Us, arrives at Espiritu Santo
from Hawaii.
November 7, 1943
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: Twenty-five V Bomber Command B24s and 64 V Fighter Command P-38s attack Rabaul/Rapopo Airdrome
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8th and 475th Fighter Group P-38 pilots down six Japanese
fighters over the Rabaul area between 1220 and 1230 hours. Five P-38s
are lost.
1stLt Allen E. Hill, a P-38 pilot with the 8th Fighter Group’s
80th Fighter Squadron, achieves ace status when he downs an A6M
over Rabaul at 1220 hours; and 1stLt Jack C. Mankin, a P-38 pilot with
the 475th Fighter Group’s 431st Fighter Squadron, achieves ace status
when he downs a Ki-61 and a Ki-43 over Rabaul at 1230 hours.
CENTRAL PACIFIC: VB-108 displaces to the newly operational
Nukufetau Airdrome.
CHINA: Two 11th Medium Bombardment Squadron B-25s attack the
harbor at Amoy; and six Fourteenth Air Force P-40s attack a bridge at
Hsiangyangchiao.
NEW GUINEA: Nine V Bomber Command B-25s attack Wewak, but
more than 40 others abort when their escorts are intercepted over Nadzab
by a large number of Japanese fighters.
Japanese bombers mount uncontested attacks against Nadzab
Airdrome and Bena Bena. Sixteen USAAF aircraft are destroyed on the
ground.
49th Fighter Group P-38 pilots down three A6Ms near
Alexishafen at 0720 hours; 8th Fighter Group P-47 pilots and 35th Fighter
Group P-39 pilots down five Ki-21s and two Ki-43s near Nadzab between
0810 and 0815 hours; 348th Fighter Group P-47 pilots down four A6Ms
between Saidor and Lae at 0855 hours; and 49th Fighter Group P-38
pilots down three A6Ms over Bogadjim at 1400 hours.
LtCol Robert R. Rowland, the 348th Fighter Group executive
officer, in a P-47, achieves ace status when he downs two A6Ms over
Saidor.
The 71st Reconnaissance Group arrives at Port Moresby from
the United States for service with the Fifth Air Force.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: Twenty-one AirSols B-24s attack Buka Airdrome; and eight 42d Medium Bombardment Group B-25s attack barges
and shore targets at Atsinima Bay.
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November 8, 1943
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: The scheduled Fifth Air Force mission to Rabaul is canceled because of bad weather over the target.
BURMA: During the night of November 8–9, five 7th Heavy Bombardment Group B-24s sow mines in the Rangoon River.
CHINA: Two 11th Medium Bombardment Squadron B-25s attack
Kiungshan Airdrome; and six Fourteenth Air Force P-40s attack a bridge
at Hsiangyangchiao.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: Twenty-two AirSols B-24s attack
Bougainville/Bonis Airdrome; six 42d Medium Bombardment Group
B-25s attack Kieta; and six B-25s attack targets of opportunity on
Bougainville.
Twenty-six IJN D3As and 71 A6Ms attack USN transports and
warships in Empress Augusta Bay at noon, but they are intercepted by
28 AirSols fighters before they can do much damage. One USN transport
is lightly damaged by two direct hits. Eight AirSols fighters are lost.
A VF-17 F4U pilot downs a transport over Buka Airdrome at
0710 hours; VF-17 F4U pilots down three A6Ms west of Bougainville
at 1100 hours; VMF-212 F4U pilots down three D3As and VF-33 F6F
pilots down four D3As and four Ki-61s over Empress Augusta Bay at
noon; and XIII Fighter Command P-38 and P-40 pilots down eight D3As
and seven A6Ms over Cape Torokina between noon and 1230 hours.
Lt(jg) James J. Kinsella, a VF-33 F6F pilot, achieves ace status
when he downs three Ki-61s over Empress Augusta Bay at noon.
Between 1911 hours, November 8, and 0100 hours, November
9, 21 Rabaul-based B5Ns, D3As, and G4Ms make unopposed attacks
against a USN surface force off Bougainville. Ten bombers are downed
by antiaircraft fire, but one light cruiser is damaged by two bombs and
a torpedo.
November 9, 1943
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: V Fighter Command P-40s attack
dumps at Gasmata, and patrolling V Bomber Command B-24s sink an
IJN destroyer near Kavieng, but the scheduled Fifth Air Force mission
to Rabaul is canceled because of bad weather over the target.
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NEW GUINEA: More than 40 V Bomber Command B-25s and A-20s
attack Alexishafen Airdrome.
V Fighter Command P-38, P-39, and P-40 pilots down 15
Japanese fighters in a series of engagements over Alexishafen, Lae, and
Nadzab between 1015 and 1120 hours.
1stLt James C. Ince, a P-38 pilot with the 475th Fighter Group’s
432d Fighter Squadron, achieves ace status when he downs an A6M
near Alexishafen at 1015 hours; Maj Charles H. MacDonald, a 475th
Fighter Group staff officer whose first combat mission was over Pearl
Harbor, achieves ace status when he downs two A6Ms near Aliexishafen
at 1020 hours; and Capt Daniel T. Roberts, Jr., a P-38 ace with the 475th
Fighter Group’s 433d Fighter Squadron, brings his final personal tally
to 14 victories when he downs an A6M over Alexishafen at 1030 hours.
Roberts, however, is killed in a crash after his P-38’s tail is clipped by
another P-38 in his flight.
2dLt John C. Smith, a six-victory 475th Fighter Group P-38 ace,
is killed in aerial combat over Alexishafen.
PACIFIC OCEAN AREA: Task Force 57 is activated at Pearl Harbor
under the command of RAdm John H. Hoover (Commander, Aircraft,
Central Pacific) to oversee all land-based aircraft in the Central Pacific
Area. Initially, the new command will incorporate the Seventh Air Force
(Task Group 57.2, or Striking Group), the 4th Marine Base Defense
Aircraft Wing (Task Group 57.4, or Ellice Defense and Utility Group),
and six USN patrol squadrons (Task Group 57.3, or Search and Reconnaissance Group).
SOLOMON ISLANDS: More than 20 AirSols B-24s attack
Bougainville/Kahili and Bougainville/Kara airdromes; 42d Medium
Bombardment Group B-25s attack Buka Airdrome and Kieta; and AirSols
light bombers and fighters attack Ballale and Bougainville/Kara airdromes.
November 10, 1943
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: V Bomber Command B-24s attack
Rabaul/Lakunai Airdrome and an airfield under construction on Duke
of York Island; and B-25s and V Fighter Command P-38s attack shipping.
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During the night of November 10–11, RAAF Beauforts attack
targets around Rabaul.
CENTRAL PACIFIC: During the night of November 10–11, three IJN
bombers evade VMF-441 F4Fs (operating without radar guidance) and
bomb Nanomea Airdrome. One U.S. serviceman is killed, a B-24 is
destroyed, and several other aircraft are damaged.
CHINA: Fourteenth Air Force fighters attack river traffic.
EAST INDIES: 380th Heavy Bombardment Group B-24s attack
Soerabaja, Java.
NEW GUINEA: V Bomber Command B-25s attack Alexishafen Airdrome.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: More than 20 42d Medium Bombardment
Group B-25s attack Ballale and Bougainville/Kara airdromes, and shipping targets of opportunity.
Responding to the first air-support request of the Bougainville
operation (lodged the afternoon before), 18 VMTB-143 and VMTB233 TBFs arrive on station at 0915 hours over the Piva River area of the
Bougainville beachhead. At 1015, each of 12 TBFs drops 12 100-pound
bombs on ground targets marked by colored smoke. Many of the bombs
strike targets within 120 yards of USMC ground troops and kill an
estimated 40 IJA soldiers. The attack—the first of its kind in the Pacific—
is deemed a success and a template for future operations.
November 11, 1943
BISMARCK ARCHIPEALGO: Before dawn, 23 V Bomber Command B-24s breast bad weather to attack Rabaul/Lakunai Airdrome,
but follow-on strikes are recalled in the face of continuing heavy weather.
This concludes the Fifth Air Force offensive against Rabaul.
During the morning, while VMF-212 and VMF-221 F4Us bolster
the combat air patrol over the carriers, 239 USN carrier* bombers and
fighters attacking in two waves mount extremely strong attacks against
Rabaul. In the air battle over Rabaul, USN F6F pilots (and several SBD
crews) down 38 A6Ms between 0900 and 0930 hours. This mission
marks the combat debut of the brand-new SB2C dive-bomber (from
Fleet Carrier Air Group 17).
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Forty-two XIII Bomber Command B-24s attack Rabaul from
high level just as the last of the carrier aircraft depart the area. Cloud
cover obscures the results as two B-24 squadrons drop their bombs from
16,000 to 20,000 feet. The 5th Heavy Bombardment Group’s 23d Heavy
Bombardment Squadron attacks a light cruiser from 8,500 feet.
Several Rabaul-based G4Ms, 14 B5Ns, 27 D3As, and 67 fighters
open a counterattack against the USN carrier force at 1315 hours, but
USN fighters—including a land-based F4U squadron (VF-17) and a
land-based F6F squadron (VF-33) operating from the carrier decks—
beat off the Japanese attack and exact a very high toll of Japanese aircraft
downed at sea and over the carriers between 1315 and 1415 hours. (The
USN pilots claim 111 victories, but it is estimated that two G4Ms, 14
B5Ns, 17 D3As, and eight fighters are actually downed.) Three A6Ms
are also downed at sea during the evening by VF-18 F6F patrol pilots.
Eleven USN fighters are lost and the USS Essex is slightly damaged by
a near miss.
In the evening, Task Force 38 and Task Group 50.3 are dissolved
and all five USN aircraft carriers are ordered from the area to take part
with the U.S. Fifth Fleet in the upcoming Operation GALVANIC, the
Gilbert Islands invasion.
* Task Force 38 [RAdm Frederick C. Sherman, Commander, Carrier
Division 1]—USS Saratoga (Fleet Carrier Air Group 12) and
USS Princeton (Light Carrier Air Group 23).
Task Group 50.3 [RAdm Alfred E. Montgomery,
Commander, Carrier Division 12]—USS Essex (Fleet Carrier
Air Group 9), USS Bunker Hill (Fleet Carrier Air Group 17),
and USS Independence (Light Carrier Air Group 22).
CHINA: Six 308th Heavy Bombardment Group B-24s attack Burma
Road targets; eight Fourteenth Air Force P-40s attack river targets; and
six P-40s attack a gun emplacement, barracks, and a radio station near
Yoyang.
NEW GUINEA: V Bomber Command B-25s attack targets around
Madang, and V Fighter Command P-39s strafe Bogadjim.
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A 35th Fighter Group P-39 pilot downs a D3A near Alexishafen
at 0737 hours.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: Several 42d Medium Bombardment Group
B-25s and AirSols F4Us strafe shore targets and barges in Matchin Bay.
November 12, 1943
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: The IJN terminates Operation RO and
withdraws all of its 52 surviving carrier aircraft (of 173 committed)
from Rabaul to Japan via Truk Atoll. Although still heavily defended by
an infusion of land-based aircraft forwarded via the base at Truk (Caroline
Islands), Rabaul’s aviation force moves predominantly to the defensive
and so no longer poses a serious threat to Allied forces in the Solomon
Islands or New Guinea.
BURMA: During the night of November 12–13, two 7th Heavy Bombardment Group B-24s sow mines in the Rangoon River.
CENTRAL PACIFIC: Two squadrons of the VII Bomber Command’s
30th Heavy Bombardment Group, in B-24s, displace to Nanomea Airdrome from Hawaii; and one squadron displaces to Nukufetau Airdrome.
CHINA: Ten 11th Medium Bombardment Squadron B-25s and 24 Fourteenth Air Force P-40s attack rail yards, antiaircraft emplacements, and
warehouses in Yoyang; five B-25s attack port areas at Puchi and Yangchi
Kang; and one B-25 and 15 P-40s attack targets of opportunity while on
armed reconnaissance missions.
EAST INDIES: 380th Heavy Bombardment Group B-24s attack various targets on Amboina and Java.
NEW GUINEA: V Bomber Command B-25s and B-26s attack Japanese-held villages between Finschhafen and Saidor.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: At 0420 hours, four G4Ms attempt a torpedo
attack against USN warships in Empress Augusta Bay. Next, at 0455
hours, four G4Ms attack a USN light cruiser with torpedoes and score
one hit that severely damages the ship, kills twenty crewmen, and wounds
eleven.
Eighteen 42d Medium Bombardment Group B-25s attack
Tarlena; six B-25s attack Matchin Bay; and eight XIII Fighter Command
P-38s attack Bougainville/Bonis Airdrome.
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Eighteen USN land-based TBFs from VC-38 and VC-40,
responding to an air- support mission request lodged the previous
afternoon, drop 100-pound bombs on IJA defensive positions within
only 100 yards of friendly troops. As a result of the attack, the IJA force
abandons its positions.
New Zealand Army forces defeat the last vestiges of the IJA
garrison on Mono Island in the Treasury group.
November 13, 1943
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: Fifth Air Force bombers and fighters
open a pre- invasion bombardment campaign against IJA defenses and
facilities in western New Britain.
Nine V Bomber Command B-25s and 18 RAAF Kittyhawks
attack Gasmata and photograph a wide area around Gasmata.
BURMA: During the night of November 13–14, one 7th Heavy Bombardment Group B-24 sows mines in the Rangoon River.
CENTRAL PACIFIC: IJN bombers attack Funafuti Airdrome, where
two aircraft are destroyed on the ground.
GILBERT ISLANDS: Eighteen 11th Heavy Bombardment Group B24s based at or staging through Funafuti and Nanomea airdromes attack
Betio Island with 27.5 tons of general-purpose bombs and 126 20-pound
fragmentation bombs. There is no opposition from IJN fighters, but antiaircraft coverage is intense and one B-24 is downed.
During the night of November 13–14, USN Task Force 57* landbased bombers attack targets at Tarawa and Makin atolls and Nauru
Island.
* For the upcoming Gilbert Islands invasion, Task Force 57 is
organized as follows: Task Force 57 [RAdm John H. Hoover,
USN]: Task Group 57.2 (Striking Group) [MajGen Willis H.
Hale, USAAF, Commanding General, Seventh Air Force]—11th
and 30th Heavy Bombardment groups (90 B-24s); Task Group
57.3 (Search and Reconnaissance Group) [RAdm John H.
Hoover]—VD-3 (6 PB4Ys), VP-53 (12 PBYs), VP-72 (12
PBYs), VB-108 (12 PB4Ys), VB-137 (12 PVs), VB-142 (12
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PVs), and tenders USS Curtiss, USS Mackinac, and USS Swan,
based at Nanomea, Nukufetau, and Funafuiti; Task Group 57.4
(Ellice Islands Defense and Utility Group) [BriGen Lewie G.
Merritt, USMC, Commanding General, 4th Marine Base Defense
Aircraft Wing]—Marine Air Group 13 and Marine Air Group
31 (90 F4Us and 72 SBDs), VS-51 (8 SBDs and OS2Us), VS-65
(8 SBDs and OS2Us), VS-66 (8 SBDs and OS2Us)
MARSHALL ISLANDS: 11th Heavy Bombardment Group B-24s
based in the Ellice Islands attack Mille Airdrome; and VD-3 PB4Ys
based at Canton Island Airdrome and staging through the Ellice Islands
mount their first photo-reconnaissance missions to Wotje and Maloelap
atolls.
NEW GUINEA: Nearly 120 V Bomber Command B-24s and B-25s
attack Alexishafen; B-24s attack Kaukenau and Timoeka; and V Fighter
Command P-40s strafe targets in and around Alexishafen.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: Seventeen XIII Bomber Command B-24s attack Bougain-ville/Bonis Airdrome; and six 42d Medium Bombardment
Group B-25s attack Buka Airdrome at low level.
During the night of November 13–14, 6th Night Fighter Squadron
P-70s mount night heckling missions against Bougainville/Bonis and
Bougainville/Kahili airdromes and targets in the Shortland Islands.
A VMF(N)-531 PV night-fighter crew downs a G4M 50 miles
southwest of Cape Torokina at 0420 hours. This is the USMC’s first
night victory, and the first by a PV.
November 14, 1943
CBI: Task orders are issued to U.S. Army engineer battalions and other
units that will be involved in constructing airfields capable of supporting the commitment of B-29 very-heavy bomber units in 1944 (Operation TWILIGHT).
GILBERT ISLANDS: Nine 11th Heavy Bombardment Group B-24s
based at or staging through Funafuti and Nonomea airdromes attack
targets in Tarawa Atoll.
NEW GUINEA: V Bomber Command B-25s attack a convoy and bivouac near Sio.
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MARSHALL ISLANDS: Nine 11th Heavy Bombardment Group B24s based at Funafuti Airdrome attack Mille Atoll.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: During the night of November 14–15, 6th
Night Fighter Squadron P-70s mount night heckling missions against
Faisi and targets in the Shortland Islands.
November 15, 1943
CENTRAL PACIFIC: More than 20 VII Bomber Command B-24s
based at Canton Island and Nonomea airdromes attack Jaluit and Mille
atolls in the Marshall Islands and Makin Atoll in the Gilbert Islands.
VMSB-331, in SBDs, arrives at Nukufetau Airdrome from the
United States.
CHINA: Fifteen of 20 308th Heavy Bombardment Group B-24s dispatched against Hong Kong and Kowloon abort in the face of bad
weather, but five B-24s are able to attack the Kowloon port area.
NEW GUINEA: More than 30 V Bomber Command B-24s attack
Alexishafen; 88 B-25s abort a scheduled mission against Wewak and
Boram when they and their 16 P-40 escorts are engaged by many Japanese fighters.
49th Fighter Group P-40 pilots down a Ki-48 and six fighters
over Dumpu and Gusap at 1010 hours; 8th Fighter Group P-40 pilots
down three G3Ms and eight fighters over the Ramu Valley at 1010 hours;
and 348th Fighter Group P-38 pilots down five fighters over the Wewak
area between 1115 and 1130 hours. Two 49th Fighter Group P-40s are
lost.
1stLt Richard L. West, a P-40 pilot with the 8th Fighter Group’s
35th Fighter Squadron, achieves ace status when he downs two G3Ms
and two A6Ms (and probably downs one more of each) over the Ramu
Valley at about 1010 hours.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: Twenty XIII Bomber Command B-24s attack
Buka Airdrome; and eighteen B-24s attack Kahili.
The 419th Night Fighter Squadron, in P-38s and several P-70s,
arrives from the United States for service with the Thirteenth Air Force.
The new unit will replace Detachment B, 6th Night Fighter Squadron.
The 100th Medium Bombardment Squadron, in B-25s, arrives
in the Solomons for service with the Thirteenth Air Force. The unit will
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be attached as a fifth squadron to the 42d Medium Bombardment Group
in January 1944.
During the night of November 15–16, 6th Night Fighter Squadron
P-70s attack Bougainville/Kahili Airdrome.
November 16, 1943
BURMA: P-38 pilots with the Tenth Air Force’s 459th Fighter Squadron down three Ki-43s at 1100 hours while escorting bombers against
Meiktila.
CENTRAL PACIFIC: The USMC’s Central Pacific Combat Air Transport Service (CenCATS) is established at American Samoa/Tutuila Airdrome to oversee Marine air transports in the Central Pacific area.
VII Bomber Command B-24s based at Nanomea and Funafuti
airdromes begin daily intensive antishipping searches to help cover the
approach of the Gilberts invasion fleet. (Other long-range aircraft based
in the South Pacific Area and Midway cover overlapping search sectors.)
CHINA: Eleven 308th Heavy Bombardment Group B-24s, two 11th
Medium Bombardment Squadron B-25s, and four Fourteenth Air Force
P-40s attack the Kowloon port area; 11th Medium Bombardment Squadron B-25s mount antishipping attacks off the China coast; and one B-25
and 12 P-40s attack an IJA cavalry column and other targets around
Shihmen.
A 74th Fighter Squadron P-40 pilot downs a Ki-43 near Wuchow
at 0945 hours.
FRENCH INDOCHINA: Six Fourteenth Air Force P-40s strafe rail
targets and barracks while on an armed-reconnaissance mission.
GILBERT ISLANDS: VII Bomber Command B-24s based at Nanomea
and Nukufetau airdromes mount individual attacks against Makin and
Tarawa atolls.
VD-3 PB4Ys reconnoiter and photograph Tarawa Atoll.
INDIA: Admiral Lord Louis Mountbatten formally activates the new
Southeast Asia Command (SEAC) headquarters in New Delhi to oversee all Allied operations in the CBI Theater.
MARSHALL ISLANDS: VII Bomber Command B-24s based at Canton Island, Nanomea, and Nukufetau airdromes attack Jaluit, Maloelap,
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and Wotje atolls; and B-24s mount individual attacks against Kwajalein
Atoll. Several B-24s are damaged in attacks by A6Ms.
VD-3 PB4Ys and VII Bomber Command B-24s reconnoiter and
photograph defenses and facilities in Jaluit Atoll.
NEW GUINEA: V Bomber Command B-25s attack Finschhafen and
nearby targets; and V Fighter Command P-39 fighter-bombers attack
barges between Madang and Saidor.
475th Fighter Group P-38 pilots down three A6Ms over Wewak
at 0950 hours, an A6M over Wewak at 1040 hours, and a Ki-61 over
Finschhafen at 1040 hours. Two P-38s are lost.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: Four XIII Bomber Command B-24s and 20
B-25s attack Buka Airdrome; and more than 20 B-25s and more than 30
XIII Fighter Command P-39s and P-40s attack targets of opportunity
along the Bougainville coast.
During the night of November 16–17, more than 30 42d Medium
Bombardment Group B-25s attack Buka Airdrome; and eight XIII
Bomber Command B-24s attack Bougainville/Bonis and Buka airdromes
at various times.
November 17, 1943
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: RAAF Kittyhawk fighter-bombers
attack Gasmata.
BURMA: Eight Fourteenth Air Force P-40s attack Pingkai and nearby
targets of opportunity.
CENTRAL PACIFIC: IJN bombers attack Funafuti Airdrome, where
two Seabees are killed and a B-24 and C-47 are destroyed.
CHINA: Eight Fourteenth Air Force P-40s attack Kengtung Airdrome
and nearby IJA barracks.
EAST INDIES: V Bomber Command B-25s attack a freighter near
Tanimbar Island in the Molucca Islands.
During the night of November 17–18, V Bomber Command B24s attack den Pasar, Soerabaja, and Tjepoe.
FRENCH INDOCHINA: Four Fourteenth Air Force P-40s attack Dong
Cuong Airdrome.
GILBERT ISLANDS: VII Bomber Command B-24s based at Canton
Island and Funafuti airdromes attack Tarawa Atoll.
MARSHALL ISLANDS: VII Bomber Command B-24s based at Can-
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ton Island and Funafuti airdromes attack Maloelap/Taroa and Mille airdromes.
VD-3 PB4Ys reconnoiter and photograph Wotje Atoll.
NEW GUINEA: Fifty-eight V Bomber Command B-24s are dispatched
against Sattelberg in support of Australian Army ground forces, but only
three B-24s and 12 RAAF bombers reach the target through bad weather.
348th Fighter Group P-47s strafe shipping between Finschhafen
and Saidor.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: At 0350 hours, IJN D4Y dive-bombers mount
an unopposed attack against a USN reinforcement convoy near
Bougainville. (These D4Ys, a brand-new type, have just been diverted
from land-based duty in the Marshall Islands.) One troop-laden destroyertransport is sunk, the only ship sunk by Japanese aircraft during the
Bougainville operation. Sixty-four crewmen and fifty-two Marines are
lost. Five D4Ys are downed by antiaircraft fire.
At 0800, AirSols fighters intercept 10 D4Ys and 55 Japanese
fighters on an antishipping strike in Empress Augusta Bay. VF-17 F4U
pilots down a B5N, two Ki-61s, and six A6Ms over Empress Augusta
Bay between 0800 and 0815; and two VMF-221 F4U pilots down three
D4Ys over Cape Torokina at 0800 hours. Two VF-17 F4Us are lost.
XIII Bomber Command B-24s attack Buka Airdrome; and three
42d Medium Bombardment Group B-25s attack Kieta.
The Marine Air Group 21 headquarters departs Banika Airdrome
for the rear area.
When a planned reinforcement of the Japanese air units in Rabaul
is withheld by higher headquarters in view of the tremendous losses
since November 1, Operation RO—the aerial defense of the northern
Solomon Islands—is effectively (but not formally) terminated.
November 18, 1943
BURMA: Four Fourteenth Air Force P-40s attack the ferry at Tahsai in
support of Chinese Army ground forces.
CHINA: Twelve Fourteenth Air Force P-40s attack IJA ground troops
and a troop-filled barge at Shihmen.
GILBERT ISLANDS: Due to bad weather over assigned targets in the
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Marshall Islands, nine VII Bomber Command B-24s based at Nanomea
Airdrome attack Tarawa and Makin atolls, and Nauru Island; USN carrier aircraft from Task Group 50.4* attack Nauru; and USN carrier aircraft from Task Group 50.3 attack Tarawa Atoll with 115 tons of bombs.
(USN carrier aircraft from Task Group 50.1 screen the northern approaches to the Gilbert Islands and Task Group 50.2 continues to move
into position to attack Makin Atoll and other northern targets.)
A VF-9 F6F pilot downs an F1M over Tarawa Atoll at 1130
hours, and a VF-18 F6F pilot downs an E8N at sea at 1606 hours.
* For the initial phases of Operation GALVANIC, the Gilberts
invasion, the aircraft carriers are organized as:
Task Force 50 [RAdm Charles A. Pownall]: Task Group 50.1 (Carrier
Interceptor Force) [RAdm Charles A. Pownall, Commander,
Carrier Division 3]: USS Lexington (Fleet Carrier Air Group
16), USS Yorktown (Fleet Carrier Air Group 5), and USS
Cowpens (Light Carrier Air Group 25); Task Group 50.2
(Northern Carrier Group) [RAdm Arthur W. Radford,
Commander, Carrier Division 11]—USS Enterprise (Fleet
Carrier Air Group 6), USS Belleau Wood (Light Carrier Air Group
24), and USS Monterey (Light Carrier Air Group 30); Task Group
50.3 (Southern Carrier Group) [RAdm Alfred E. Montgomery,
Commander, Carrier Division 12]—USS Bunker Hill (Fleet
Carrier Air Group 17), USS Essex (Fleet Carrier Air Group 9),
and USS Independence (Light Carrier Air Group 22); and Task
Group 50.4 (Relief Carrier Group) [RAdm Frederick C. Sherman,
Commander, Carrier Division 1]—USS Saratoga (Fleet Carrier
Air Group 12) and USS Princeton (Light Carrier Air Group 23).
Task Force 52 (Northern Attack Force): Task Group 52.3 [RAdm
Henry M. Mullinnix, Commander, Carrier Division 24]—USS
Coral Sea (VC-33), USS Corregidor (VC-41), USS Liscome
Bay (VC-39), USS Nassau (transporting a portion of VF-1), and
USS Barnes (transporting a portion of VF-1). [The fighter
components of VC-39 and VC-41 are equipped with FM fighters,
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a four-gun Wildcat variant built by the General Motors Eastern
Aircraft Division, but generally the same as the F4F. In future,
all new Wildcats will be FMs, and all escort-carrier composite
squadrons will be equipped with them. Also, the VC-39 torpedobomber contingent consists of the first 12 TBMs to be deployed.
The TBM is a TBF twin built by the General Motors Eastern Air
Division rather than by Grumman.]
Task Force 53 (Southern Attack Force): Task Group 53.6 [RAdm
Van H. Ragdale, Commander, Carrier Division 22]—USS
Chenango (Escort Carrier Air Group 35), USS Sangamon (Escort
Carrier Air Group 37), and USS Suwanee (Escort Carrier Air
Group 60).
MARSHALL ISLANDS: Due to bad weather over Wotje Atoll,
VII Bomber Command B-24s based at Nanomea Airdrome attack Mille
Atoll.
NEW GUINEA: V Bomber Command B-24s attack Fak Fak; more
than 30 V Bomber Command B-25s and B-26s attack IJA ground positions around Sattelberg; and V Fighter Command P-40 fighter-bombers
attack Iworep.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: VMF-212 F4U pilots down two A6Ms over
the Zoller Islands at 0825 hours.
The Marine Air Group 24 headquarters arrives in the Russell
Islands.
During the night of November 18–19, five Marines are killed in
the Bougainville beachhead when a night heckler penetrates the nightfighter umbrella.
November 19, 1943
AUSTRALIA: The 58th Fighter Group, in P-47s, arrives in Sydney for
service with the V Fighter Command.
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: V Bomber Command B-25s attack
Kentengi Anchorage.
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CHINA: 11th Medium Bombardment Squadron B-25s attack port facilities and warehouses and Swatow, and mount antishipping strikes in
the South China Sea.
GILBERT ISLANDS: Thirty VII Bomber Command B-24s join USN
warships in the bombardment of Japanese positions in Tarawa and Makin
atolls, and on Nauru Island; Task Group 50.4 carrier aircraft attack Nauru;
and Task Group 50.3 carrier aircraft attack Tarawa Atoll with 69 tons of
bombs; and Task Group 50.2 carrier aircraft attack Makin Atoll.
Lt(jg) Hamilton McWhorter, III, a VF-9 F6F pilot, becomes the
first F6F Hellcat ace when he downs a G4M near Tarawa Atoll at 0550
hours; four VF-2 F6F pilots down an E8N near Makin Atoll at 0830
hours; four VF-22 F6F down a G4M at sea at 0830 hours; a VF-60 F6F
pilot downs an H8K at sea at 0945 hours; a VF-18 F6F pilot downs a
G4M near Tarawa Atoll at 1040 hours; two VF-9 F6F pilots down a
G4M at sea at 1455 hours; and VF-23 F6F pilots down two A6Ms over
Nauru at 1555 hours.
INDIA: The 5309th Provisional Air Service Area Command is activated at Chabua Airdrome to oversee supply and maintenance of USAAF
aircraft in the region.
MARSHALL ISLANDS: Task Group 50.1 carrier aircraft attack the
Mille Airdrome and flying boats and floatplane fighters moored in Jaluit
Atoll.
NEW GUINEA: Approximately 30 V Bomber Command B-25s and
B-26s attack IJA ground positions around Sattelberg; and 3d Light Bombardment Group A-20s attack Finschhafen.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: Ten 42d Medium Bombardment Group B-25s
attack Ballale Airdrome and Matchin Bay.
VMF-221, in F4Us, displaces to New Georgia/Munda Field from
Guadalcanal.
November 20, 1943
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: Fifty V Bomber Command B-24s attack Gasmata.
During the night of November 20–21, VP-101 Black Cat PBYs
sink a cargo ship in Rabaul harbor.
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CHINA: Despite bad weather that grounds other missions, two 11th
Medium Bombardment Squadron B-25s are able to attack barracks and
warehouses on Nampang Island.
GILBERT ISLANDS: U.S. forces launch Operation GALVANIC, the
invasion of the Gilbert Islands. Following intense air and naval-surface
bombardments, the U.S. 2d Marine Division lands at Betio Island in
Tarawa Atoll, and elements of the U.S. 27th Infantry Division land at
Butaritari Island in Makin Atoll.
At 0611 hours, USN carrier aircraft from Task Group 50.2
(Northern Carrier Force) mount a 20-minute attack against beach
defenses at Butaritari and thereafter stand by to cover the USN surface
bombardment force and provide ground support as needed. As U.S. Army
ground troops begin landing at 0832 hours, carrier aircraft bomb
preselected inland targets.
At 0615 hours, USN carrier aircraft from Task Group 50.3
(Southern Carrier Group) mount a firece seven-minute attack against
shore defenses on Betio and thereafter stand by to cover the USN surface
bombardment force and provide ground support as needed. Owing to
delays in landing the first waves, the carrier aircraft attack shore defenses
again at 0855 hours. Thereafter, F6Fs provide continuous on-call support
for the USMC ground forces.
A VF-16 F6F pilot downs an G4M at sea at 0930 hours.
Beginning at about 1755 hours, 16 Marshalls-based G4M night
torpedo bombers attack Task Group 50.3 while USN aircraft are landing.
VF-18 F6F pilots down five G4Ms and ships’ gunners down four, but
one G4M scores a single torpedo hit on the USS Independence (Light
Carrier Air Group 22), which is forced to retire to Funafuti, the nearest
friendly base.
During the night of November 20–21, a USMC reconnaissance
company lands at Abemama Atoll from a USN submarine and swiftly
occupies the atoll against negligible opposition. Abemama is to be the
site of a new airfield.
INDIA: The Fourteenth Air Force’s 308th Heavy Bombardment Group
begins a temporary displacement to the Bengal region of India to join
the 7th Heavy Bombardment Group and RAF heavy bombers in a joint
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campaign against strategic targets in Burma. Two squadrons are based
at Pandaveswar Airdrome with two squadrons of the 7th Group, and
two squadrons are based at Pangarh Airdrome, also with two 7th Group
squadrons.
MARSHALL ISLANDS: Task Group 50.1 carrier aircraft attack Mille
Atoll.
NEW GUINEA: Fifty V Bomber Command B-25s and B-26s attack
IJA ground positions around Sattelberg and luggers in Hansa Bay; and
3d Light Bombardment Group A-20s attack targets around Lae.
The V Fighter Command’s 49th Fighter Group displaces to Gusap
Airdrome from Dobodura Airdrome.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: Thirteenth Air Force B-25s, and P-38s, and
USN PVs attack Bougainville/Bonis Airdrome, and several B-25s attack coastal targets around Empress Augusta Bay.
A VMF-222 F4U pilot downs a Ki-49 bomber near Bougainville
at 0830 hours.
MajGen Ralph J. Mitchell assumes the post of ComAirSols from
MajGen Nathan F. Twining, who has been posted to a high command
position in Italy. Mitchell will continue to command the 1st Marine
Aircraft Wing and MASP.
VMSB-243, in SBDs, displaces to New Georgia/Munda Field
following garrison duty on Johnston and Palmyra islands.
SOUTH PACIFIC AREA: VMF-321, in F4Us, arrives at Efate/Vila
Field from the United States.
UNITED STATES: The XX Bomber Command is formally activated
under the command of BriGen Kenneth B. Wolfe and initially assigned
to the Second Air Force pending the creation of an air force to oversee
B-29 very-heavy-bomber operations. Also activated is the 73d Very
Heavy Bombard Wing. And the 58th Heavy Bombardment Wing, which
is already training in B-29s at Smoky Hill, Kansas, is redesignated as
the 58th Very Heavy Bombardment Wing.
November 21, 1943
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: V Bomber Command B-24s attack
Gasmata.
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CHINA: Four 11th Medium Bombardment Squadron B-25s attack
Taiping-hu Airdrome and mount antishipping strikes in the South China
Sea; four B-25s and 12 Fourteenth Air Force P-40s attack Tzeli; 29 P40s attack small craft on Tungting Lake; 12 P-40s attack five vessels
and other targets in the Shihmen area; and eight P-40s attack river boats
and IJA ground troops near Tsowshih.
GILBERT ISLANDS: 11th Heavy Bombardment Group B-24s based
at Funafuti and Nonomea airdromes attack Nauru Island; and VD-3
PB4Ys escorted by 30th Heavy Bombardment Group B-24s, photograph
the island.
Fighting continues at Tarawa and Makin atolls. USN carrier
aircraft continue to provide continuous on-call support of the landing
forces.
VF-2 and VF-6 F6F pilots down two G4Ms at sea at about 0610
hours.
MARSHALL ISLANDS: Task Group 50.1 carrier aircraft attack Mille
Atoll.
NEW GUINEA: V Bomber Command B-24s and B-25s attack shipping targets; and 3d Light Bombardment Group A-20s attack targets in
the Finschhafen area.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: A small number of 42d Medium Bombardment Group B-25s strafe Kieta while conducting antishipping patrols.
VF-17 F4U pilots down six A6M strafers over Empress Augusta
Bay at 0535 hours; and a 67th Fighter Squadron P-39 pilot downs a Ki61 over Cape Torokina at 0630 hours.
November 22, 1943
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: More than 100 V Bomber Command
B-24s and B-25s attack Cape Gloucester and Gasmata; and B-24s attack ships off Kavieng.
CHINA: Sixteen Fourteenth Air Force P-40s attack troop-laden boats
on Tungting Lake, and P-40s attack Yangtze River traffic.
EGYPT: Allied leaders attend the SEXTANT Conference in Cairo to
consider the changing war situation.
GILBERT ISLANDS: Fighting continues at Tarawa and Makin atolls.
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MARSHALL ISLANDS: Eleven VII Bomber Command B-24s based
at Canton Island Airdrome attack Mille Atoll; and Task Group 50.1 carrier aircraft attack Mille Atoll.
NEW GUINEA: Twenty-two V Bomber Command B-25s and A-20s
attack IJA ground troops around Sattelberg.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: Five USN PB4Ys, eight AirSols P-38s, and
eight AirSols F4Us attack Buka Airdrome; and XIII Fighter Command
P-38s attack barges and shore targets at Chabai.
November 23, 1943
CHINA: Thirteen 11th Medium Bombardment Squadron B-25s escorted
by 24 Fourteenth Air Force P-40s and seven A-36s, attack rail yards and
warehouses and Yoyang; and eight P-40s attack IJA cavalry and river
traffic near Hanshow.
EAST INDIES: V Bomber Command B-24s attack a convoy near
Halmahera Island.
GILBERT ISLANDS: VF-16 F6F pilots down 17 A6Ms near Makin
Atoll at appromimately 1005 hours.
Lt(jg) Eugene R. Hanks, a VF-16 F6F pilot, becomes the first
F6F ace in a day when he downs five A6Ms (and probably downs a
sixth) near Tarawa Atoll at 1006 hours.
U.S. Army troops overcome resistance on Butaritari Island in
Makin Atoll, and U.S. Marines secure Betio Island in Tarawa Atoll after
a particularly bloody fight that points up the low state-of-the-art
effectiveness of air and naval bombardment. Moves are made to
completely secure both atolls and some outlying island groups still
occupied by Japanese forces.
MARSHALL ISLANDS: Six VII Bomber Command B-24s based at
Nukufetau Airdrome attack Jaluit Atoll; and Task Group 50.1 carrier
aircraft attack Mille Atoll.
NEW GUINEA: V Bomber Command B-25s and A-20s attack occupied villages around Finschhafen.
P-40 pilots with the 35th Fighter Group’s 40th Fighter Squadron
down an A6M and a Ki-43 near Saidor at 0955 hours.
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SOLOMON ISLANDS: Nineteen XIII Bomber Command B-24s attack Bougainville/Bonis and Buka airdromes; 23 42d Medium Bombardment Group B-25s, six USN PVs, and 24 AirSols F4Us, attack
Chabai; and four B-25s attack coastal villages on Bougainville while
conducting antishipping patrols.
VMF-216, in F4Us, displaces to the Banika Airdrome from the
New Hebrides to relieve VMF-211 of patrol duties.
SOUTH PACIFIC AREA: MajGen Hubert R. Harmon is named South
Pacific Area Deputy Commander for Air, and Col Earl W. Barnes becomes commanding officer of the XIII Fighter Command.
November 24, 1943
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: More than 20 V Bomber Command
B-24s attack Gasmata. This concludes a five-day bombing offensive
amounting to 133 B-24 sorties and 63 B-25 sorties.
CHINA: Five 11th Medium Bombardment Squadron B-25s and 16
Fourteenth Air Force P-40s attack Hanshow; and two B-25s attack Amoy.
EAST INDIES: Eighteen V Bomber Command B-25s attack shipping
at Halmahera.
GILBERT ISLANDS: An IJN submarine sinks the escort carrier USS
Liscome Bay off Makin Atoll at 0513 hours. Six hundred forty-four men
are killed, including many airmen from VC-39 and RAdm Henry M.
Mullinnix, the Carrier Division 24 commander.
VF-16 F6F pilots down two G4Ms and 10 A6Ms near Makin
Atoll at 1230 hours. One of them, Lt(jg) Alfred L. Frendberg, achieves
ace status when he downs three A6Ms.
Work is begun to rehabilitate and improve the former-IJN
airfields on Betio and Butaritari islands, both of which will be needed
to support the projected advance to the Marshall Islands.
INDIA: Airfield-construction units begin reaching Indian bases from
the United States.
MARSHALL ISLANDS: Twenty VII Bomber Command B-24s based
at Nanomea Airdrome attack land targets and shipping in Maloelap Atoll;
and Task Group 50.1 carrier aircraft attack Mille Atoll.
NEW GUINEA: More than 30 V Bomber Command B-25s, B-26s,
and A-20s attack Kalasa; and 15 B-25s and A-20s attack Finschhafen.
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Col Neel E. Kearby replaces BriGen Paul B. Wurtsmith as head of
the V Fighter Command.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: Twenty-five XIII Bomber Command B-24s
attack Buka and Chabai; 20 42d Medium Bombardment Group B-25s
attack Bougainville/Kahili Airdrome; and six B-25s attack a possible
radio station at Mutupina Point.
The six-man crew of a B-25 bya USN PBY within antiaircrafgun range of Bougainville/Kahili Airdrome.
A USMC SBD makes a successful emergency landing at
Bougainville’s nearly completed Bougainville/Torokina fighter strip.
November 25, 1943
BURMA: A joint coordinated USAAF–RAF bomber offensive begins
against Rangoon-area strategic targets.
Despite bad weather throughout the region, 11 490th Medium
Bombardment Squadron B-25s and an unknown number of RAF
bombers attack Japanese installations in the Rangoon area, including
Rangoon/Mingaladon Airdrome. Escort for the B-25s is provided by
the 530th Fighter Squadron.
Sixty 308th Heavy Bombardment Group B-24s on loan to the
Tenth Air Force fail to locate Zyatkwin Airdrome or locomotive repair
shops at Insein due to heavy clouds over both targets, but several B-24s
attack Akyab Airdrome on the return flight to India. Two B-24s crash
on takeoff, killing all aboard, and one B-24 that is fatally damaged by
ground fire over the target crashes with all aboard.
P-51 pilots of the 311th Fighter Group’s 530th Fighter Squadron
down four Ki-45s over Rangoon and Mingaladon at 1300 hours.
However, two P-51s are lost. This is the 311th Fighter Group’s combat
debut, and the first appearance of P-51 fighters in combat anywhere in
the world.
Col Harry R. Melton, Jr., the 311th Fighter Group commanding
officer, is taken prisoner after his P-51 is fatally damaged by a Ki-45
over Rangoon/Mingaladon Airdrome.
FORMOSA: On the basis of recent aerial intelligence reports, the Fourteenth Air Force mounts its first attack against Formosa/Shinchiku Air-
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drome. Led by the 23d Fighter Group commanding officer, Col David
L. Hill, 14 11th Medium Bombardment Squadron B-25s, eight 449th
Fighter Squadron P-38s, and eight newly committed 311th Fighter Group
P-51A fighter-bombers (flown by Hill, several other 23d Fighter Group
pilots, and several 311th Group pilots) fly from their temporary base at
Suichwan Airdrome across the Formosa Strait at low altitude to attack
the crowded Formosa/Shinchiku Airdrome. The P-51A and P-38 pilots
down 14 fighters, bombers, and transports over the base at 1700 hours,
and then the B-25s and P-51As destroy 42 Japanese aircraft on the
ground. There are no USAAF losses.
Sixteen Fourteenth Air Force P-40s attack boats in the Changte–
Hanshow area.
GILBERT ISLANDS: VF-1, in F6Fs, arrives at Tarawa Atoll aboard
two escort carriers. As soon as Betio’s airfield (renamed Hawkins Field)
is rehabilitated, VF-1 will begin a land-based combat tour.
Just after sunset, 13 Marshalls-based G4Ms, aided by parachute
flares, attack the U.S. invasion fleet off Makin Atoll with torpedoes. No
hits are scored. In a second attack against the northern USN carriers,
USN F6F pilots guided by a VT-6 radar-equipped TBF down three G4Ms
at sea between 1725 and 1928 hours. Lost in this action, however, is
LCdr Edward H. (“Butch”) O’Hare—the VF-6 commanding officer, the
U.S. Navy’s first World War II fighter ace, and a Medal of Honor
recipient. It is possible that O’Hare’s F6F is the victim of the TBF, which
also claims an aerial victory this night.
MARSHALL ISLANDS: Task Group 50.1 carrier aircraft attack Mille
Atoll.
NEW GUINEA: V Fighter Command fighter-bombers attack targets
on the Bogadjim road.
A 348th Fighter Group P-47 pilot downs a Ki-46 near Wewak at
1010 hours.
Australian Army ground forces capture Sattelberg.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: VMSB-236, in SBDs, displaces to New Georgia/Munda Field from Guadalcanal. Also, VMTB-134, in TBFs, arrives
at New Georgia/Munda Field from the United States by way of the New
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Hebrides. The new unit will undertake level-bombing missions against
targets on Bougainville.
November 26, 1943
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: V Bomber Command B-24s attack
Gasmata and an IJN cruiser at Ubili.
BURMA: Although the day’s heavy-bomber mission against Rangoon
is scrubbed because of heavy weather, 13 RAF Wellingtons attack marshalling yards in the city during the night of November 26–27.
CHINA: Five 11th Mediums Bombardment Squadron B-25s and 16
Fourteenth Air Force P-51s and P-40s attack Kiangling Airdrome; two
B-25s attack a freighter on Honghai Bay; and 12 P-40s attack boats in
the Changte-Tehshan area.
EGYPT: Before concluding the SEXTANT Conference, Allied leaders
agree to mount an amphibious invasion in Burma (Operation CHAMPION) and to clear a land route from India to China through Burma.
The leaders also approve plans for Operation TWILIGHT, the basing of
USAAF B-29 very-heavy bombers in China.
FRENCH INDOCHINA: Eight Fourteenth Air Force P-40s attack rail
facilities at Cam Duong.
GILBERT ISLANDS: Following up on a de facto occupation by USMC
scouts, a large occupation force is landed at Abemama Atoll, where a
new airfield is to be constructed. A new airfield is also to be constructed
in Makin Atoll.
The first American airplane to land at Betio/Hawkins Field is a VMJ353 R4D.
NEW GUINEA: Nearly 40 V Bomber Command B-25 and B-26s attack barges near Sio; and V Fighter Command P-40s and P-47s attack
occupied villages and targets of opportunity around Alexishafen,
Madang, and Nubia.
8th Fighter Group P-40 pilots and 35th Fighter Group P-39 pilots
turn back a Japanese bomber force on its way to Finschhafen and down
seven Ki-43s and two A6Ms between Finschhafen and Saidor between
1100 and 1130 hours.
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SOLOMON ISLANDS: More than 40 XIII Bomber Command B-24s,
more than 30 42d Medium Bombardment Group B-25s, and more than
30 AirSols fighters attack Bougainville/Bonis and Buka airdromes; one
B-25 attacks Ballale Airdrome; and several USN PVs attack Nissan Island in the Green Islands.
November 27, 1943
AUSTRALIA: The Fifth Air Force’s 6th Photographic Reconnaissance
Group displaces to Brisbane from Sydney.
BURMA: Despite interception over the target by as many as 40 Japanese fighters, all available 7th and 308th Heavy Bombardment group
B-24s and 490th Medium Bombardment Squadron B-25s, escorted by
P-38s and P-51s, destroy 70 percent of the locomotive repair shops at
Insein. Three B-24s, four P-51s, and two P-38s are downed by Japanese
fighters, but P-51s pilots from the 311th Fighter Group’s 530th Fighter
Squadron down four Japanese fighters over Rangoon at 1300 hours.
During the night of November 27–28, seven RAF Liberators
attack the Rangoon dock area.
CHINA: Four 11th Medium Bombardment Squadron B-25s attack a
convoy near Amoy and port facilities at Swatow.
MARSHALL ISLANDS: Eight VII Bomber Command B-24s based at
Canton Island and Nukufetau airdromes attack Mille Airdrome.
NEW GUINEA: V Bomber Command B-25s and B-26s attack Boram,
Finschhafen, and Wewak.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: More than 20 XIII Bomber Command B-24s
attack Buka Airdrome; 19 B-24s attack Bougainville/Bonis Airdrome;
five 42d Medium Bombardment Group B-25s attack Queen Carola Harbor; and a small number of USAAF B-25s and USN PVs attack targets
near Mutupina Point.
November 28, 1943
BURMA: 7th Heavy Bombardment Group B-24s attack port facilities
at Rangoon; and 490th Bombardment Squadron B-25s attack Sagaing.
P-51s pilots from the 311th Fighter Group’s 530th Fighter
Squadron down four Japanese fighters over Rangoon at 1155 hours.
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During the night of November 28–29, RAF Wellingtons attack
targets in Rangoon.
CHINA: Eight Fourteenth Air Force P-40s attack barracks and other
targets at Litsaoho; and eight P-40 air-drop ammunition to Chinese Army
forces encircled at Changte.
FRENCH INDOCHINA: Six Fourteenth Air Force P-40s strafe Luang
Prabang Airdrome and Tran Ninh.
GILBERT ISLANDS: Eleven VII Bomber Command B-24s based at
Nanomea Airdrome attack Nauru Island.
Tarawa Atoll is declared secure. USMC scouts begin inspecting other
atolls in the Gilberts.
During the evening, a small number of Marshalls-based G4Ms attack
several USN surface warships of the northern task force, but no damage
results. The ships claim the downing of several of the G4Ms.
NEW GUINEA: Approximately 50 V Bomber Command B-24s attack
Boram and Wewak airdromes; and more than 40 B-25s, B-26s, and A20s attack trails near Finschhafen and occupied villages on the Huon
Peninsula.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: Six 42d Medium Bombardment Group B-25s
attack targets around Mutupina Point; and AirSols fighters attack numerous targets on Bougainville and in the Shortland Islands.
VMF-214 displaces to Vella Lavella/Barakoma Field from New
Georgia/Munda Field.
VMF-123 is withdrawn to the United States for retraining and
reorganization.
November 29, 1943
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: Thirty-five V Bomber Command B25s and B-26s attack Cape Gloucester.
CHINA: Six 11th Medium Bombardment Squadron B-25s attack targets at Amoy and Swatow, and along the nearby coast; 24 Fourteenth
Air Force P-40s air-drop ammunition and food to Chinese Army troops
encircled at Changte and attack ground targets on the return flight.
GILBERT ISLANDS: A VF-18 F6F pilot downs a G4M at sea at 1245
hours.
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NEW GUINEA: Six V Bomber Command B-24s attack a barracks at
Manokwari.
Australian Army ground forces advancing up the coast from
Sattelburg seize several towns, including a Japanese supply base, without
a fight.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: Twenty-one XIII Bomber Command B-24s
attack Kieta; 18 42d Medium Bombardment Group B-25s and AirSols
P-39s and SBDs attack targets on the Bougainville coast.
Construction work is begun on Bougainville/Piva Uncle
Airdrome.
November 30, 1943
BISMARCK ARCHIPELAGO: V Bomber Command B-24s attack
New Britain/Cape Gloucester Airdrome; and B-25s attack targets on
the New Britain coast.
BURMA: During the night of November 30–December 1, RAF
Wellingtons attack targets in Rangoon.
CENTRAL PACIFIC: After being relieved by a VII Fighter Command
P-39 squadron, VMF-441 is withdrawn from Nanomea Airdrome to
Samoa to transition from F4Fs to F4Us.
CHINA: Eight Fourteenth Air Force P-40s strafe boats near Ansiang;
six P-40 fighter-bombers attack fuel and ammunition dumps at
Luchiangpa; and P-40s air-drop supplies to Chinese Army forces encircled at Changte.
GILBERT ISLANDS: Six VMSB-331 SBDs and maintenance personnel displace to Betio/Hawkins Field from Nukufetau Airdrome.
MARSHALL ISLANDS: Eighteen VII Bomber Command B-24s dispatched from Nanomea Airdrome to attack Maloelap Atoll abort in the
face of bad weather, but two from that flight and ten others based at
Canton Island Airdrome are able to complete the mission.
NEW GUINEA: V Bomber Command B-24s attack Alexishafen; and
B-25s attack Kalasa and motor vehicles near Waroe.
SOLOMON ISLANDS: Seventeen 42d Medium Bombardment Group
B-25s attack Malai in the Shortland Islands; several USN PVs attack
Mawareka; and AirSols fighters attack numerous targets on Bougainville,
Choiseul, and in the Shortlands
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VF-33, in F6Fs, displaces from New Georgia/Segi Field to New
Georgia/Ondonga Field.
By about this date, VMF-222, in F4Us, displaces to Vella Lavella/
Barakoma Field from New Georgia/Munda Field; VMF-223, also in
F4Us, displaces to Vella Lavella/Barakoma Field from Midway; and
VMSB-234 is withdrawn to the United States for reorganization and
retraining as a carrier-based TBF squadron.
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AMBUSH VALLEY
I Corps, Vietnam, 1967—
the Story of a Marine Infantry Battalion’s Battle for Survival
By Eric Hammel
In the summer of 1967, the Marines in I Corps, South Vietnam’s northernmost military region, were doing eveything they could to lighten the
pressure on the besieged Con Thien Combat Base.
Still fresh after months of relatively light action around Khe Sanh,
the 3d Battalion, 26th Marines, was sent to the Con Thien region to
secure the combat bases’s endangered main supply route. On September 7, 1967, its first full day in the new area of operations, separate
elements of the battalion were attacked by at least two battalions of
North Vietnamese infantry, and both were nearly overrun in night-long
battles.
On September 10, while advancing to a new sector near Con
Thien, the 3d Battalion, 26th Marines, was attacked by at least a full
North Vietnamese regiment, the same NVA unit that had attacked it two
days earlier. Isolated into two separate defensive perimeters, the Marines
battled through the afternoon and evening against repeated assaults by
waves of NVA regulars intent upon achieving a major victory. In a battle
described as “Custer’s Last Stand—With Air Support,” the Americans
prevailed by the narrowest of margins.
Ambush Valley is an unforgettable account of bravery and survival
under impossible conditions. It is told entirely in the words of the men
who faced the ordeal together—an unprecedented mosaic of action and
emotion woven into an incredibly clear and vivid combat narrative by
one of today’s most effective military historians. Ambush Valley achieves
a new standard for oral history. It a war story not to be missed.
Praise for Ambush Valley
“Ambush Valley recounts the heroic performance in the summer of
1967 of the 3d Battalion, 26th Marines . . . as it defended the U.S. combat
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base on a hill called Con Thien. . . . [It] is a fresh, highly personalized,
and vivid narrative focusing on one “theater” of the Vietnam War from
the perspective of those who fought there.”
——Sea Power
“Another of Hammels harrowing eyewitness accounts of a Vietnam
War campaign that remains a puzzling episode in a bitterly debated
conflict. . . . [The] firsthand recollections afford a vivid, inspiring record
of bloody set-piece battles . . . “
—–Kirkus Reviews
“This harrowing action is told almost entirely in the words of the
survivors in a style that resembles the script for a documentary. By
switching back and forth between voices Hammel is able to reinforce or
expand on moments in the action; the device elevates this oral history
of small unit action over most of its kind.”
—— Library Journal
“The desperate defensive tactics as well as the raw emotions of the
men are vividly conveyed in this memorable mosaic of concentrated
warfare. Superb oral history.”
——Publishers Weekly
“Hammel has expertly woven recollections of numerous participants
into a concise yet vivid tale of survival. I marvelled at his ability to
present a complete account without gaps or reliance on extended
narration. . . . I became so involved I did not want to put it down.
——Marine Corps Gazette
“The narrative is hard and gritty—from the gut.”
——Friday Review of Defense Literature
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book AMBUSH
VALLEY: I Corps, Vietnam, 1967—A Marine Infantry Battalion’s
Battle for Survival by with Eric Hammel. The book is currently
available in a $27.50 trade paperback edition published by Pacifica
Military History. It is also available in ebook editions.
MEETING ENGAGEMENT
by Eric Hammel
Copyright 1990 © by Eric Hammel
The Con Thien Combat Base, an isolated hilltop position overlooking
the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) between the two Vietnams, was under
siege. During the last week of August 1968, III Marine Amphibious Force
intelligence analysts discovered that the 812th North Vietnamese Army
(NVA) Regiment was preparing to sever Con Thien’s lifeline, the Cam
Lo-Con Thien Main Supply Route. In response to the threat, the 3d
Battalion, 26th Marine Regiment (3/26), which was to have been the
next battalion to rotate into Con Thien, was assigned to relieve two
companies of the 1st Battalion, 9th Marines (1/9), at a roadside position
known as the Churchyard, just north of Fire Base C-2 (“Charlie-2”),
about halfway between Cam Lo and Con Thien. Three of 3/26’s four
infantry companies and most of the battalion headquarters-and-service
company met at the Churchyard late in the afternoon of September 6,
1967. Early the next morning, portions of India/3/26 and Mike/3/26
were ordered to conduct patrols. Both companies had been operating
around the Khe Sanh Combat Base all summer, and neither had ever
operated in the Con Thien area between National Route 9 and the
Demilitarized Zone. The September 6 patrols were more in the nature of
familiarization tours than attempts to locate the enemy. Indeed, the half
of 1/9 that the main body of 3/26 had relieved had not seen the enemy
for more than a week.
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Staff Sergeant RUSS ARMSTRONG
India Company, 3/26—1st Platoon Commander
September 7 was the anniversary of my leaving the States for Vietnam.
India Company was ordered to run a patrol out in a northwesterly
direction. Lieutenant Bill Cowan’s 3rd Platoon was left behind to man
the company position, but the rest of the company went out, including
the skipper, Captain Wayne Coulter, and the exec, Lieutenant Bob
Stimson.
Lance Corporal CHUCK BENNETT
India Company, 3/26, 1st Platoon
On the morning of September 7, Staff Sergeant Armstrong went up to a
meeting at the company CP. When he came back, he said we were going
out on patrol. He was a real gung-ho Marine and liked to volunteer us
for stuff. He said we’d be leading the patrol out. It was all “Hurry up!
Get moving!”
1st Lieutenant BOB STIMSON
India Company, 3/26—Executive Officer
The company was good at running itself, so my job as executive officer
was more tactical—an assistant company commander—than it was
admin-istrative. I went out with the patrol on September 7 because I
usually went out when all or most of the company was on patrol. A
standard infantry company at the time was 210 officers and men. Going
into The Churchyard, we couldn’t have been more than 165. We were
way down. With Lieutenant Bill Cowan’s 3rd Platoon staying back to
man the entire company sector, we would be going out short of officers.
The 1st and 2nd Platoons were both commanded by NCOs. Captain
Coulter, the artillery FO, and I were the only officers on the patrol. We
went out about 80-strong.
*
Staff Sergeant RUSS ARMSTRONG
India Company, 3/26—1st Platoon Commander
It was a very nice day. There was still a lot of dew on the grass and the
rolling terrain looked peaceful, tranquil. The birds were singing, the sky
was clear, the flowers were waving in a little breeze. It reminded me of
home, of eastern Nebraska. It was so pleasant it kind of scared me. The
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tranquillity of what I was seeing and the chaos of the war I was in didn’t
fit together.
As far as we were concerned, our job was to take a morning
walk in the sun, see what we could see, and return to the battalion
perimeter.
1st Lieutenant BOB STIMSON
India Company, 3/26—Executive Officer
The last civilians had been forcibly evacuated from the DMZ area about
a year earlier. I had flown over the area once in a helicopter just when
we arrived in-country. There were then some people living in the area,
but not many, because there was already saturation bombing going on.
Consequently, because there was no one living there except Marines
and NVA, the cultivated areas were dormant and badly overgrown.
Several times on the patrol, squads moved out to check areas we
were not able to see from the main body. Many such detachments were
for purposes of security—for example, before the main body could cross
a clearing or a trail. These were routine occurrences and saved us time,
though the overall pace was very slow. We’d have had to go slow even
if there were no danger of enemy troops being around. It took us three
to four hours to go only 1,000 to 1,200 meters, though we certainly
didn’t cut through in a straight line. The ground was very uneven, and
the hedgerows blocked us everywhere. That terrain was as tough to move
in as any I had ever experienced. It was very confining, very scary. I had
a very bad feeling about being in such dense growth.
Staff Sergeant RUSS ARMSTRONG
India Company, 3/26—1st Platoon Commander
We marched out about a klick and the two platoons split. I was supposed
to reconnoiter in one direction and the 2nd Platoon was supposed to
reconnoiter in the other. We worked our way through fields and battered
little villages. We had a general direction in which to head and a general
area to reconnoiter, but there were lots of obstructions—buildings,
woods, and heavy brush—so we got pretty fragmented.
My method was to send two or three Marines ahead of the main
body at a faster pace while the rest of us scattered out to the sides.
Everyone was very relaxed. Often as not, as we worked through a tiny
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built-up area, I joined a fire team and worked with them as they checked
through abandoned houses and sheds, seeing what we could see, looking for signs of occupation or military activity.
The terrain was not especially rough. The ground meandered around
into little rises here and there. Everything that was low had been rice
paddies and everything from the edge of the paddies to the top of each
knoll was covered with foliage. I couldn’t tell if the growth was natural
or if it had been planted by the Vietnamese. It was a combination of
trees and bushes such that we couldn’t see into it without going into it.
It was fairly difficult to navigate in, because we couldn’t see far enough
to locate landmarks on our maps or shoot a resection on to pinpoint our
position. Also, our map sheets converged in this area, so it was doubly
difficult to be sure a feature on the map was the feature we could see. It
was not difficult to walk, but navigating was difficult and tedious.
Another factor that slowed us down was that this was our very first
trip out into this new area. We had had a very short turnover with 1/9 the
previous afternoon, not enough time to get any details from them about
local topography or places to be wary of. It was a rule to move through
a new area with trepidation, so it took longer to move across relatively
short distances because we tended to be more careful. Also, I was not
sure what our purpose in being there was. I did not know what I was
supposed to be looking for or doing.
After a while, we came to a grassy area and found four very distinct
beaten-down trails in the grass where a military unit had marched through
four abreast. I knew we were somewhere near the area of responsibility
of a unit of the 4th Marines, but I didn’t know quite where their area
began. As soon as I recognized the trails in the grass for what they were—
signs of a large passing military unit—I thought, “My God, I had no
idea the 4th Marines are this close to us!” I filed that away and kept the
platoon moving.
Lance Corporal CHUCK BENNETT
India Company, 3/26, 1st Platoon
After we’d been out for a long time, we saw some smoke. It was over by
a rice paddy, in some high grass. We came across a big black kettle.
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There were no VC or NVA or anyone around, but there was rice cooking
in the kettle.
Staff Sergeant RUSS ARMSTRONG
India Company, 3/26—1st Platoon Commander
A little later, we came out of some undergrowth within sight of two
blown-out churches, about 75 meters apart. Portions of both steeples
were still standing. I located two destroyed churches on my map, but
visibility was so lousy that I couldn’t figure out if these were the same
churches. I led the platoon over to the nearest church and climbed up
into one of the dilapidated lath-construction steeples to try to find a land
feature I could zero-in on so I could determine our position on my map.
I climbed as high as I could to get a look over the treetops. My years
as a mortarman had ingrained in me the habit of knowing my position
precisely so I could call in fire if I had to. And I wanted to see if I could
find the 2nd Platoon. We were in radio contact but had not seen it since
splitting up with it. The vista, which was both gorgeous and tranquil,
allowed me to pinpoint our position, but I was unable to see the 2nd
Platoon.
Shortly after I climbed down from the steeple and we started moving again, Captain Coulter’s radioman called and ordered us to rejoin
the command group and the 2nd Platoon. I set a direct vector, and we
headed out at a good pace along a little trail. The link-up was accomplished without incident, and the company headed northwest.
Eventually, we cleared a treeline and started crossing a large, open
rice-paddy area. The open area was open out to only about 250 meters
in front of us, to a wooded area to the west, but we could see forever to
the left and right—north and south.
The paddy area was dry; it probably hadn’t been cultivated in years.
We crossed with the 2nd Platoon in the lead and entered the wooded
area. It was getting on toward midday and I began expecting to hear the
CO order us to break for chow, but he apparently wasn’t ready.
As we entered the woods we found a large, dry watercourse or drainage ditch, probably 8 feet deep and about 10 feet across. It did not look
man-made. It had a rounded bottom and the sides were semi-sloping. It
would take some effort to climb up and out of it. The bottom was dry.
There were trees growing up to the edges.
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Lance Corporal CHUCK BENNETT
India Company, 3/26, 1st Platoon
We checked the ditch out because it would have been a good spot for an
ambush.
Staff Sergeant RUSS ARMSTRONG
India Company, 3/26—1st Platoon Commander
After putting out flankers to walk along the top of the ditch and more
flankers partway up the side to keep visual contact with the outer flankers,
the bulk of the patrol walked right into the ditch and proceeded along it.
It was easier to move in there than in the broken terrain on either side.
1st Lieutenant BOB STIMSON
India Company, 3/26—Executive Officer
Even though part of the company was able to use the drainage ditch,
progress remained slow because fire teams and squads had to advance
through the brush on either side to provide security for the rest of us.
The going for them was every bit as tough as it had been getting out to
the ditch.
Lance Corporal CHUCK BENNETT
India Company, 3/26, 1st Platoon
I was a flanker. It was very confined up above the ditch, so most of the
time I was up on the rim of the ditch, inside.
Staff Sergeant RUSS ARMSTRONG
India Company, 3/26—1st Platoon Commander
All of a sudden, at 1150, our flankers on the left began taking some
sporadic fire—burst, burst, burst, then nothing.
Lance Corporal CHUCK BENNETT
India Company, 3/26, 1st Platoon
There was shooting. It was a bunch of shots—several automatic weapons.
I hit the deck and started returning the fire.
Lance Corporal Gary Lindsay was the next guy to my left, about 20
feet away. I saw him go down. I knew he was hit, but I didn’t know how
bad. I was trying to get fire out to where they were shooting at us from.
They were dug in. They were only 75 to 80 feet from me. As soon as I
could, I hollered at Lindsay, but the guy never responded. I crawled
over there, firing a few bursts as I went. Lindsay was hit in the head. He
was already dead. He never knew what hit him.
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The NVA kept firing at us and I kept firing at them, but I felt I
had to get Lindsay into the ditch. I couldn’t leave him out there.
*
Staff Sergeant RUSS ARMSTRONG
India Company, 3/26—1st Platoon Commander
We had no way of telling how many NVA were out there—one lone
sniper, a fire team, or whatever. In the direction from which the fire was
coming, to our left and left front, was a flat meadow, and behind that, 75
to 100 meters out, was another thick treeline through which I could see
no daylight. The fire seemed to be coming from that treeline, but the
vegetation was so thick I could not see muzzle flashes.
1st Lieutenant BOB STIMSON
India Company, 3/26—Executive Officer
The company command group was in the middle of the column in the
ditch. As soon as the flankers got hit, Captain Coulter started reacting,
but the troops reacted on their own, too.
Staff Sergeant RUSS ARMSTRONG
India Company, 3/26—1st Platoon Commander
We instantly set up a hasty defense. More or less instinctively, the unit
leaders pushed troops out of the ditch to form a perimeter 20 to 30 meters
in circumference in the direction of our march. If forward was twelve
o’clock, the perimeter was from nine o’clock to three o’clock by way of
twelve o’clock. The 2nd Platoon was on the right, from twelve o’clock
to three o’clock and my 1st Platoon was on the left, from nine o’clock to
twelve o’clock. The company command group, both platoon command
groups, and some of the troops stayed in the middle of the perimeter,
down in the ditch.
I passed orders for everyone to stay in place and not to try to attack
the enemy position. There were some low shrubs near the ditch, about
waist high. The troops used them for cover.
My radioman told me that the word on the company net was that the
2nd Platoon had had three of its flankers wounded in the initial flurry of
fire. No one said so, but I assumed that Captain Coulter was calling in a
medevac on the battalion net and that we would wait until the WIAs had
been flown out.
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There was some shooting going on and some explosions—RPGs or
grenades—but I don’t think anyone in the ditch could see the enemy. I
couldn’t.
*
Captain TOM EARLY
3/26—Communications Officer
When India Company made contact at 1150, the first news we had at
the battalion CP was the noise of the small arms on the battalion tactical
radio net. Then we received verbal reports that they were in contact. We
found out where they were and that they were pinned down.
1st Lieutenant BOB STIMSON
India Company, 3/26—Executive Officer
The official radio complement at the time provided radios only to the
platoon level. We did not rate squad radios. By the book, the exec of an
infantry company didn’t rate a radio. Based on our experiences, though,
we had acquired more than we rated.
Captain TOM EARLY
3/26—Communications Officer
The radio we used as a mainstay was the Marine PRC-25. To anybody
who had been around longer than a year or two—through the transition
from the PRC-8, -9, and -10—suddenly even a communications guy
looked good because of his radios. The PRC-25’s main advantage was
that when you turned it on, it worked. That kept everybody not only
happy but shocked, because that was not the case with the previous
radios.
The PRC-25 was a VHF frequency-modulated radio, and we depended on it. It was used not only in the battalion communications net,
which connected the battalion commander with all his company commanders, but also by each company’s tactical net. I would give each
company the number of PRC-25s they needed; I had extras that I could
dole out, so anybody who presented a good reason got a few. In many
cases, the company tactical net would not only include the company
commander and platoon commanders, but as far as those extra radios
would go. It would encompass the squad leaders and platoon sergeants
also.
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1st Lieutenant BOB STIMSON
India Company, 3/26—Executive Officer
I had my own radioman and we had radio communication down more
or less throughout the squad level, though I doubt every squad had one.
The result was that the demand on everyone to report was great. People
just got their butts chewed if they didn’t immediately get on the radio
and tell the next level up what was going on. Everybody in the chain of
command was wary of this—I know I was—so the natural inclination
was to immediately get on the horn and report to the next guy up the
chain of command because, if you didn’t, you knew there was going to
be a voice coming over the channel asking why you hadn’t reported.
Militarily, the adherence to reporting procedures resulted in a lot of
missed opportunities to exploit situations. The North Vietnamese weren’t
constrained by similar requirements, so they could keep moving. It was
the hallmark of the NVA to engage us, for instance, on one side and
within a minute or two you had to be prepared to have them coming at
you from the rear. They were experts at this. So, while the Marines were
screwing around with this onerous reporting of situation, casualties,
number and type of rounds expended—all the stuff that was kept in the
statistical morass that was the Vietnam War—the NVA infantry was
firing and maneuvering at us. They were figuring out how to beat us
while we were encumbered with all the statistical stuff the Marine Corps
and the Department of Defense needed so they could figure out whether
we were winning the war and by how much. It was lunacy!
Captain TOM EARLY
3/26—Communications Officer
The word was passed from India Company to our battalion CP group
over the battalion tactical net. In Vietnam, very few of our nets had
security devices on them. So, when anything was reported over an
unse-cured net, the enemy, who had captured many PRC-25s, was
assumed to be dialed in on that frequency. We assumed the NVA was
monitoring everything that was being said and that they knew exactly
what we were doing. This gave the NVA a tremendous advantage since
they knew exactly how India Company was pinned down, where they
were pinned down, what they were calling for fire support, and what
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help they needed. The NVA knew all the essential elements of
information, probably as quickly as the battalion CP group.
1st Lieutenant BOB STIMSON
India Company, 3/26—Executive Officer
As soon as the shooting started, some of the more adventurous squad
leaders fired and maneuvered and did the things crack infantrymen are
supposed to do. But others and their seniors—the platoon commanders,
Captain Coulter, and me—had to report the situation up the chain before
we could do anything about the battle. Once we got that done, it was too
late to exploit whatever it was we were involved with. Meanwhile, I’m
sure all the NVA were either firing or maneuvering or trying to size up
what they had come up against.
The NVA nearest to my position were very close, certainly no farther than 25 yards. There were little open areas out there, but mostly it
was high brush, high grass, and trees. If they had been any distance
away, they never would have seen us. Their vision was as encumbered
by the thick vegetation as ours was. I’m sure the guys who first ran into
us hadn’t seen us until they were right on top of us. I’m sure they didn’t
know if we were a platoon, a company, or a battalion. While they were
trying to find out what we were, most of our leadership was not doing
the same. We were all trying to report.
I made sure that information from the platoons and squads got to
Captain Coulter, and up to Battalion. Only when we completed the initial rush of reporting did we start trying to push squads and fire teams
out in an organized, centrally controlled manner to see what we were up
against. We were doing what they were doing, but later.
*
Staff Sergeant RUSS ARMSTRONG
India Company, 3/26—1st Platoon Commander
Shortly after we set out our hasty defense perimeter, I asked my squad
leaders to report. Two of them responded instantly, but the last one,
Sergeant Alexander Chisholm, of my 2nd Squad, did not respond.
Scotty Chisholm was an interesting fellow. He was 28 years old and
a native of Scotland. He had served for five or six years in the British
Army, in a Highland unit, and was a college graduate. I believe he might
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have been an officer. He was not a U.S. citizen, but he had a green card
and was thus prime for the draft. He was an exceptional land navigator;
I depended on him a lot. I don’t think there was anywhere in Vietnam he
couldn’t navigate us to. Because of him, the 1st Platoon was almost
always the company’s point element when we were on a move.
Scotty didn’t respond when I asked the squad leaders to report, so I
had to ask him again to report. He finally came to me and said, “I think
Lindsay may have been hurt.” That was Lance Corporal Gary Lindsay,
the 2nd Squad’s 2nd Fire Team leader. Chisholm and Lindsay were bootcamp buddies, very tight.
I asked, “Do you know for sure?”
“No, I’m not sure,” he replied.
I yelled over across the field on the left side of the ditch, toward
where we thought Lindsay was. At about the nine-thirty position, I could
see someone’s shoulder and boots. They were about 15 meters out. There
was no response, so I climbed up on the bank of the ditch and put on a
burst of speed. I hit the ground, rolled, got up, and ran again. I did that a
few times until I got to within a few feet of Lindsay, then I yelled, “Lindsay, goddammit!” There was still no answer, so I crawled up beside
him, reached over, and grabbed onto him. He was limp. I rolled him
over and saw that his head had a big gaping hole in it. He was dead, but
I yelled for a corpsman and added that I wanted some men to help pull
him in. One of the docs responded, and he and two or three Marines did
what I had done, ran and rolled until they reached us.
Lance Corporal CHUCK BENNETT
India Company, 3/26, 1st Platoon
Gary Lindsay was one of the finest guys I met in Vietnam. He was there
when I got there, and he took me under his wing. He taught me the
ropes. He was a good talker and a really strong man, a bodybuilder. He
was always laughing. Lindsay was a damn good Marine and a good
friend. He’d taught me not to make friends over there, but he was my
friend.
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1st Lieutenant BOB STIMSON
India Company, 3/26—Executive Officer
Lance Corporal Lindsay had been one of the all-stars in the Hill 689
battle at the end of June. He had really come into his own there, had
showed a lot of fortitude that afternoon.
Lance Corporal CHUCK BENNETT
India Company, 3/26, 1st Platoon
Lindsay had a powerful build and big bones; he was muscular and heavy.
And he had all his gear on. It was hard to move him.
Staff Sergeant RUSS ARMSTRONG
India Company, 3/26—1st Platoon Commander
The troops took off their belts and looped them under Lindsay’s arms.
When they were ready to move him, I led the way back, crawling toward
the ditch.
Most of the men were manning a perimeter. Only the company
com-mand element and a squad or two were still in the ditch. So was
Scotty Chisholm. As the troops who were dragging Lindsay in pulled
him down the bank of the ditch, I looked right at Scotty, who was sitting
erect on the bank. He had piercing blue eyes, but now they seemed to be
staring 5,000 meters into the distance. Inside his head, I was sure, he
wasn’t anywhere near Vietnam. Scotty had been the most effective squad
leader I had. He was due to rotate with me and most of the rest of the
“old” battalion. I decided then and there that, as soon as we got back to
the battalion perimeter that evening, I was going to find him a job in the
rear. He was used up; he’d had enough.
*
1st Lieutenant BOB STIMSON
India Company, 3/26—Executive Officer
They kept probing us with fire. This was to get a response from our M60s and mortars, to see how large a unit we were. I’m sure—I know—
they were moving around us and maneuvering progressively closer and
closer to learn what we were.
I was busy. I also was very wary and frightened. However, I think
the professional skills we had developed worked for us. Though we
were late getting started because of the reporting, we knew what had to
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be done, and we did it. Everyone knew and everyone did it. Captain
Coulter and I never worked in the same place, so I’m not sure what he
was doing besides answering questions from Battalion. While the captain continued to speak with Battalion, I started moving around, helping
the platoons and squads tactically. The company command group stayed
in the ditch, but I moved everywhere outside the ditch.
I believe we were probed initially by several very small NVA units—
fire teams. I was never sure because my view was restricted by the undergrowth. But what I heard—flurries of small-arms fire at intervals
from different places—led me to that conclusion. They seemed to move
around a lot, so I had no idea how many fire teams there were. The
whole NVA force might have been only a squad or two altogether, but
they kept us very busy and confused by firing from a lot of different
places all around our position.
Staff Sergeant RUSS ARMSTRONG
India Company, 3/26—1st Platoon Commander
I was very concerned. I had no idea what lay in store for us, no idea
what was out there. I knew that most of my men had only two or three
weeks left. One of my short-timers was dead, and another seemed to
have lost his effectiveness. Whatever enemy were out there, we were
holding them with fire from our weapons. They were close, but too far
away to reach us or be reached by us with hand grenades. Our fire was
reactionary; whenever they fired out from the woods, we fired back. We
didn’t know what we were shooting at; we couldn’t see anyone. All we
did was fire at the source of their fire, at muzzle flashes when we could
see them. When their fire stopped, ours stopped. We didn’t fire again
until they started firing again.
In time, the 2nd Platoon’s three wounded flankers and Lindsay were
brought into the ditch, but another Marine, who did not respond to calls,
could not be recovered from a bomb crater into which he had fallen.
The enemy fire was so intense that no one could get to him.
I heard that the skipper had called for a medevac chopper, but
there was quite a bit of delay.
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Captain TOM EARLY
3/26—Communications Officer
It took a long time to get the helicopters from Phu Bai or wherever they
came from. Our request had to go up through the helicopter request net,
had to be confirmed, and then they had to send the helicopters.
Staff Sergeant RUSS ARMSTRONG
India Company, 3/26—1st Platoon Commander
I also heard that the skipper had put in a request for fixed-wing air
support, but, like the medevac, it got delayed.
Captain TOM EARLY
3/26—Communications Officer
There was an AO [aerial observer] up. The AOs were always on the
same frequencies. We knew what those frequencies were; we all had
them in our little notebooks. Any CP could come up and talk with him,
ask him any questions they wanted. The AO was an artillery officer
who could either help our FOs on the ground or call artillery fire himself. He could also call naval gunfire if there was a ship on station, or he
could run fixed wing if there were fixed-wing aircraft in the area, or he
could assist the arty FO on the ground in spotting exactly where the
rounds should go into the enemy positions. So, we were in a position to
control air either from the ground position with the FAC or from the air
with the AO. It certainly was simpler for the AO because he was up
there and could observe more from that little bird dog airplane.
*
The AO was aboard a single-engine light “Bird Dog” observation plane.
He had arrived over the India Company position within about 30 minutes
of the initial exchange of gunfire. Circling over a wide area, he located
an NVA bunker and six NVA soldiers in fighting holes. He also reported
that one of the NVA soldiers had an automatic weapon. The AO requested
immediate air support. Typically, Marine jet fighter-bombers based at
Danang, on the coast, needed at least 30 minutes to take off and get on
station along the DMZ. They were thus due to arrive at about 1300,
about 70 minutes after the first shots were fired.
*
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Lance Corporal CHUCK BENNETT
India Company, 3/26, 1st Platoon
The NVA kept firing at us. They’d fire and then they’d move and fire
again. It was sporadic fire. They were probing, trying to find out what
we had.
There were fast movers coming in, dropping bombs near us. They
had to give us cover so we could move out of there. They were dropping
right on top of us, close in. They were shaking the ground real bad.
Staff Sergeant RUSS ARMSTRONG
India Company, 3/26—1st Platoon Commander
The 2nd Platoon managed to recover the Marine from the bomb crater.
When they got to him, he was dead.
1st Lieutenant BOB STIMSON
India Company, 3/26—Executive Officer
It suddenly quieted down. I think they left because they found out what
they wanted to find out.
We had to move the wounded to an LZ [landing zone] about 100
meters from where we had been engaged. They were all serious enough
to have to be carried. An H-34 came in and picked them all up, but they
didn’t take the two dead Marines.
*
The medevac took place at 1320, 90 minutes after the first shots were
fired and at least an hour after medevacs were requested. At 1325, the
AO directed an additional fixed-wing strike. The pilots claimed four
con-firmed NVA deaths. At 1400, as India Company was moving back
toward the battalion main body, the AO sighted a squad of NVA about
400 meters northwest of the original point of contact. He called for an
artillery fire mission. The guns were fired, but the AO was unable to
determine the result. At about the same time and several hundred meters
to the southwest of the original point of contact, the AO located a new
foot trail and, nearby, “many new bunkers.”
Although 1/9 had reported that there had been no contacts around
The Churchyard, it was well known that many NVA were living in the
area. India Company’s contact and the AO’s sightings were not deemed
signifi-cant. It was inevitable, given the number of NVA in the area, that
Marines would run into them from time to time.
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CARRIER CLASH
The Invasion of Guadalcanal and the Battle of the Eastern
Solomons
August 1942
By Eric Hammel
The Battle of the Eastern Solomons was history’s third carrier clash. A
collision of U.S. Navy and Imperial Navy carriers in the wake of the
invasion of Guadalcanal—whose airfield the United States desperately
needed and the Japanese desperately wanted back—the battle was waged
at sea and over Guadalcanal’s besieged Marine-held Lunga Perimeter
on August 24, 1942.
Based upon the first half of Eric Hammel’s acclaimed 1987 battle
narrative, Guadalcanal: The Carrier Battles, and in large part upon
important new information obtained from both Japanese and American
sources, Carrier Clash unravels many of the mysteries and misconceptions that have veiled this complex battle for more than a half century.
Beginning with detailed descriptions of the history of the aircraft
carrier, the development of carrier-air tactics, the training of carrier pilots, and numerous operational considerations that defined the way carrier battles had to be fought, Carrier Clash takes the reader into the air
with brave U.S. Navy fighter pilots as they protect their ships and the
Guadalcanal invasion fleet against determined Japanese air attacks on
August 7 and 8, 1942. After he sets the stage for the August 24 Battle of
the Eastern Solomons, author Hammel puts the reader right into the
cockpits of U.S. Navy Dauntless dive-bombers as they dive on the Imperial Navy light carrier Ryujo—and hit the ship with 500-pound bombs!
Once again, in this strange tit-for-tat battle, U.S. Navy Wildcat fighter
pilots must defend their ships against an onslaught by Imperial Navy
Val dive-bomber pilots determined to sink the U.S. carriers, or die trying. Hammel’s coverage of the bomb damage to the USS Enterprise
and subsequent fire-fighting and rescue efforts by her crew are especially compelling.
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Carrier Clash is the definitive combat history of the Battle of the Eastern
Solomons, history’s third battle (of only five) between American and
Japanese aircraft carriers.
Critical Acclaim for Carrier Clash:
The Bookwatch says: Carrier Clash takes the reader into the air with
brave U.S. Navy pilots . . . [It] is an important contribution to the military
history of World war II’s battle for control of the Pacific.
The Book World says: Carrier Clash is a stark revelation of a complex
encounter.
Military Magazine says: Mr. Hammel presents the entire battle in a
clear, easy-to-follow manner while interjecting interesting views of the
[Battle of the Eastern Solomons] as seen by the participants on both
sides.
Military Review says: The book is loaded with great charts (maps),
order of battle, and other hard to find details. Although Hammel describes
the land and surface ship battles, his forte is his vivid descriptions of the
aerial dogfights during the [Guadalcanal] invasion and the Battle of the
Eastern Solomons.
Canadian Military History says: Eric Hammel continues his tradition
of exciting, well crafted books on the Pacific War with this account of
the carrier battles that accompanied the American landings on
Guadalcanal. . . . There is no denying that this is a cracking good read
and an excellent companion to Hammel’s other books on the Guadalcanal
Campaign.
Sea Power says: Acclaimed military historian Eric Hammel presents a
landmark history of the Battle of the Eastern Solomons . . . Drawing on
newly declassified information from U.S. and Japanese sources, and on
numerous other archival sources, Hammel brings a fresh perspective to
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the outcome of the war as a whole. . . . [He] describes with precision
and insight the key events in the Guadalcanal/Eastern Solomons
campaigns, the strategic implications of the battle, and the impact on
the overall battle plans of both adversaries.
Note: The following article is excerpted from the book CARRIER
CLASH: The Invasion of Guadalcanal and the Battle of the Eastern
Solomons, August 1942 by Eric Hammel. The book is currently
available as a $27.50 trade paperback edition published by Pacifica
Military History. It is also available in ebook editions.
DESPERATE GAMBLE
by Eric Hammel
Copyright © 1997 by Eric Hammel
It is unclear what RAdm Sadayoshi Yamada and his staff and command
officers had in mind when they approved the second 5th Air Attack
Force mission of August 7. Nearly all the operational Tainan Air Group
long-range Zeros had accompanied nearly all the operational 4th Air
Group Bettys to the Tulagi area, and the Rabaul air command felt an
attack by U.S. Navy carrier aircraft was imminent. But someone must
have convinced Admiral Yamada—or perhaps he convinced himself—
that he had not committed enough to the attack against the Allied invasion fleet around Tulagi.
Very shortly after the 4th Air Group Bettys finished taking off, nine
of the newly arrived 2d Air Group’s sixteen Aichi D3A Val dive-bombers
were also launched from their base at Rabaul. But unlike the Bettys and
long-range Zeros, this attack force had no hope whatsoever of returning
from the mission. If it flew all the way to Tulagi, it would not even be
able to return as far as the Buka strip. All of the Vals were to be sacrificed.
A seaplane tender and a Mavis flying boat were dispatched to pick up
ditched pilots and crewmen in the Shortland Islands, off southern
Bougainville, but no one could have had much faith in that plan.
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The Val was a carrier bomber with an operational range of
approximately 275 miles—enough for a carrier bomber under most
circumstances, but not even close for filling in as a land-based bomber
under conditions that held sway on August 7, 1942, in the region under
attack by the Allies. There was no provision in the airplane’s design for
an auxiliary fuel tank—no way to eke out significant extra miles.
Moreover, the land-based Vals in the 2d Air Group’s inventory carried
only two wing-mounted 60-kilogram bombs, and not a 250-kilogram
centerline bomb. If they attacked Allied ships off Tulagi, there was very
little hope that their bombs would sink any, or even cause very much
significant damage.
There was to be no fighter escort. The 2d Air Group’s own Zero
squadron was equipped with short-range Zero interceptors that could
not fly even as far as the short-range Vals, and there seemed to be no
point in dispatching an escort of only six Tainan Air Group long-range
Zeros, which is all the veteran land-based fighter group had left on
operational status at Lakunai Airdrome.
Nine 2d Air Group Vals under the command of the hikotaicho, Lt
Fumito Inoue, began launching at 1030.
*
About the only outside Allied combat organization that could provide
assistance to the Guadalcanal invasion force was MajGen George
Kenney’s Allied Air Forces, which had several groups of bombers and
fighters based in New Guinea, mostly around Port Moresby. It was no
mean feat for the embattled U.S. Army Air Forces in the Southwest
Pacific Area to provide the needed assistance, but provide it did. B-26
medium bombers flown by the V Bomber Command’s 22d Medium
Bombardment Group attacked Lae during the day to keep Imperial Navy
bombers and fighters from being shifted to Rabaul to take part in strikes
against the invasion fleet at Guadalcanal. And at 1220, thirteen 19th
Heavy Bombardment Group B-17 heavy bombers based in Australia
and refueling at Port Moresby attacked Rabaul’s Vunakanau Airdrome.
Leading the strike was LtCol Richard Carmichael, the veteran
commander of the 19th Bomb Group.
The attack on Vunakanau was not the least bit altruistic. Allied
intelligence had surmised that 150 Imperial Navy fighters and bombers
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were based there, and that fifty additional aircraft were at Lakunai. It
was as important to Allied commands in New Guinea as it was to Allied
commands in the South Pacific that these forces be reduced.
One B-17 taking off from Port Moresby crashed before it could
become airborne, and two B-17s returned to base with mechanical
problems only minutes after taking off. One of the returning B-17s was
piloted by Capt Harl Pease, who immediately transferred his crew to
another heavy bomber, which was known to be in something less than
top flight condition. Pease rejoined the rest of the strike force over
Vunakanau, where the heavies were intercepted by fifteen 2d Air Group
short-range Zeros and three Tainan Air Group long-range Zeros. Captain
Pease’s bombardier was able to release the bombs aboard his airplane,
but the B-17 was set upon by several Zeros and eventually cut out of the
pack. It lagged farther and farther behind the rest of the group, and finally
it fell from the sky, apparently killing all aboard. Captain Pease was
awarded a posthumous Medal of Honor.
No Japanese aircraft were destroyed or even damaged on the ground,
and no Zeros were downed despite claims for seven by the B-17 gunners.
The Vunakanau runway, which did receive minor damage, was repaired
long before Lt Renpei Egawa and LCdr Tadashi Nakajima returned with
their 4th Air Group Bettys and Tainan Air Group Zeros. Shortly, the
Allied Air Forces’ General Kenney, who would become an excellent
combat commander, heard via a decoded radio intercept that the 5th Air
Attack Force had thirty Bettys operational at Vunakanau that evening.
Deducting this number from the erroneous very high intelligence
estimates that had precipitated the noon-hour Vunakanau strike led
Kenney to announce that the 19th Heavy Bombardment Group B-17s
had destroyed seventy-five Japanese bombers on the ground.
In point of fact, the number of Bettys available at Rabaul climbed
by nine during the afternoon, when a chutai of the Misawa Air Group
arrived from Tinian, in the Mariana Islands. It was the arrival of these
Bettys that led to Admiral Yamada’s report that led to General Kenney’s
erroneous deduction.
*
The level of energy and effort aboard the U.S. Navy carriers off
Guadalcanal was frenetic following the end of the battle with the 4th
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Air Group Bettys and Tainan Air Group Zeros. Many fighters were
launched from the three carriers, and search missions were dispatched
to look for downed fighter pilots on Guadalcanal and in the sea near
Santa Isabel. By 1400, forty-four Wildcats were over the carriers and
eighteen were over the invasion fleet.
Also at 1400, a strange false alarm was rendered by the invasion
fleet commander, RAdm Richmond Kelly Turner. Fighting-6’s battle
with the Bettys had not yet ended off Santa Isabel when Turner warned
that an attack by Japanese dive-bombers was imminent. And then Task
Force 61 transmitted a warning that twenty-five enemy bombers were
attacking from 8,000 feet. There were no Japanese aircraft anywhere
near Guadalcanal or the carriers at this time, but these warnings set
everyone on edge, for the implication was that Japanese carriers were in
the area—even though U.S. Fleet intelligence had correctly reported
that all of Japan’s carriers were in home waters.
The false alarm was not sprung by any of the Allied coastwatchers
hiding out in the central or northern Solomons, for Lieutenant Inoue’s
2d Air Group Val chutai was skirting the northern chain of islands at
nearly 10,000 feet, far from the sight of any of the coastwatcher stations.
This track brought the Vals to the northern side of Florida Island at
1430. They were beyond the range of U.S. Navy radars and U.S. Navy
fighter patrols. When Inoue judged that his dive-bombers were opposite
the invasion fleet, he signaled a turn to the south.
There were clouds over the northern flotilla of Task Force 62, but
Inoue had a clear view of many ships to the south, off Guadalcanal. As
the Val chutai neared these ships, Inoue motioned for the three-plane
shotai under WO Gengo Ota to attack a force of cruisers and destroyers
to the west while the remaining six Vals went after transports anchored
off the invasion beach.
*
The first American to realize an attack was under way was Lt Scoop
Vorse, who was leading a pair of other Fighting-6 Wildcats over the
western anchorage off Guadalcanal. Vorse happened to look down from
11,000 feet in time to see Warrant Officer Ota’s shotai rolling into its
dive against the warships below. Vorse was amazed, a feeling he
overcame in a split second and rolled straight into a dive of his own. His
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two wingmen saw him go, but they were unable to follow, and they did
not see any targets in time to figure out what was going on. A little late
off the mark—he was lucky to have been on the mark at all—Vorse was
barely able to keep contact with the diving Vals. The best he could do
for the moment was park well behind the tail of the rear Val and open
fire from long range.
With all the fine, big targets ahead of him—cruisers galore—Warrant
Officer Ota for some reason set his sights on the Mugford, an oldish
destroyer holding station in the western antisubmarine screen. At 1447,
according to the Mugford’s log, a lookout spotted two fixed-gear airplanes
diving out of a cloud astern of the ship and head right at him. The sailor
shouted a warning, and then he saw two more airplanes dive out of the
cloud. Though the Mugford’s captain was uncertain as to what was going
on, he instinctively ordered a sharp turn to starboard.
Ota and his wingman followed the destroyer into the turn and dropped
their four 60-kilogram bombs. Ota’s missed the ship to starboard, but
one of PO2 Koji Takahashi’s bombs struck the Mugford’s aft
superstructure and killed twenty-one crewmen. The third Val,
commanded by PO2 Minoru Iwaoka and piloted by S1 Seiki Nakamoto,
never made a move on the injured destroyer, or any other ship. Perhaps
Scoop Vorse had killed Iwaoka or Nakamoto with his guns, which he
had been firing all the way down; certainly his bullets struck the Val, for
the airplane’s descent was marked by a trail of smoke. Whatever
occurred, the Val dived straight into the water without ever lining up on
a ship or opening its dive brakes. Score one for Lt Scoop Vorse, who
pulled out to chase Ota and Takahashi but could not find them.
*
The six 2d Air Group Vals led by Lt Fumito Inoue never did reach
the Allied transports. As they crossed the channel between Florida and
Guadalcanal at 10,000 feet, they were spotted by Lt Hayden Jensen,
whose Fighting-5 section was part of a six-plane division led by Lt Dick
Gray. Though the Vals were 3,000 feet above the Wildcats, and well to
the west, Jensen happened to be looking right at them when they came
into view. In fact, he caught sight of the Vals just as three of them—
Warrant Officer Ota’s shotai—split off to attack the warships farther to
the west.
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Rather than clutter the fighter channel, Jensen raced to the head of
the fighter division and waggled his wings to signal an alarm. Then he
put on full power and led the way toward the larger group of Vals. During
the climb, one Wildcat dropped out when its pilot found that its guns
were not working.
At about the time Gray’s division, with Jensen in the lead, began
climbing toward the six 2d Air Group Vals, Fighting-5’s Lt Dave
Richardson and Ens Charles Davy spotted the same enemy dive-bombers
from their position at 13,000 feet and to the north. As Richardson arrowed
down, he hoped he would arrive in time to meet the Vals before they
commenced combat dives on any of the juicy targets in the channel. If
the Vals did dive before Richardson and Davy reached them, there would
be no way for these Wildcats to spoil the bombing attack.
Lieutenant Inoue probably spotted Dick Gray’s five Wildcats as they
climbed toward his Vals, and that apparently prompted him to switch
targets. There was no way he could reach the transports before his slow
dive-bombers were overtaken by the carrier fighters, so he opted to go
after what he believed was a light cruiser that was much closer. In fact,
it was another oldish destroyer, the Dewey, which was west of the
transports, guarding against submarine attack.
The Vals had just reversed their heading to set up on the Dewey
when Lieutenant Jensen arrived in range at the head of Gray’s division.
Attacking from the side on a slight climb, Jensen fired at the nearest
Val, which staggered in flight as bullets clearly struck home. The
wounded Val split off from the rest of the group and angled toward the
water. Jensen stayed with it, firing all the way.
The Dewey and other ships opened fire at everything in the air. Huge
puffs from time-fused 5-inch antiaircraft rounds and ribbons of tracer
blossomed and snaked at all levels from quite a bit higher than the
Japanese dive-bombers and U.S. Navy fighters to quite a bit lower. But
the remainder of Gray’s division pressed in. Lt(jg) Carlton Starkes and
Lt Marion Dulfiho followed the Vals into their dive, firing all the way at
whatever targets presented themselves. Ens Mark Bright had so much
speed on that he overran the rear Val. Ignoring the danger from that
dive-bomber’s two 7.7mm cowl machine guns, he pressed his attack on
the next-to-rear Val and was answered in kind by a stream of 7.7mm
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bullets from its observer-gunner. Undeterred, Bright stayed the course
until flames blossomed from between the fixed landing gear and spread
forward and back. Lieutenant Gray, who was trailing Bright, fired a
burst into the rear Val, but he thought someone better look out for more
attackers, so he pulled up short and went high. Lieutenant Richardson
and Ensign Davy did not get there in time to beat the Vals into their
dive, so they pulled out and, like Dick Gray, looked around for more
attackers.
Lieutenant Inoue and PO3 Seiji Sato reached the drop point over the
Dewey without being hit by antiaircraft fire or drawing any direct fire
from the Wildcats. All four of their bombs missed. Seconds later, two
Vals from the rear shotai reached the drop point, but their bombs also
missed the twisting destroyer.
At this point, Mach Don Runyon arrived on the scene with the three
other members of his Fighting-6 Wildcat division. Alerted by chatter on
the fighter channel, Runyon knew where to go and what to do when he
got there. He skirted the friendly fire from below and attacked the first
Val that he could get into his gunsight. He must have scored hits, but the
dive-bomber was really hammered by the leader of Runyon’s second
section, AP1 Howard Packard. The Val definitely crashed off Lunga,
and Packard was given full credit, but it is certain that this airplane had
suffered battle damage under the guns of Dulfiho, Starkes, and Runyon—
and perhaps Jensen and Bright too.
Lieutenant Dulfiho spotted one of the rear shotai survivors as it
completed its recovery off the Dewey. This Val broke to the south and
attempted to evade by flying across Guadalcanal’s mountainous interior.
The veteran Wildcat pilot—his first combat had been a carrier raid in
February—closed to only 50 yards off the Val’s tail and opened fire.
Unfortunately, at the crucial moment, Dulfiho’s windshield was covered
by oil thrown up by his own engine. He cracked the canopy and leaned
out, resuming fire and attempting to adjust his aim on the fall of his
tracer. But it was hopeless, and Dulfiho broke contact. By then, AP1
Packard was on the scent, and he went all out to catch up with the fleeing
Val. But Don Runyon got there first, from ahead and below, and Packard’s
wingman, Ens Dutch Shoemaker, boxed it in from the side. All three
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Wildcats were firing when the Val flew into a ravine and blew up. Runyon
was the division leader; he got the credit.
Lieutenant Inoue and one of his wingmen got clean away. However,
the leader of the rear shotai, WO Seisuke Nakagaki, was fired on—and
individually claimed—by both Ens Mark Bright and Mach Don Runyon
as he flew clear of the Allied shipping. Then Nakagaki was caught by
Ens Dutch Shoemaker and Runyon’s wingman, Ens Harry March, as he
neared Savo on a course toward the Shortland Islands. As Shoemaker
set up for a high-side run, March roared up the Val’s tail and fired despite
a stream of bullets put out by Nakagaki’s observer-gunner. March thought
his bullets started a fire, but Lt Hayden Jensen, who was coming on
fast, thought the stream of white smoke was from a nonfatal oil-line
break. In any event, Jensen closed on the wounded Val and fired bursts
into it from 350 yards and on down. His bullets definitely set Nakagaki’s
oft-wounded Val aflame, and the dive-bomber knifed into the water, for
sure. Just about everyone involved was awarded a full official credit for
this lone victory.
In all, the nine Fighting-5 and Fighting-6 Wildcat pilots who attacked
Lieutenant Inoue’s six Vals claimed thirteen full victories, and Lt Scoop
Vorse claimed one of the three Vals that attacked the Mugford. Naval
vessels firing at the Vals claimed two.
*
All four of the 2d Air Group survivors, who claimed a light cruiser
damaged, reached the Shortland Islands at about 1700. Warrant Officer
Ota and Petty Officer Takahashi set their Vals down in the water, as
planned, and all four airmen in them swam to the waiting Mavis. Shortly,
Lieutenant Inoue and his wingman ditched near the rendezvous with
the seaplane tender. Inoue and his observer were rescued by the ship
when it arrived on the scene, but the second pilot and his wingman
simply disappeared.
In return for superficially damaging a U.S. Navy destroyer and killing
twenty-one members of its crew—with one of eighteen 60-kilogram
bombs carried 600 miles from Rabaul—the 2d Air Group lost all nine
Vals and twelve of eighteen pilots and observers.
*
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All of the Fighting-5 pilots involved in the engagement with Inoue’s
Vals landed in due course aboard the Saratoga. Vorse, Runyon, Packard,
and March barely made it back to the Enterprise on the last of their fuel,
and Dutch Shoemaker landed aboard the Saratoga.
Coming off an afternoon patrol over the transports, a Fighting-71
Wildcat became separated from its division and got lost. It ran out of
fuel over Guadalcanal and crashed in a stand of trees far from friendly
lines. The injured pilot ended up in Marine hands nearly a week later,
but this was yet another Wildcat gone from Frank Jack Fletcher’s original
ninety-nine.
Later, at about 1730, Ens Dutch Shoemaker, Ens Earl Cook, and
Mach Pat Nagle, all from Fighting-6, were launched from the Saratoga
to fly an ad hoc combat air patrol over the transports. Nobody had any
business launching fighters to a distant station so soon before dark, but
someone in authority was clearly rattled by the day’s two bombing
attacks. Shoemaker’s Wildcat developed engine trouble on the way out,
and he was nearly shot down on the way home by fellow Fighting-6
pilots who recognized his Wildcat at the last moment and led him to
their ship. Cook and Nagle were ordered back to the Enterprise as soon
as they reported on station. Nagle developed an undisclosed problem
on the return. Though he was reported by Cook as having completed a
successful water landing, he was never seen again. Ensign Cook asked
for help back to the ship with the aid of radar, and the carriers even
showed their deck lights to help guide him in, but he kept missing the
mark and finally reported himself out of fuel at 1915. He was never
seen again, either. There is speculation that the two Enterprise Wildcats
were never refueled during their hour-long stay aboard the Saratoga, an
understandable omission on such a busy day, but no less tragic in its
consequences.
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CARRIER STRIKE
The Battle of the Santa Cruz Islands
October 1942
By Eric Hammel
The Battle of the Santa Cruz Islands, a strategic naval action in the
bitter Guadalcanal Campaign, was history’s fourth carrier-versus-carrier naval battle. Though technically a Japanese victory, the battle proved
to be the Empire of Japan’s last serious attempt to win the Pacific War
by means of an all-out carrier confrontation. Only one other carrier battle
occurred in the Pacific War, in June 1944, in the Philippine Sea. By
then, however, the U.S. Navy’s Fast Carrier Task Force was operational,
and Japan’s dwindling fleet of carriers was outnumbered and completely
outclassed. Though hundreds of Japanese naval aviators perished in the
great Marianas Turkey Shoot of June 19–20, 1944, it was during the
first four carrier battles—in the six-month period from early May through
late October 1942—that the fate of Japan’s small, elite naval air arm
was sealed. It was at Coral Sea, in May, that Japan’s juggernaut across
the Pacific was blunted. It was at Midway, in June, that Japan’s great
carrier fleet was cut down to manageable size. And it was at Eastern
Solomons, in August, and Santa Cruz, in October, that Japan’s last best
carrier air groups were ground to dust. After their technical victory at
Santa Cruz, the Japanese withdrew their carriers from the South Pacific—and were never able to use them again as a strategically decisive
weapon. Of the four Japanese aircraft carriers that participated in the
Santa Cruz battle, only one survived the war.
Following Santa Cruz and the subsequent series of air and surface
engagements known as the Naval Battle of Guadalcanal, the Imperial
Navy’s Combined Fleet never again attempted a meaningful strategic
showdown with the U.S. Pacific Fleet. Though several subsequent
surface actions in the Solomons were clearly Japanese victories, their
results were short-lived. After November 1942, Japan could not again
muster the staying power—or the willpower—to wage a strategic war
with her navy. Once the veteran carrier air groups had been shredded at
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Eastern Solomons and Santa Cruz, Japanese carriers ceased to be a
strategic weapon.
The Santa Cruz clash was deemed a Japanese victory because U.S.
naval forces withdrew from the battlefield. That is how victory and defeat
are strictly determined. But on the broader, strategic, level, the U.S.
Navy won at Santa Cruz—because it was able to achieve its strategic
goal of holding the line and buying time. Japan was unable to achieve
her strategic goal of defeating the U.S. Pacific Fleet in a final, decisive,
all-or-nothing battle. The technical victory cost Japan any serious hope
she had of winning the Pacific naval war.
The “victory” at Santa Cruz cost Japan her last best hope to win the
war in the Pacific.
Once again, author-historian Eric Hammel brings to the reading
public an exciting narrative filled with the latest information and written
in the edge-of-the-seat style that his readers have enjoyed for nearly
two decades, in nearly thirty acclaimed military history books. As was
the case with its companion volume, Carrier Clash, this new book is
based upon American and Japanese battle reports and the recollections
of many airmen and seamen who took part.
Critical Acclaim for Eric Hammel’s earlier books about the
Guadalcanal Campaign:
Sea Power says: Acclaimed military historian Eric Hammel presents a
landmark history of the Battle of the Eastern Solomons . . . Drawing on
newly declassified information from U.S. and Japanese sources, and on
numerous other archival sources, Hammel brings a fresh perspective to
the outcome of the war as a whole. . . . [He] describes with precision
and insight the key events in the Guadalcanal/Eastern Solomons
campaigns, the strategic implications of the battle, and the impact on
the overall battle plans of both adversaries.
Kirkus Reviews says: “Hammel is as adept at conveying the terrors of
fighting fire on a ship . . . as he is at providing concise evaluations of top
commanders. . . . “Official histories apart, [Guadalcanal: The Carrier
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Battles is] the most thorough appreciation yet of Guadalcanal’s turningpoint carrier battles; praiseworthy.”
Lansing State Journal says: “For the military buff, [Guadalcanal:
Starvation Island] is an excellent resource. For the casual reader, it is a
well-written account of one of the most crucial times in the history of
the United States.”
ALA Booklist says: [Eric Hammel] “effectively utilizes the accounts
of the battle participants to provide a vivid dimension to the fighting . .
.“
Library Journal says: “Hammel does not write dry history. His battle
sequences are masterfully portrayed.”
Canadian Military History says: Hammel’s descriptions of
engagements on land, air and sea are fast-paced and engagingly written,
and he has a knack for weaving together character and circumstance
into a very readable story.”
Book World says: [Guadalcanal: Starvation Island] is stark, naked,
and brutal. . . . It is an excellent, toughly drawn account of the
awesomeness of war and is worthy many times over of being in any
library worthy of the name.”
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book CARRIER
STRIKE: The Battle of the Santa Cruz Islands, October 1942 by Eric
Hammel. The book is currently available in a $22.95 trade paperback
edition published by Zenith Press. It is also available in ebook
editions.
AMBUSH!
by Eric Hammel
Copyright © 1999 by Eric Hammel
The first American strike bombers—seven Scouting-8 and eight
Bombing-8 Dauntlesses under Scouting-8’s LCdr Gus Widhelm—did
not begin launching until 0732, nearly twenty minutes after the first
Japanese launch. Following the Dauntlesses were six Avengers under
the Torpedo-6 commander, Lt Iceberg Parker. Last aloft were two
divisions of Fighting-72 under the squadron commander, LCdr Mike
Sanchez. This strike, under the overall command of Lieutenant
Commander Widhelm, was vectored directly against the last-reported
position of the Japanese carriers.
The next strike group began launching from the Enterprise at about
0750, nearly twenty minutes after Widhelm’s strike began launching.
This force was led by Cdr Dick Gaines, the Air Group 10 commander,
who was flying his own command Avenger. It consisted of just three
Bombing-10 Dauntlesses flown by Scouting-10 pilots; seven Avengers
under the Torpedo-10 commander, LCdr Jack Collett; and eight Wildcats
under the Fighting-10 skipper, LCdr Jimmy Flatley.
There were several Avengers available aboard the Enterprise that
could not be launched on this makeshift mission, because three Avenger
aircrews were stuck aboard the plane-guard destroyers that had fished
them out of the water during the night-landing fiasco. In addition, two
Torpedo-10 crews were temporarily marooned aboard the Hornet, having
been forced to stay overnight after ferrying two replacement TBFs over
late the previous afternoon. The inconsequential showing by the
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Enterprise dive-bombers was the result of the requirements of both the
morning search and maintaining antisubmarine patrols for the entire
task force.
The Enterprise strike group, such as it was, took an extremely
long time getting airborne. Torpedo-10’s Lt Doc Norton, who was one
of the last in line, saw that each pilot ahead of him was stopping to read
from a chalkboard held up by one of the flight-deck crewmen. When
Norton’s turn came, he read, “Proceed without Hornet.” Norton, who
took off a few minutes later, did not even see any Hornet aircraft, though
that ship was starkly visible on the horizon.
Beginning at 0810, about forty minutes after Widhelm’s strike
commenced launching, the Hornet Air Group commander, Cdr Walt
Rodee, piloting his command Avenger, led off the second Hornet strike:
nine Dauntlesses under Lt Johnny Lynch, the Bombing-8 exec; eight
Avengers under Lt Ward Powell, the Torpedo-6 exec; and seven Fighting72 Wildcats under Lt Warren Ford. This was the clean-up formation; it
would strike what there was left to strike, carriers or surface warships.
The problem with the cobbled-together attack plan was that it was
not cohesive. Both carriers initially launched the bombers and fighters
they had available on the flight deck or at the ready and within easy
reach on the hangar deck. Because each strike group was obliged to fly
up to 200 miles to reach the Japanese—a circumstance was made worse
by the need of the U.S. carriers to sail away from the Japanese during
launches into the prevailing wind—forming the first Hornet and
Enterprise groups into a single unit was deemed too demanding on fuel
supplies. Moreover, there was no U.S. doctrine allowing the
subordination of one air-group commander to another, nor the meshing
of squadrons of one air group with like squadrons of another.
So, the U.S. strike groups went off as a stream of separate mixed
units, each one composed of whatever aircraft happened to be available
at the time of the launch. Indeed, each of the three strike groups lacked
internal cohesion; each was itself strung out over distances of several
miles.
Throughout 1942, the U.S. Navy had been working hard to develop
types of formations that would cluster the bombers in such a way as to
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make them mutually supporting and to take full advantage of the forwardand rear-firing machine guns, but there was no doctrine for mixing divebombers and torpedo bombers in the same formation. Fighter-escort
procedures were also relatively crude, but even the crude methods were
obviated by the distance that had to be covered between each strike
group’s lead and rear bombers. The Wildcat divisions—two to each strike
group—tended to stay high because the Wildcats needed an initial altitude
advantage to effectively combat faster-climbing Zeros. In the case of
the two fighter divisions escorting the lead Hornet strike, one division
had to fly cover with the higher Dauntlesses, while the other had to fly
at only 2,000 feet with the Avengers. The mixed Enterprise strike planes
all flew at roughly the same altitude, with the two fighter divisions split
up to guard either flank just ahead of the bombers.
*
The opposing strike formations began passing one another at about
0830, when Gus Widhelm’s lead strike group was only sixty miles out
from the Hornet. The low group of Wildcat-escorted Avengers actually
passed directly beneath the larger Japanese formation. Widhelm and his
pilots warily eyed LCdr Shigeharu Murata’s strike group, and Murata
and his pilots reciprocated. Many individual gunners in both forces
trained out their machine guns, but no one opened fire and none of the
fighters broke formation to molest the enemy. Within minutes, the strike
groups had passed one another other. Assuming the Japanese had warned
their ships of their presence, and thus feeling no need to maintain radio
silence, both Widhelm and Mike Sanchez radioed Task Force 61 that a
large Japanese strike was inbound. Murata did the same; he radioed the
Carrier Group that fifteen enemy bombers were inbound. High above
the passing bomber formations, twenty-nine Zuikaku Zero pilots failed
to spot the American aircraft.
*
Next up—about ten miles behind Widhelm, 5,000 feet lower, and
somewhat to the east—was Dick Gaines’s smaller Enterprise strike
group, which had been launched only twenty minutes earlier and which
was only forty-five miles from the ship. The Enterprise group was still
low and climbing very slowly to conserve fuel—except for Commander
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Gaines, who had more fuel aboard than the other pilots and who rapidly
climbed far higher than anyone else.
The Dauntlesses, which were the slowest of the three American
aircraft types, had the lead so that the swifter Avengers could hold station
on them. This required the Avengers—flying in newly contrived steppeddown diamond-shaped, four-plane defensive formations—to weave a
little in order to keep from overrunning the straining SBDs in the long,
slow climb. The two fighter divisions—LCdr Jimmy Flatley’s on the
right and Lt(jg) John Leppla’s on the left—were weaving back and forth
1,000 feet above and just ahead of the bombers in an effort to match
speed with the much slower Dauntlesses.
Flatley and Leppla were both veterans of the Coral Sea. Indeed,
both had won Navy Crosses in history’s first carrier-versus-carrier
battle—Flatley for his superb fighter leadership and Leppla for being
the most aggressive Dauntless pilot anyone could remember. (Leppla’s
rearseatman at Coral Sea, also a Navy Cross holder, was ARM2 John
Liska, who was returning home to the Enterprise at that very moment
with Scouting-10’s Lt(jg) Doan Carmody.)
Few of the Enterprise strike aircraft had turned on their radios
yet, the better to preserve radio silence. They were still climbing when
Gus Widhelm and Mike Sanchez broadcast their warnings to Task Force
61—which intercepted neither message—and no one in any of the
Enterprise aircraft heard the alert.
Lt Saneyasu Hidaka, leading nine Zuiho Zeros, was frustrated by
the lack of orders from Lieutenant Commander Murata to attack the
passing Hornet strikers, so he did not wait upon word from Murata when
he spotted the climbing Enterprise force. Though bouncing the second
wave of American bombers would deprive Murata’s force of close-in
support, Hidaka apparently thought that a quick hit-and-run pass from
14,000 feet would leave him with plenty of time to rejoin the bombers
before the attack on the American carriers commenced.
At 0840, Lieutenant Hidaka signed to the eight other Zuiho Zero
pilots to follow him down in string formation against the American carrier
bombers. After the Zeros had completed a descending 180-degree turn,
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the attack would be launched against the rear of the Enterprise formation
and from out of the sun.
Hidaka’s attack completely surprised the Americans. Ironically,
only moments before the Japanese struck, LCdr Jack Collett, in the lead
Avenger, had wondered aloud about the total absence of chatter on the
radio—radio silence was seldom perfectly maintained—and had asked
ARM1 Tom Nelson whether the radio was functioning. Nelson indeed
found that someone had turned the frequency selector from the torpedo
channel, and he made the necessary change. But it was too late.
*
The first American warplane to be struck by the Japanese fighters
was Collet’s. ARM1 Tom Nelson had just heard a bleat of “Bogeys!”
over the radio and was cranking back his tunnel-mounted .30-caliber
machine gun when he heard the throaty voice of the .50-caliber turret
gun overhead. An instant later, the Avenger shivered right down her air
frame and involuntarily fishtailed. Then the starboard wing went down
a bit. Nelson realized that the torpedo bomber was gliding toward the
ocean. A quick peek out the starboard porthole revealed a sick sort of
look on the face of Lt(jg) Robert Oscar, the pilot of the TBF stepped off
Collett’s starboard wing.
Oscar’s expression told Nelson that it was time to go. He was just
beginning to move when he realized that smoke was pouring through
the fuselage of the airplane. He grabbed the interphone mike and yelled
into it to get Collett’s attention, but there was no answer. It looked more
and more like the engine had been damaged or destroyed and the pilot
had been injured or killed.
By the time Nelson called to warn Collett, the latter had already
exited the cockpit. Lt(jg) Raymond Wyllie, the pilot of the rear TBF in
Collett’s division, saw the squadron commander climb out onto the right
wing and jump. He was never seen again.
Meanhile, Tom Nelson crawled into the radio compartment and
pulled the locking pins on the hatch, which he kicked out into space.
AM1 Steve Nadison was still in the turret, so Nelson had to get his
attention and hand him his parachute. As he did, he realized that Nadison
had balked at wearing even his parachute harness in the cramped turret.
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So, while all Nelson had to do was clip his emergency parachute to his
harness, Nadison had to climb into his harness and then clip on the
chute. It was a life-and-death difference.
Nelson tarried for a moment to help Nadison into the harness, but
it was too cramped in the radio compartment for so much frantic
movement, and it was all the more difficult because the Avenger was
turning out of control to the right. Evidently realizing that Nelson couldn’t
help him, Nadison looked right into Nelson’s eyes and cocked his head,
a signal for Nelson to give him room by bailing out. With that, Nelson
clipped on his chute and stood in the hatchway. The slipstream was
powerful, and the airplane was still accelerating as it dived in a tight
right spiral toward the ocean. It took a real concentration of energy for
Nelson to dive through the tiny hatchway, but he did. The last thing he
saw in the Avenger was the altimeter, which showed a reading of 2,000
feet.
Tom Nelson instantly yanked the D-ring on his parachute pack,
far too soon for inertia to overcome his momentum, which was the same
as the falling airplane’s. The force of the pilot chute’s impact with the
rushing air tore it away from the main chute and knocked Nelson out.
When the radioman came to, he was floating beneath a beautiful white
silk can-opy. He saw a large burning fuel slick on the surface of the
ocean about a quarter-mile away. This was certainly his airplane. He
quickly looked around for more parachutes, but there was none. At that
moment, a Zero made a firing pass on Nelson, and the chute was badly
riddled. Never-theless, Nelson slipped into the water a moment later
and ducked beneath the surface. The respite was short-lived; he had
bluffed the Japanese pilot, but one of the parachute shroud lines had
become entangled with the buckle of his flight suit. He was being dragged
down by the sodden, heavy parachute when he found the tangle and
pulled it free. He yanked the twin D-rings on his Mae West life jacket,
but only one side automatically inflated. He blew the other side up by
the mouth tube and discovered that it had a hole in it, which gave him
something upon which he could focus his attention. He had no idea
what to do next.
*
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AMM3 Tom Powell, the turret gunner aboard Lt(jg) Robert Oscar’s
TBF, located on the right wing of LCdr Jack Collett’s lead Avenger, was
watching on the right side of the formation when the Zeros hit. This was
his role in a new method of formation defense known as concentrated
cone fire. All the turret gunners on the right watched and fired to the
right, and all the turret gunners on the left watched and fired to the left.
The area overhead and between the right and left airplanes was a freefire zone. The tunnel gunners directed their attention and fire by the
same method. From the first moment the Zeros broke out of the sun
firing all their weapons, Powell was engaged up to his eyeballs in
returning the fire. He never even noticed that the lead Avenger had fallen
out of the formation.
During one sweeping firing pass by a Zero shotai, Powell thought
he saw one of the enemy fighters explode in mid air, but his attention
was instantly diverted elsewhere. A few moments later, during a fast
peek over the side of the airplane, he definitely saw another Zero smoking
as tracers from another Avenger passed all the way through it. The
ensuing kill was credited to ARM3 Charles Shinneman, the turret gunner
aboard Lt Tommy Thompson’s TBF, the lead plane in the stepped-down
second torpedo element. Powell had no fewer than three Zeros in view
at all times throughout the brief engagement.
*
The tail-end Avenger in the first section, piloted by Ens John Reed,
was mortally hit by the second Zero shotai passing from ahead to astern.
AMM3 Murray Glasser, the turret gunner, barely had time to fire a few
bursts at the passing Zeros before the intercom crackled with Ensign
Reed’s screams, “Bail out! Bail out!” At precisely that moment, Glasser
realized that pieces of the airplane were flying back past the turret, and
he thought he saw the tip of flames licking around his post. He instantly
locked the turret and dropped into the large radio compartment.
The gunners’ chest parachutes, which were too large to wear in
the confined turret and tunnel, were secured by large bungee cords to
the bulkhead directly above the starboard hatch. Glasser was the first to
get to them, and he threw one to the radioman-bombardier, RM3 Grant
Harrison, who was sitting in the jump seat in front of the bombsight. It
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took Glasser another instant to realize that Harrison was already pushing
the hatch open against the slipstream, though he did not have his
parachute on. Glasser was about to say something to Harrison, but he
saw that the radioman was glassy-eyed and realized that he had drifted
off into a catatonic state.
Glasser dived through the open hatchway and pulled his
parachute’s D-ring. As the chute billowed above him, he saw a Zero
knife straight into the water. Minutes later—he had lost track of time—
he gently entered the water and climbed out of the encumbering parachute
harness without any difficulty. When next he looked, the sky was empty
and eerily quiet.
*
It took several seconds after the initial attack on the lead Avengers
for the rear Zero shotai to strike Lt Doc Norton’s airplane, which was
next- to-last in the rear Avenger formation. Both Norton’s plane and the
rearmost, piloted by Lt(jg) Dick Batten, were riddled by 20mm cannon
and 7.7mm machine-gun fire. Nevertheless, both of the turret gunners
got rounds into one of the Zeros as it flashed on by from astern to ahead,
and the Zero ignited like a torch just before it grazed Norton’s right
wingtip. Though all the gunners probably got a piece of the destroyed
Zero, the entire kill was credited to Batten’s tunnel gunner, AM2 Rex
Holmgrin.
Batten’s Avenger was hit by the passing Zeros. A fire erupted in
the hydraulics line controlling the port aileron, which stood straight up.
Holmgrin yelled a warning to Batten, who responded, “Get ready to
jump. I’ll put her in the water,” and then went on the open radio channel
to say that he was on fire and setting down in the water. The burning
TBF dropped out of formation, but the damaged aileron fell off the wing
and the hydraulics fire burned itself out. The bomb bay doors could not
be opened, and thus the torpedo—which was probably damaged, too—
could not be jettisoned. Batten found he could keep the damaged Avenger
flying, so he gingerly turned back toward Task Force 61, hoping to nurse
it all the way home.
*
The first American fighters into the fray were John Leppla and his
Fighting-10 Wildcat division—Ens Al Mead, Ens Dusty Rhodes, and
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Ens Chip Reding. All save Leppla were novices. Leppla flew directly
into the oncoming Zeros. The four Wildcats instantly received hammer
blows from hundreds of 20mm and 7.7mm rounds.
Chip Reding, Leppla’s second-section leader, saw only the rear
Zero shotai as it closed on the Avengers. He immediately charged his
guns and dropped his wing fuel tank. The transition from the drop tank
to the main tank did not go well, however, and Reding temporarily lost
air speed. In a second or two, the fuel-starved engine sputtered and died,
and the Wildcat spiraled toward the ocean as Reding desperately tried
to restart the engine.
Dusty Rhodes, Reding’s wingman and the division’s tail-endCharlie, also had a problem with his wing tank. It stuck in place when
he tried to jettison it, and a Japanese incendiary or tracer round set it
aflame. Rhodes nevertheless stayed on station above Reding while the
latter fluttered toward the sea and until he got his engine restarted. During
those few bleak moments, oncoming Zeros riddled Rhodes’s canopy,
shot out most of his instruments, and clipped his pushed-up goggles
from his forehead—all without injuring him. Meanwhile, the wing tank
continued to spew dangerous flames.
As his engine restarted, Chip Reding distinctly saw two Avengers
struck by Zeros diving from above and both sides, from directly out of
the sun. He led Rhodes straight at the attackers, but other Japanese
fighters intervened and pressed home their own attacks at such steep
angles and in such quick succession that neither Reding nor Rhodes
was able to get any of the Zeros in his reflector gunsight. At some point
in the swirling fight, however, the fire in Rhodes’s wing tank went out,
by then a small consolation.
John Leppla was gone. The last person to see him was Dusty
Rhodes, who had looked back just once to see Leppla making a head-on
run at one Zero with a second Zero clinging to his tail. A few moments
later, Rhodes saw a partially deployed parachute streaming toward the
water and thought it might be Leppla, but there was no way to be sure
because by then several Avengers had been culled from the formation.
Long before Rhodes’s last sighting, and only an instant after the
action got under way, Leppla’s wingman, Al Mead, had evacuated his
disabled Wildcat. He safely parachuted into the water.
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After a minute or two, Reding and Rhodes became separated. Each
of their fighters had suffered severe damage. Rhodes had no instruments,
and Reding’s electrical system was gone, which meant he could not use
his radio or fire his guns. Each pilot instinctively looked around for the
other, and they managed to get back together. They had been flying as a
team for months and simply fell into a smoothly executed scissor weave,
less as a means of suckering in Zeros—for neither Wildcat was able to
fire its guns—than as a way of evading Zeros. Slowly, the two Wildcats
were being pulverized. But neither pilot had yet been injured.
Then Rhodes’s engine burned out and froze. He was at 2,500 feet.
He put the nose down for speed and turned upwind preparatory to
ditching. A Zero dead astern opened fire, and the 7.7mm bullets severed
the rudder-control cable. By then, Rhodes was approaching 1,000 feet.
It was time to leave. He threw back the remains of the Wildcat’s canopy,
stood up, kicked the joystick right into the instrument panel, and yanked
the D-ring on his parachute. The unfurling silk canopy neatly plucked
Dusty Rhodes from his dead fighter and carried him gently to the sea,
where he made a hard landing. When Rhodes next looked up, Chip
Reding was zooming away with three Zeros glued to his tail.
Reding tried to stay over Rhodes, but the Zeros on his tail quickly
drove him away. He dived toward the water and was below 100 feet
before he was able to break away from the attackers. The strike group
was long gone, and the Japanese seemed to be gone, too. Chip Reding
turned the nose of his scrap-heap fighter toward the Enterprise’s last
known position.
*
LCdr Jimmy Flatley’s division did not initially see the Zero attack
nor Leppla’s response because Leppla’s division was weaving away
from the main formation when the attack was sprung. By the time Flatley
realized that his group was under attack, the relative position of Leppla’s
division had shifted from the formation’s port vanguard to well astern.
At the same moment, Flatley saw one Zero take position below and
ahead of the TBFs.
As soon as Flatley saw the attack on the Avengers get under way,
he turned into the main formation to harass the nearest Zero, which was
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by then well along in its approach from beneath the Avengers. Flatley
executed a diving turn, came up with a full-deflection shot, and unleashed
a stream of .50-caliber bullets. The Zero pulled up and turned away
from the Avenger as Flatley recovered above and to the side to begin a
second run. Flatley again got the Zero in his sights and instantly flicked
the gun-button knob on his joystick while still at extreme range; a Zero
hardly ever stayed put long enough for a perfect set-up. The gamble
paid off: the Zero began smoking. A third, high-side, attack sent the
Japanese fighter hurtling into the waves.
When Jimmy Flatley looked up for more targets, he saw that the
Zeros were gone and that the group of Torpedo-10 Avengers had been
reduced from eight to six. Leppla’s Wildcat division had vanished.
The score for this unanticipated contest was four of nine Zeros
downed by TBF gunners and F4F pilots, two of eight TBFs downed,
and three of eight F4Fs downed. The human toll was four Japanese
pilots lost, five American pilots and crewmen killed, and two Wildcat
pilots and two Avenger crewmen in the water.
*
When the Zeros were gone—they made only the one sweeping
pass—Doc Norton checked his riddled TBF for damage and discovered
that he had no hydraulic power. This meant that the bomb-bay and .50caliber turret were inoperable. The Avenger’s right aileron was flapping
in the slipstream, its control cable severed, and there was a large hole in
the right wing disturbingly close to the locking mechanism. A closer
check of the right wing revealed that the red warning tab was projecting,
a pretty fair indicator that the locking pin was not properly seated and
that the folding wing might fold at any moment. Fortunately, no one
aboard Norton’s plane had been injured.
Norton conducted a brief internal argument with himself. It was
certain that Japanese carriers lay ahead, and getting Japanese carriers
was what he was drawing pay to do. But the fact that the bomb-bay
doors were locked tight by the disabled hydraulic system, and that the
rear turret could not be worked at optimum performance for the same
reason, militated against continuing. The clincher was that projecting
wing-lock warning tab. There was a better-than-even chance that the
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right wing would fold back if Norton pulled too many negative gees,
and doing so was a virtual certainty in a combat torpedo approach. So,
Norton gave the section leader, Lt Tommy Thompson, the hand signal
for “sick airplane” and gingerly peeled into a turn for home. By then,
Lt(jg) Dick Batten had fallen out of the formation, and the two damaged
TBFs joined up for the trip back to the Enterprise.
It naturally occurred to many of the six airmen aboard the returning
Avengers that they were behind the Japanese strike group. All of them
had an uneasy feeling about what they might find when next they saw
Task Force 61.
For their part, the Zuiho Zeros were done for the day. Four of nine
had been shot down, and one or two others, possibly including Lieutenant
Hidaka’s, were badly damaged. Feeling there was no way any of his
Zeros could catch up with Lieutenant Commander Murata’s receding
strikers, Hidaka turned for home with the four remaining Zeros of his
squadron. The Zuiho Zeros had done much to blunt the power of the
Enterprise strike group, but Lieutenant Hidaka’s rash decision to attack
was going to bear bitter fruit when Murata’s force came within range of
the Wildcats protecting Task Force 61.
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CHOSIN
Heroic Ordeal of the Korean War
By Eric Hammel
Told from the point of view of the men in the foxholes and tanks, outposts,
and command posts, Eric Hammel’s Chosin is the definitive account of
the epic retreat under fire of the 1st Marine Division from the Chosin
Reservoir in December 1950.
The author first sketches in the errors and miscalculations on the
part of the American high command that caused the Marines to be strung
out at the end of a narrow road scores of miles from the sea. He then
plunges right into the action: the massing of Chinese forces in about
ten-to-one strength; the Marines’ command problems due to the climate
and terrain and high-level overconfidence; and the onset of the overwhelming Chinese assault.
With a wealth of tactical detail and small-unit action Chosin: Heroic Ordeal of the Korean War is the most complete, most compelling
book written on this iconic battle. Author Eric Hammel’s masterful
account offers invaluable perspective on war at the gut level.
Praise for Chosin
“Hammel’s book is full of accounts of the stuff that legends are made
from. It is a cliffhanger of a story, and he tells it master-fully. Readers
should be warned: Just as in the campaign itself, where there was no
rear echelon and everyone was a combatant, so too, if you go into Yudamni with the Marines you had better be prepared to be with them all the
way on to Hungnam and freedom.” —Sea Power Magazine
“This is a view over the foxhole’s rim. It concentrates on the superlative
effort, suffering and courage of the young enlisted Marines, sailors and
soldiers who glared at the quilted-uniformed enemy and refused to be
stared down ... a factual, revealing and penetrating look at war at its
worst and men at their best.” —The San Diego Union
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“The author’s weaving of men, crises, and numbing cold leaves the reader
in awe of this feat of arms in which soldiers and Marines fought an epic
struggle to survive. . . . Hammel’s book is highly recommended.”
—Infantry Magazine
“Involves the reader emotionally in a kaleidoscope of different, individual
perceptions—from officers in their headquarters to riflemen shivering
in the foxholes ... to the small-unit actions that, in their totality, shaped
the ultimate course of the battle.” —Military History Magazine
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book CHOSIN:
Heroic Ordeal of the Korean War by Eric Hammel. The book is
currently available in a $19.95 trade paperback edition published
by Zenith Press. It is also available in ebook editions.
HILL 1282
by Eric Hammel
Copyright © 1981 by Eric Hammel
The 1st Marine Division was on the move, toward the Yalu River. With
any luck, if the weather cooperated, the United Nations police action in
Korea would be over in a matter of weeks.
The 5th Marine Regiment (5th Marines), most of the 7th Marines,
and three artillery battalions of the 11th Marines spent the daylight hours
of November 27, 1950, staging into the North Korean mountain-valley
town of Yudam-ni, on the frozen shore of the Chosin Reservoir. While
company-size units of the 7th Marines patrolled and fought through the
day to secure the far-flung ridgelines that dominated the valley, a battalion
of the 5th Marines mounted a limited assault aimed at striking off into
the unsecured hinterland of North Korea.
Strangely, for the Marines had faced no serious opposition in more
than a month, all their patrols, sweeps, and advances on November 27
were strongly contested. Unbeknown to the Marines, tens of thousands
of Chinese People’s Liberation Army (PLA) soldiers were set that very
night to spring an awesome trap upon the main body of the 1st Marine
Division.
Simultaneous mass infantry assaults were launched around the valley
of Yudam-ni at about 2100. The temperature was minus-30 degrees
Fahrenheit, so all but the regular watchkeepers were snuggled in their
soft down sleeping bags, shoeless and exhausted by the day’s prodigious
physical exertions and the sub-zero chill.
Yudam-ni was seen by all higher headquarters as a temporary staging
area. No strong hostile action was anticipated, and there was no strong
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central authority determining where this battalion or that company was
to be placed. Too large to be defended by a continuous line, the valley
of Yudam-ni was merely screened by several isolated pockets of Marines:
How Company, 3d Battalion, 7th Marines (How/3/7) to the northwest;
Charlie/1/7 to the southeast; Dog/2/7 and Easy/2/7 to the east. Units of
the 5th Marines caught on the “perimeter” just happened to be there
when the day’s activities had drawn to a close. There was nothing wrong
with the deployment; indeed, it was an adequate response of the solid
combat experience of the planners to the latest intelligence data from
higher headquarters.
The “orphan” companies of the 2nd Battalion, 7th, were orphans
because of the way Marine divisions of the era were not built. They
were not built for moving and victualing themselves over very long
lines of supply. There was not sufficient motor transport in 1st Ma-rine
Division for moving so many men so quickly over so many road miles
to a place like Yudam-ni. Owing to movement schedules worked out by
harried motor-transport officers juggling conflicting priorities, it just
happened that the 2nd Battalion, 7th, was split up for the longest period
of time. On November 26, there were suffi-cient trucks to get two
companies from Hagaru-ri to Yudam-ni. The remainder of the battalion
had to await the vehicles that were bring-ing its relief up from the south
on November 28. Thus, the two companies, about four hundred men,
moved early and were attached administratively to Ray Davis’s 1st
Battalion, 7th, which placed them out of the way in the hills east of the
long central valley of Yudam-ni.
*
Though composed largely of Reservists, Dog and Easy Compa-nies,
7th, were considered first-rate combat units. They had been baptized on
the Inchon-Seoul Highway in September, and they had been in steady
action all the way up from Wonsan.
After arriving at Yudam-ni on November 26, the companies had been
sent to outpost Hills 1240 and 1282, east of town, the former about one
thousand yards east by south of the latter. The relative isolation of their
positions was not lost upon the company com-manders. Patrols were
sent out to examine and cover the intervening ground through the first
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day and night. As with the other 7th Regi-ment units guarding heights
on the periphery of the valley, the two companies of the 2nd Battalion,
7th, were to be aided in covering their ground by the guns of the 3rd
Battalion, 11th, the regimental 4.2-inch mortars, and such other mortars
and heavy armaments as could be brought to bear in an emergency. It
was a standard solution to a standard problem.
During the night of November 26, an Easy/7 light machine gunner
at the left extremity of the company line on Hill 1282 detected move-ment
on the front. He tossed a grenade and bagged a Chinese infan-try officer
who had been busily plotting the company position when he met his
end; strewn about the corpse was a plotting board, tape measure, and
alidade. Papers on the dead man identified him as a member of the 79th
PLA Division.
*
The bulk of Captain Milt Hull’s Dog/7 stepped off late in the morning
of November 27 to patrol the ground north of Hill 1240. After three
hours on the go the point platoon ran into a dozen Chinese and dispersed
them. The middle platoon then passed through the point and swung
eastward toward the village of Kyodong-ni, on the shore of the frozen
Reservoir.
The village had previously been burned out by marauding Marine
fighter-bombers and was said to have been abandoned. The lead platoon,
however, was hit by heavy fire as it crossed some low ground preparatory
to entering the ruins. A strong Chinese force was entrenched on high
ground north and west of the hamlet.
Four Marine Corsairs made runs on the village as the two lead Dog
Company platoons deployed to deliver an attack. One platoon leader
was seriously wounded at the outset, but the other pressed on as a second
air strike swept in. The Chinese had the terrain advantage and superior
firepower, and the Marines were pressed back. The point platoon leader
was killed while attempting to make a stand.
Captain Hull informed his nominal superior, Lieutenant Colonel Ray
Davis, that Dog/7 was under heavy pressure. Unable to do any-thing
more constructive, Davis ordered Hull to return to Hill 1240 under
friendly air and mortar cover. The Chinese chased Dog Com-pany as far
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as they dared, then drifted back toward Kyodong-ni. In all, sixteen
Marines were killed or injured.
*
Easy/7 had nowhere near as dramatic a day as its sister unit, but the
troops were kept alert by almost constant sightings of white-clad Chinese
all over distant ridges.
Initially, Captain Walt Phillips had only two platoons with which to
defend Hill 1282. These were placed in crescent-shaped arcs at the
summit, one facing northeast, the other northwest. The detached platoon,
which had spent the day guarding the regimental command post, was
returned in the early evening of November 27. This unit was placed in
line on a low spur just to the south of the summit of Hill 1282, several
dozen yards behind the lines of its sister platoons, almost like a tail
protruding from the main body of the company. The company’s three
60mm mortars were emplaced below the sum-mit, between the two
forward rifle platoons and the company CP. All light and heavy machine
guns were deployed with the. forward rifle platoons.
Though the troops received no official warning of an impending
attack, they routinely set out trip flares along the entire front, and all
weapons were registered upon every reachable approach to the company
lines.
Milt Hull’s Dog Company, on Hill 1240, was similarly vigilant,
though its position was somewhat below the actual summit of the hill,
possibly hidden from Chinese observers manning posts on the rim of
hills to the east.
The 79th PLA Division was deployed to seize three of the four hills
guarding the western side of the Yudam-ni base. It is evident, though
not certain, that each of the division’s three regiments was assigned an
objective that did not appear to Chinese observers to have been occupied
by American Marines: the rightmost Chinese regiment was to seize Hill
1384, behind which Taplett’s battalion had come to rest in the late
afternoon of November 27. The center Chinese regiment was to take
Hill 1240, behind whose summit Milt Hull’s Dog/7 had been camped
since November 26. The leftmost Chinese regiment was to take Hill
1167, which was not occupied at all by Marines. Only Hill 1282, between
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Hills 1384 and 1240, was to be spared. The Chinese had had Walt
Phillips’s Easy/7 under direct observation since November 26; indeed,
they had lost a mapping officer to Phillips’s vigilant sentries that very
night. It seems that the commander of the 79th PLA Division had decided
to move into the valley of Yudam-ni against the least possible opposition,
by way of the “undefended” heights.
The forbidding terrain knocked the Chinese plan askew. The
reg-iment bound for Hill 1384 found its way, but the two southern
regi-ments, attacking in columns of battalions deployed in columns of
companies, veered northward. Thus, unoccupied Hill 1167 was not
assaulted; the regiment bound for it moved on Hill 1240, and the regiment
bound for Hill 1240 blundered toward Hill 1282. While this placed both
Marine companies in danger, the Chinese advan-tage of freedom of
movement was negated by the fact that the troops would be delivering
their attacks across totally unfamiliar terrain, at night, against
unanticipated opposition.
*
The first activity near Hill 1282 was noted at about 2200 hours, when
several PLA squads approached the previously unoccupied rear spur
and ran into 1st Lieutenant Bob Bey’s 3rd Platoon. Light skirmishing
ensued for about thirty minutes, in which time the prob-ers were driven
off at a cost of three Marines wounded.
Dog Company, to the east, was also lightly probed. The company
commanders, communicating by phone, agreed to pull in their horns,
and canceled the routine patrols that were to have covered the open
ground between the ridges.
*
In late 1942, John Yancey had been a corporal with Carlson’s Raiders
on Guadalcanal. At twenty-four, the Arkansan had striven to be the best
Marine in the Corps, and he had been awarded a Navy Cross and a
battlefield commission as a testament to his coolness under fire.
In late 1950, John Yancey was a thirty-two-year-old family man and
the proprietor of a Little Rock liquor store he had built up between the
wars. Older and wiser, he had volunteered to fight again in Korea, more
out of a yearning for action than anything else. In that sense, 1st
Lieutenant John Yancey, commanding Easy/7’s 1st Platoon, was typical
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of many Pacific War veterans who had stayed in the Reserves in the late
1940s and who had been called to the colors from good jobs and fledgling
businesses in the summer of 1950. But John Yancey was a certified
hero, and the impulse to stand and fight was still very much with him.
The second round of Chinese probes unfolded directly in front of
Yancey’s platoon. They were light, as usual, and the Chinese recoiled
upon contact, content to draw fire to learn the whereabouts of the rifle
pits and supporting machine guns.
Yancey was not overly perturbed by the probes. He had ordered his
gunners to hold their fire in order to avoid giving away their positions.
It was business as usual, but only for a few moments.
The unearthly silence was replaced by the cadenced tread of
thou-sands of sneaker-shod feet crunching down upon the thin film of
snow. In the distance, above the sound of the crunching, Yancey and his
men could discern the rhythmic chant of a single voice. Straining his
hearing to the limit, the former Raider thought he heard the words,
“Nobody lives forever. You die!” repeated over and over in heavily
accented English. It was almost too bizarre to believe.
John Yancey cranked the handle of his sound-powered phone set
and was answered in a whisper by the company exec, 1st Lieutenant
Ray Ball. “Ray,” Yancey warned, “they’re building up for an attack.
Get the 81s and give us some light, and then lay in on the ridge and
work back toward us.”
“There’s a shortage of 81s,” Ball revealed. “We can’t give you many.”
Yancey’s platoon waited while the shadowy mass of Chinese
peas-ant-soldiers stalked nearer. But for the crunching of feet on the
snow, the only sound was that lone Chinese voice: “Nobody lives forever.
You die!”
Index fingers lightly traced the outlines of triggers and trigger guards.
Moments passed, and those fingers toyed with the first pull, then tensed
and froze before squeezing through the final, firing, pull.
It was midnight.
The first trip flares burst, giving the illusion that the Chinese were
motionless silhouettes. The picture that was burned into the retinas and
memory cells of Yancey’s Marines was unprecedented, horrifying.
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The Chinese ranks stretched, endlessly it seemed, from one flank to
the other. Each was a precise fifteen yards from the one in front, as far
back as the eye could see. Leading the mass of white-clad infantry was
a lone officer, who yelled over and over in heavily accented mission
English, “Nobody lives forever. You die!”
John Yancey leaped to his feet and hurled a challenge at the Chinese
officer, but his voice was lost in the din of the Chinese chants and the
cacophonous bleats of whistles, bugles, and shep-herds’ horns.
“Lay it on, Ray,” Yancey blurted into the phone to the company
exec. He dropped the receiver and fired a full clip at the Chinese officer
leading the attack.
As the Marine line erupted in gunfire, 60mm and 81mm mortar fire
rained down on the Chinese, starting long and pulling closer to form a
protective curtain. But the supply of mortar ammunition was limited,
and the fire quickly abated. White-clad forms flitted be-tween foxholes
to assemble near the center of the company position, immune to fire
from Marines who feared hitting their own.
Certain that Yancey’s 1st Platoon was bearing the brunt of the attack,
Captain Walt Phillips sprang from his command post and sprinted
forward to take charge. He found John Yancey and his pla-toon sergeant
leaping from hole to hole, shouting encouragement and distributing spare
ammunition. Yancey could barely breathe because a grenade splinter
had penetrated the bridge of his nose; his report was delivered amidst
much hawking and spitting of the blood that trickled uncomfortably
down the back of his throat.
While Yancey moved one way, Walt Phillips moved the other,
shouting encouragement, seeing to the evacuation of the wounded,
calling up his meager reinforcements from the company CP area. Though
hit by bullets in an arm and a leg, Captain Phillips contin-ued to stand
his ground, an example to his troops.
First Lieutenant Bill Schreier, the company mortar officer, was
directing his crews amidst exploding hand grenades and mortar rounds
when he glanced up to see a half-dozen PLA infantrymen coming right
at him. He snapped his carbine up and fired, stopping the attackers
momentarily, until the simultaneous explosions of nu-merous grenades
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forced him to duck. Schreier next saw about twenty Chinese heading
his way. His fire had little or no effect, so he trundled uphill to the
company command post, where he found the wounded company
commander.
Phillips and Schreier spent the next several minutes attempting to
form a line around the command post. There were no more than ten
Marines in the vicinity, and there was no cover. White forms were moving
through the company area, and grenades were bursting in batches, like
firecrackers. Schreier had the distinct impression that Chinese grenadiers
were dragging baskets of concussion grenades through the line platoons,
stopping now and again to hurl whole clusters of them. He felt a sting in
his left leg as he fired his carbine steadily at the grenadiers, but he had
no time to check for a wound. Two or three grenades exploded practically
on top of the mortar officer, and he was wounded in the arm, wrist, and
chest.
The Chinese attack faltered, then receded. In time, it was nearly
quiet but for the desultory discharge of weapons that frightened men
from both armies fired at targets, real and imagined. It seemed to Marines
on the line that hundreds of dead and dying Chinese had been stacked
up within ten feet of Yancey’s line, and throughout the perimeter.
*
One thousand yards to the right of Hill 1282, across an open saddle the
Chinese were using as a pathway into the center of the valley of Yudamni, Captain Milt Hull’s Dog/7 was fighting a seesaw battle to hold Hill
1240.
The usual PLA probes were followed by vicious, tearing assaults
upon Hull’s line. The company commander had placed all three of his
understrength rifle platoons in a single line, and all three were thrashed
repeatedly by equally concentrated hammer blows. Two officers had
been lost on the patrol to Kyodong-ni during the day, and two more
were lost that night with a large and growing number of riflemen and
gunners. In time, the repeated body blows dislodged the center platoon,
forcing the entire company—all those Marines who could still move—
into headlong retreat down the hill.
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The rush was stemmed by sturdy, bull-necked Milt Hull, who placed
his burly, twice-wounded body between his Marines and the rear. Slowly,
Dog/7 re-formed under intense pressure, won back a few square yards
of lost ground, then followed the deter-mined company commander up
the dark, slippery slope toward the summit.
The Chinese were caught by surprise, and allowed themselves to be
forced from the newly won ground. But they rallied within minutes and
stampeded to retake the summit of Hill 1240. About thirty of them
sideslipped the fighting and established a machine-gun strongpoint in
the Marine right rear. The last of Hull’s officers was wounded, as was
his best platoon sergeant. Milt Hull raged at the survivors, “Hold fast!
It’s only one gun, and it can’t kill us all.” The weapon was grenaded out
of action, and the reinforced squad that was Dog/7 held.
*
Walt Phillips phoned Lieutenant Colonel Ray Davis at the first
opportunity: “We broke up the first attack, Colonel, but we’ve taken a
lot of casualties. We need some help.”
There was no overall base commander at Yudam-ni, merely two
coequal regimental commanders, each with his own set of problems.
Homer Litzenberg was by far the senior to Ray Murray, but he had no
mandate for taking command, and he did not. Murray, on the other hand,
controlled the only viable reserve force in the valley, Lieutenant Colonel
Jack Stevens’s 1st Battalion, 5th, which was en-camped in the shadow
of Hill 1282. Stevens was, in time, ordered to mount a relief force to
bail out the orphan companies on Hills 1282 and 1240.
The only officer in Stevens’s battalion who had ever been on Hill
1282 was 2nd Lieutenant Nick Trapnell, a professional Marine who had
been leading his platoon in constant action since joining Able Company,
5th, as a replacement on the Inchon-Seoul Highway. While establishing
an outpost line between his battalion CP and the hill mass late that
afternoon, Trapnell had been shown the awesome terrain by Captain
Walt Phillips, with whom he had shared some prewar service. Phillips
took pains to call Trapnell’s attention to the numerous white-clad Chinese
on distant ridges.
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The night’s action began for Nick Trapnell when one of his fireteam leaders crashed into the platoon’s command post screaming,
“They’re coming! They’re coming! There’re thousands of’em!”
Ter-rified at the prospect of being caught on low ground in the dark,
Trapnell immediately began gathering in the fire-team outposts he had
strung across the open ground and, without instructions, re-formed his
platoon on higher ground. Closest to Hill 1282, Trap-nell’s platoon was
the first of Stevens’s units to be ordered to the aid of Easy/7. That platoon
comprised no more than thirty-five men, probably a smaller number
than the losses Easy/7 had already sus-tained.
The trek up the back of Hill 1282 was frightening, strange, confusing.
Tracers passed overhead, but the reinforcements did not hear the sound
until they were virtually on top of the beseiged summit. Unsure of the
way, unsure if Easy/7 still existed, Trapnell’s platoon stumbled upward,
calling vainly into the threatening void, “Eas-ee Compan-ee! Eas-ee
Compan-ee?”
*
John Yancey was speaking with the right platoon leader, 1st Lieu-tenant
Leonard Clements, trying to coordinate a defense, when the Chinese
approached through the almost-silent darkness. Before either man could
react, a large hole appeared in the front of Clem-ents’s helmet, and blood
spurted out. Though the two men and their wives were the best of friends,
John Yancey did not waste one in-stant seeing how his fellow platoon
leader fared, for it seemed ob-vious that the round through Clements’s
forehead was fatal. Yancey tore off to rejoin his thin platoon. In fact,
although Clements had been knocked unconscious, he was not badly
injured. The bullet had glanced off his head at an oblique angle and had
spun about harmlessly in the helmet’s liner.
The 1st Battalion, 235th PLA Regiment, tore back into Easy/7’s line
after a thirty-minute respite. Hard one-two punches beat at one flank,
then the other. Marines were deafened by the discharge of bullets and
the close-in bursts of their own and Chinese grenades. The line was
thinned as more and more Marines were killed or disabled.
John Yancey was wounded again, seriously, when a grenade
frag-ment holed the roof of his mouth. And Walt Phillips was cut down
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by machine-gun fire just as he thrust a bayoneted rifle into the frozen
earth. “This is Easy Company,” he roared an instant before the fatal
burst hurled him to the ground, “and we hold here!”
First Lieutenant Ray Ball, the company executive officer, too badly
injured to assume command of the company, propped himself up in a
rifleman’s sitting position beside his foxhole and fired his carbine with
telling effect as his life’s blood froze in expanding puddles beside him.
In time, he fainted, and died.
Nick Trapnell’s Able/5 platoon found its way into the position of
the rearmost Easy/7 unit, 1st Lieutenant Bob Bey’s 3rd Platoon. Bey
had no idea as to the dire straits his company was in, so he suggested
that Trapnell’s thin platoon push off to the right to cover the open ground
between Hills 1282 and 1240. Trapnell had not nearly enough men for
the job, but he gamely led his riflemen into the void, dropping them off
two at a time until he was alone on the dangling flank.
The next Able/5 platoon up the hill came in directly behind the
engaged portion of Easy/7 and was cannibalized to flesh out Yan-cey’s
and Clements’s embattled platoons.
The first news of the company’s predicament reached Bob Bey when
a squad leader and four riflemen from Yancey’s platoon tum-bled off
the summit almost into the arms of Bey’s platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant
Daniel Murphy. When he heard for the first time the full story of the
fight higher up, Murphy rushed to Bey, repeated the gruesome tale, and
requested permission to take every man he could find to help. Out of
touch, unable to even hear the sounds of the furious battle because of
strange breaks in the ground, Bey felt that he could spare no more than
one squad and the platoon’s corpsman, who volunteered to go along.
It wasn’t much: Staff Sergeant Murphy, the corpsman, twelve 3rd
Platoon riflemen, the five 1st Platoon stragglers.
As Murphy’s group was breasting the summit, it slammed into a
gaggle of Chinese which had just broken through at the center of the
Marine line. The tiny group of Americans clawed their way over the
beaten ground, overran the overrun company CP, and re-formed while
the corpsman went to work on the wounded.
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Walt Phillips was dead. Ray Ball was dead. Leonard Clements
appeared to be dead. Bill Schreier was down with shrapnel in a wrist
and a lung. The young officer commanding the reinforcing Able/5 platoon
was severely injured. No one knew where John Yan-cey was, cut off
somewhere to the left it was supposed. The com-pany’s senior noncoms
were also missing. The rest was all up to Daniel Murphy.
The platoon sergeant bellowed for attention, rallying isolated
Ma-rines to his position by the CP. He redeployed those who came to
him, moved a machine gun to better advantage, kicked ass, threat-ened,
and prepared for the worst.
It was not long in coming. Masses of white-clad Chinese loomed
out of the darkness and slammed into the Marines. Murphy doled out
the last of the grenades and began dismantling BAR clips to eke out the
last of the .30-caliber rifle ammunition.
*
On the far side of the gap, John Yancey counted nine men who could
still fight beside him. Hoping to instill some confidence in nearly beaten
men, Yancey hawked blood and gurgled the battle cry he had learned as
a Marine Raider: “GUNG HO!” It means “Work Together,” and it is spoken
in the Cantonese mother tongue of most of the peasant-soldiers who
were then trampling victoriously across the summit of Hill 1282.
“GUNG HO!”
Ten weary, wounded Marines lifted themselves to their feet, fixed
bayonets, shuffled forward, their reedy battle cry cutting through the
shrill night wind, their bayonets silhouetted in the firelight.
“GUNG HO!”
John Yancey went to his knees as a shadowy Chinese soldier fired a
Thompson submachine gun full into his face. The impact of the only
round to hit him popped the Raider’s left eye out of its socket. The
amazed platoon leader fingered the slimy orb back into place and crawled
blindly up the blood-bespattered hillside.
“GUNG HO!”
The thin Marine line faltered, dissolved.
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CORAL AND BLOOD
The U.S. Marine Corps’ Pacific Campaign
By Eric Hammel
In only a lifetime, the long United States Marine Corps campaign across
the Pacific Island has become the stuff of enduring legend. We are down
to just a few Pacific Warriors who lived it and can still tell us about it
from their own experiences. Now, in Coral and Blood, the critically
acclaimed military historian Eric Hammel, who has specialized in writing
about Marines in the Pacific, has compiled a brief but comprehensive
history of the Marines’ island war. This book was conceived as a starting
point for readers who have not yet read much about the Pacific War, but
it is also designed to provide a simple yet complete overview for seasoned
Pacific War enthusiasts who have not yet examined the island campaigns
as an integrated whole. Perhaps by finding out about battles not yet
examined, an experienced Pacific War enthusiast will find inspiration
for moving on to new battles and looking for even broader understanding.
Following the general outline of his highly rated single-volume pictorial, Pacific Warriors, Hammel begins with the development of the
U.S. Marine Corps’ unique amphibious doctrine, then moves briskly
into the Pacific War by enumerating the Marine Corps presence on the
eve of war. Thereafter, every significant action involving U.S. Marines
during World War II—from Pearl Harbor and Wake Island to Okinawa—
is examined, including the role of Marine Air in the Philippines. In many
cases, longer and broader discussions are presented in this volume than
in Pacific Warriors.
Experienced reader or not, you will almost certainly find something
new and interesting in Coral and Blood. At the very least, you will find
Coral and Blood, which weighs in at a respectable 96,000 words, to be
valuable but not overbearing as a one-volume overview of the legendary efforts of Marines in the Pacific War.
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The following article is excerpted from the book CORAL AND
BLOOD: The U.S. Marine Corps’ Pacific Campaign by Eric Hammel.
The book is currently available only in ebook editions.
New Britain
December 1943—April 1944
by Eric Hammel
Copyright 2008 © by Eric Hammel
The campaign by the 1st Marine Division to seize Imperial Japanese
Army airfields and bases in western New Britain was unique because it
was undertaken by Marines entirely under U.S. Army command in an
area considered the province of the U.S. Army. The Cape Gloucester
campaign, in fact, was an offshoot of the New Guinea campaign and not
an extension of the Solomons campaign.
The impetus for the landings at Cape Gloucester, New Britain, was
the need to deny the Japanese an opportunity to mount air strikes against
the open right flank of Royal Australian Army units advancing along
the New Guinea coast within combat range of Cape Gloucester airfields,
especially between Finschafen and Saidor. By the time of the invasion,
AirSols assets operating from Bougainville would be in a position to
relieve the New Guinea-based U.S. Fifth Air Force and elements of the
Royal Australian Air Force of the burden of neutralizing Rabaul, and
those Fifth Air Force and Australian bombers and fighters—including
those to be based at Cape Gloucester—could then assist in speeding the
ground advance in New Guinea. Likewise, Vitiaz Strait, the sea passage
between Cape Gloucester and New Guinea, would be firmly under Allied
control and would thus provide clear passage for shipping along the
continuing route of advance up the New Guinea coast as well as toward
the Philippines.
The 1st Marine Division was selected for the main role on New
Britain because it had recuperated and retrained in Melbourne, Australia,
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following its harrowing ordeal at Guadalcanal; it happened to be ready
to return to combat at a time when General Douglas MacArthur’s
Southwest Pacific command needed an amphibious-capable infantry
division for the Cape Gloucester job. Final training and rehearsals took
place in New Guinea.
*
Cape Gloucester is among the rainiest regions on Earth, and the landings
were to take place at the height of the northwestern monsoon season.
Moreover, as was the case at Cape Torokina on Bougainville, the landing
area was filled with largely unmapped swampy lowlands, high ridges,
and rugged rain forests with few trails and waterways to aid in movement
through the region. On a typical day, temperatures stood at an extremely
humid and strength-sapping 90 degrees, and 72 degrees at night.
The key objectives were two airfields just back of Cape Gloucester,
but hundreds of square miles of terrain had to be secured to deny access
to the airfields by nearly the equivalent of an Imperial Army infantry
division deployed in western New Britain. Thus the New Britain
operation contemplated the rehabilitation of existing airfields and the
development of a stout defensive cordon around them, as well as the
pursuit and annihilation of Japanese ground forces across a vast area in
which only a few known axes of advance existed. The advantages on
the side of the invaders were air supremacy, freedom to move
amphibiously at the periphery of the battle zone, and the deterioration
of Japanese command and control following more than a year of intense
ground war in New Guinea.
*
The first Marines to get into action on New Britain were crews from
Company A, 1st Amphibian Tractor Battalion, who took part in landings
at Arawe by U.S. Army troops on December 15, 1943. Two of the
company’s new LVT-2 amtracs took a direct part in overwhelming a
Japanese strongpoint.
The net result of the Arawe landing was the dispersal of the Japanese
garrison and the dispatch of a thousand veteran troops from Cape
Gloucester toward Arawe only days before the Marine landings at Cape
Gloucester.
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*
The main prelanding bombardment at Cape Gloucester was
undertaken by Fifth Air Force bombers and fighter-bombers over a period
of months under conditions of total air supremacy. The target airfields
were no longer operational by late November, and the garrison was utterly
demoralized. Beginning on December 18, many air sorties were mounted
against prepared defenses in the immediate invasion zone, which were
nearly destroyed.
Beginning at 0743 hours on December 26, two infantry companies
of the reinforced 2d Battalion, 1st Marines (2/1) went ashore aboard
LCMs almost without incident east of the main beaches. The mission
was to block trails leading from the airdromes to the main landing
beaches. This landing is notable in that it was preceded at the last moment
by the first-ever rocket bombardment mounted by amphibious vehicles,
in this case U.S. Army DUKW amphibious trucks bearing multiple
launchers. The Marines uncovered a system of trenches and bunkers,
but no Japanese troops were encountered. The remainder of 2/1 landed
without incident from LCIs and LCTs, and the entire force got to work
on defensive measures to a distance of 500 yards from the beach.
In advance of the main landings at Cape Gloucester’s Beach Yellow,
two Royal Australian Navy heavy cruisers and two U.S. Navy light
cruisers opened fire at 0600 hours against beach targets with a 90-minute
bombardment that mounted to 3,605 8-, 6-, and 5-inch rounds. Five
squadrons of Fifth Air Force B-24 heavy bombers attacked a feature
known as Target Hill between 0700 and 0720; then, as naval gunfire
ceased at 0730, a squadron of B-25 medium bombers unloaded 8 tons
of white phosphorous bombs, also on Target Hill. While the smoke from
fires on Target Hill certainly obscured the landings from Japanese
observers, as intended, it also enshrouded the beaches to a distance of
3,000 yards to seaward just as landing craft were bearing down on them.
On schedule at 0745, a pair of LCI rocket ships fired last-minute
salvos at the beachhead area. Between 0741 and 0748, the leading
elements of 1/7 and 3/7 hit their respective beaches in a dozen LCVPs.
There was absolutely no one home. The biggest problem the assault
troops faced was the twisted wreckage of hundreds of trees blasted by
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the prelanding bombardment. Indeed, the first casualties resulted from
undermined trees that fell as advancing Marines brushed by them.
The first Japanese opposition was long-range machine gun fire that
tracked Company I, 3/7, as it hacked through dense jungle and emerged
on the coastal trail after its LCVPs went astray in the smoke and dumped
it 300 yards beyond the beachhead boundary. As the reinforced 1st
Marines (less 2/1) came ashore aboard LCIs behind the 7th Marines, 3/
1, which was to lead the drive on the airfields, was ordered to attack the
bunkers from which this fire originated, which happened to be on the
way to 3/1’s D-day objective.
Except for the occupants of the bunkers, the landing force met no
human opposition, but a deep, unmapped swamp directly behind the
beach, as well as other natural obstacles rearranged by the preinvasion
bombardment, made for extremely slow progress toward D-day
objectives. Almost as soon as it started its move toward the bunkers on
a two-company front, 3/1 had to contract its formation to a column of
companies.
As 3/1’s vanguard passed through Company I, 3/7’s blocking position
before the bunkers at 1010 hours, it came under heavy fire. The battle
did not go well for the Marines. An ad hoc bombardment by new 2.36inch rocket launchers (bazookas) and 37mm antitank guns was ineffective
because the spongy logs from which the bunkers were constructed
absorbed the impacts; 3/1 was unable to advance in the face of
concentrated fire until an LVT carrying supplies from the beach drove
over one of the bunkers and collapsed it. This allowed the infantry to
penetrate the defensive zone. Thereafter, a platoon of five Sherman M4
medium tanks arrived to help seal the fate of the defenders. In all, seven
Marines and twenty-five Japanese were killed and seven Marines were
wounded. Then 3/1 advanced to its D-day phase line and dug in.
On the left, 1/7 met only light opposition on its way to Target Hill.
This high ground was seized against light opposition, and 1/7 also dug
in.
In the center, 2/7 advanced through a deep swamp to the coastal
track; seized an abandoned Japanese supply depot; and attacked into a
dense, swampy forest through spotty opposition. The battalion reached
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its D-day phase line in the late afternoon and dug in on rising ground
without being able to tie in with adjacent units on either flank.
During the afternoon, 3/7 advanced through a swamp to its objective
and also dug in. When 3/7 was ordered to shift to its left to link up with
2/7, alert Japanese soldiers attempted to infiltrate via the abandoned
position, so the Marine battalion was called back to defend that ground.
Behind this screen of four infantry battalions, 1/1 landed as the force
reserve and set up in the Japanese supply depot, and 2/11 set up its
75mm pack howitzers on dry ground along the edge of the coastal trail
that ran through the beachhead. Two other artillery battalions—1/11
with 75mm pack howitzers, and 4/11 with 105mm field howitzers—
had a much harder time getting ashore across swampy ground. The 75s
were moved to dry sites aboard amtracs, but the 105s were too heavy
for that. In the end, amtracs blazed trails by crashing through dense
growth so that artillery tractors and troops using blocks and tackles could
move the guns, of which only three (of twelve) were set in by nightfall.
Faced with the problem of unmapped swamps sitting on proposed
dump sites, the division pioneer battalion (now designated 2d Battalion,
17th Marines, or 2/17) faced problems identical to those encountered at
Bougainville for the same reasons, including a 4-foot tidal surge. The
landing of supplies—many of them aboard preloaded U.S. Army trucks
driven by U.S. Army artillerymen—became increasingly unglued as Dday progressed. The unprocessed supplies and long lines of trucks made
for a glaring target when eighty-eight Rabaul-based Imperial Navy Zero
fighters and D3A dive-bombers attacked in the afternoon. One destroyer
was sunk and another was severely damaged, but so many Japanese
planes were shot down by antiaircraft guns and two squadrons of P-38
fighters that the invasion force was never again molested during the
day.
The 1st Marine Division forward command post moved ashore right
in the wake of the assault, and it oversaw the approximately eleven
thousand Marines who got ashore by nightfall. D-day operations—a
complete success—cost twenty-one killed and twenty-three wounded.
That night, the division commander requested that his force reserve—
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two reinforced battalions of the 5th Marines—be landed as soon as it
could be lifted to Cape Gloucester from Cape Sudest, New Guinea.
*
The Japanese also sent all available forces toward Cape Gloucester. Most
were on the move by the evening of December 26, and at least one
Imperial Army infantry battalion arrived opposite 2/7 during the late
evening. As the Japanese filed into a firing line opposite 2/7, individuals
opened fire on whatever targets they could perceive on a dark, moonless
night. Eventually Japanese scouts figured out that 2/7 was in an isolated
position with a swamp at its back and tied into no friendly units on
either flank.
As Marine carrying parties maintained a flow of ammunition through
the swamp, 2/7 held the developing counterattack at bay with remarkably
accurate fire coupled with iron-willed fire discipline. The Marines fired
only at clear targets and, for the most part, only when fired on. It rained
all night, but the rain subsided at dawn, just as Japanese troops assaulted
toward a break in the line. At that moment, troops from a 1st Special
Weapons Battalion 37mm antitank battery that had left its guns behind
to haul ammunition through the swamp arrived to plug the gap. The day
was saved in a heart-stopping seesaw battle in which the Marines finally
prevailed.
The Japanese doggedly threw in progressively weaker attacks for
three days, while the Marines built up their line with all manner of troops.
In the tradition of “every Marine is a rifleman,” the line in the center of
the beachhead was lengthened, bolstered, and filled in by 37mm gunners,
pioneers, and other special troops acting as infantry. As the battle around
2/7 progressed, each component of the regiment lengthened its line to
tie in with adjacent units; as 2/7 stretched right to tie in with 3/7, Weapons
Company, 7th Marines, filled in part of 1/7’s original line so that battalion
could ease to its right to tie in with 2/7’s left flank. In due course, the
Japanese were defeated by a continuous line of battle-tested Marines,
of whom eighteen were killed, three went missing, and fifty-eight were
wounded. The Japanese lost at least two hundred dead or wounded, and
the battalion around which the counterattack was built was permanently
crippled.
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*
With the 7th Marines pinned in the center and many of its own
troops committed as infantry, 2/17, reinforced to a strength of fourteen
hundred by several hundred replacements who had been preassigned to
the division en bloc, cleared the fouled beaches; the reinforced 5th
Marines was made ready to land at Cape Gloucester; and the 1st Marines
(less 2/1) moved on the airfields. Engineers from 1/17 and Seabees from
3/17 advanced in the infantry’s wake to put in roads and drain dump
sites all across the beachhead. Whenever the roads failed, U.S. Army
LCMs and LCVPs dropped supplies along the beach, opposite the troops
who needed them, and the supplies were then ported inland by work
details.
The vanguard for the advance on the airfields was 3/1, which,
following a quiet first night ashore, moved ahead on the narrow strip of
dry land supporting the coastal trail. Progress was orderly, deliberate,
and steady behind a fan of combat patrols and on-demand artillery
coverage.
*
The innovation of the day lay in tank-infantry coordination. The 1st
Marine Division entered combat at Cape Gloucester with two companies
of new, modern Sherman M4 medium tanks, and one sixteen-tank
company was attached directly to the 1st Marines. The regimental
commander, Colonel William Whaling, was a renowned woodsman who
had organized and trained a scouting force on Guadalcanal and
commanded several offensive operations. He took the nascent tankinfantry doctrine of the day to heart and applied it vigorously in the
budding Cape Gloucester advance. In a nutshell, he teamed one infantry
squad per medium tank for mutual support during the advance. The 3/1
vanguard was preceded by a twelve-man scouting force; then a column
of tank-infantry teams advanced cautiously but steadily, one after another,
to phase lines a half- or three-quarters of a mile apart. Between the
phase lines, infantry combat patrols peeled off the left (inland) side of
the coastal track to probe the dense woods and swamps as well as to
secure the advance against Japanese scouts, probes, and counterattacks.
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The tanks aided greatly in overcoming two belts of pillboxes and
bunkers encountered along the way. Indeed, they took primary
responsibility for reducing each position with their 75mm main guns. In
return, the infantry stuck close to prevent the tanks from being
overwhelmed by Japanese infantry. By this means, 3/1 advanced 5,000
yards to its objective by 1350 hours on December 27. Ahead lay a wide,
continuous belt of bunkers, pillboxes, and trenches centered on a feature
eventually dubbed Hell’s Point.
*
The December 28 attack was delayed to allow time for the 5th Marines
to reach Cape Gloucester and get into position to support the 1st Marines.
A message announcing a one-day delay in the reinforcement operation
was too garbled to be understood, but the reserve regiment’s nonarrival
was noted, so the 1st Marines resumed its attack after only a brief delay.
Beginning at 0800 hours, 2/11 bombarded the Japanese defensive
zone, and at 0900 Fifth Air Force A-20 ground-attack bombers arrived
to strafe and bomb the objective for an hour. The 1st Marines was to
have jumped off as the last A-20s flew from the scene, but Colonel
Whaling requested an hour’s delay to bring up more tanks At 1100 on
the dot, 3/1 stepped off toward Hell’s Point in the same formation it had
employed the day before. Then 1/1 moved up to cut a flanking path
through the forest on the side of the coastal track.
The Japanese were ready. While the defensive zone had been
constructed to repel a beach assault, many positions could be rejiggered
to inland bearings and thus face the 1st Marines. An intact infantry
battalion supported by 75mm dual-purpose guns occupied the defenses.
The battle was joined on the flank at 1145 when Company A, 1/1,
ran into the prepared defenses 500 yards from the beach. The first shots
were fired by concealed Japanese troops as Company A broke out of the
forest into an area of chest-high grass. The Marines pulled back to the
concealing tree line; and then the fight developed into a four-hour
stalemate as forces of equal size duked it out with rifles and machine
guns. The Marines beat off two infantry flanking assaults but could not
overcome the steady Japanese stand by any means at hand. Eventually,
under covering fires put out by 2/11, Company A, 1/1, pulled back for
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the night to draw ammunition at its battalion perimeter. A stronger attack
force that kicked off at dawn on December 29 fell into ground that had
been abandoned overnight.
In the meantime, 3/1 bored into the main defensive line, right on
Hell’s Point, throughout daylight on December 28. Rain and dense foliage
helped shield both sides from fire but also hampered both sides equally.
Marine tank-infantry teams went up against defensive positions protected
by land mines and barbed wire as well as by interlocking bands of fire
from other emplacements fielding 20mm antiaircraft cannon, 70mm
infantry guns, and at least three 75mm field guns. In some places,
infantry-supported M4s ran right over pillboxes, smashing them in and
exposing the occupants to direct infantry fire, but for the most part the
infantry-supported tanks stood off from their targets and reduced one
position at a time with pinpoint 75mm fire. The hellish all-out battle
ended at 1630 hours, when the last beachside bunker was overcome
without a fight, its occupants having withdrawn minutes earlier as part
of a general retreat. There was nothing left between the Marines and the
airfields. During the night, 266 Japanese corpses were counted within
the Hell’s Point defensive zone. Fewer than twenty Marines were killed
and fewer than fifty were wounded in the two-day battle—a testament
to the effectiveness of the tank-infantry teams.
*
Half of 1/5, most of 2/5, the 5th Marines regimental headquarters,
and assorted attachments landed on newly opened Beach Blue, just
behind the 1st Marines vanguard, beginning at about 0730 on December
29. The remaining elements of the 5th Marines regimental combat team
were ashore on Beach Yellow by 0935 and were sent forward.
Air and artillery opened ahead of the 1st and 5th Marine regiments
at noon, December 29. The Marine assault was to be undertaken by 1/1
on the right, toward Airfield No. 2; and 2/5 on the left, toward a line of
foothills that was thought to be the site of a Japanese defensive zone.
Support was provided by 2/11’s 75mm pack howitzers, 4/11’s 105mm
field howitzers, and a pair of rocket DUKWs.
Attacking in the rain and supported by tanks and 75mm halftracks
that were obliged to remain on the firm coastal track, 1/1 reached the
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airfield perimeter against desultory opposition at 1755 hours and was
soon joined by 3/1 to defend the area. In the meantime, 2/5 was delayed
as it traversed unexpectedly deep swamps and did not really join the
attack until 1500. It found Japanese defensive positions but no Japanese
troops in the foothills, so it looped down to help secure Airfield No. 2,
where it tied in with 1/1 and 3/1 to complete the night defensive perimeter.
Still in the forest at dusk, 1/5 established an all-around night defensive
position.
*
On December 30, two reinforced companies of 2/5 marched across
Airfield No. 1 while 1/5 moved up to Airfield No. 2. In going back over
what had been abandoned defenses on a feature dubbed Razorback Hill,
scouts from 2/5 ran into Japanese troops, possibly the advance guard of
a battalion that was to have occupied the vital terrain a day or two earlier.
A platoon of Company F, 2/5, was sent to mop up the Japanese, but it
was attacked by a larger force as it reached the summit of one of the
hill’s knobs. Reinforcements poured in from both sides. The Japanese
attacked to dislodge the Marine platoon, but mortar fire held them at
bay, and the rest of Company F arrived in time to drive them off. Tanks
were called forward; then Company F attacked the Japanese. By 1130,
thirty prepared positions had been overwhelmed by Marine tanks and
infantry. More than 150 Japanese bodies were counted against the loss
of 13 Marines killed and 19 wounded.
In the meantime, 1/5 ran into prepared defenses east of Razorback
Hill, but 3/1 and supporting medium tanks attacked through 1/5 and
overcame the defenders. By that evening, the 1st and 5th Marines
controlled both airfields and all the important high ground overlooking
them.
The strategic objectives of the operation were and remained firmly
in American hands. An informal flag-raising was held on Razorback
Hill by Company I, 3/1, on December 30, and the formal flag-raising
was held at the airdrome on December 31.
*
The main objectives of the Cape Gloucester campaign were in
Marine hands following a mere five days of combat, but the campaign
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in western New Britain ground onward into March 1944, taking elements
of the 1st Marine Division into several amphibious landings, long trail
chases, and a few hard fights as they expanded the beachhead, absorbed
several Japanese countermoves, hunted down Japanese forces of every
size and description, and rolled up bases and encampments throughout
the western end of the island. The main purposes of the ongoing and
spreading offensive were to prevent attacks on the Cape Gloucester
airfields and to so dominate the equivalent of a Japanese division as to
keep it from ever taking part in a meaningful operation against Allied
forces. All missions were accomplished in spades, and many hundreds
of Japanese were killed or dispersed.
Alas, advances in early 1944 by the Southwest Pacific Force in New
Guinea and islands off New Guinea were swifter than anticipated in the
1943 run-up to the invasion of western New Britain, and the importance
of the Cape Gloucester base receded even while engineers and Seabees
improved and expanded the Cape Gloucester beachhead and rehabilitated
the airfields. Neither airfield was on particularly good ground, and
Airfield No. 1 was soon abandoned altogether. The first landing on
Airfield No. 2, on January 28, 1944, was that of the personal plane of
the 1st Marine Division commanding general. Two Fifth Air Force fighter
squadrons were briefly based there, but both were withdrawn when the
ground war left them far in the rear.
By the end of April 1944, the entire 1st Marine Division had been
relieved by U.S. Army units and withdrawn to a new training base on
Pavuvu, in the Russell Islands. A total of 310 members of the division
died on New Britain, and 1,083 were wounded in action.
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DUEL FOR THE GOLAN
The 100-Hour Battle That Saved Israel
By Jerry Asher with Eric Hammel
The first Saturday in October 1973: A traditional Jewish Sabbath in
Israel. It is also Yom Kippur, and the Israeli Defense Force is preparing
to observe the holiest of the Jewish holy days.
Meanwhile the Syrian army, the greatest achievement of the modern Syrian state, is massed on the Golan Heights. Together with newly
arrived Soviet made equipment, 1,200 main battle tanks, 1,000 armored
personnel carriers, 1,000 artillery pieces, and more than 100 mobile
antiaircraft missile carriers are ready to strike in a lightning swift offensive that will drive to the sea and cut Israel in two.
Duel for the Golan, the first book to be written on this aspect of the
Yom Kippur War, is based on interviews with the participants from both
sides. As such it remain a compelling and powerful account of one of
the greatest tank battles fought since World War II. It also provides the
first in-depth analysis of exactly how and why an inferior number of
Israeli defenders was capable of inflicting one of the greatest defeats in
modern military history upon awe inspiring Arab armored forces.
Here are the intimate details of tank-against tank fighting, whether
it be during retreats, in ambushes, or on the attack. Here are the stories
of incredible courage and individual initiative as the Israeli defenders
strive to contain the unexpected Syrian assault. During the 100 hour
battle that saved Israel, every Israeli tank that was committed to the
Golan fighting was hit by hostile fire at least once, and some commanders had five or six tanks shot out from under them.
By the end of the war only a few days later, Israeli forces had counterattacked and advanced to where their artillery could hit the Damascus International Airport and other strategic targets with pinpoint
accuracy. The Syrian army was virtually destroyed in the field, as were
contingents from other Arab states such as Iraq and Jordan. How these
remarkable turns of battle occurred is deftly laid out. This revealing
account of a battle that changed the history of the Middle East is especially relevant today as tensions in the region increase once again.
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book DUEL FOR
THE GOLAN: The 100-Hour Battle That Saved Israel by Jerry Asher
with Eric Hammel. The book is currently available in a $27.50 trade
paperback edition published by Pacifica Military History. The book
is also available in ebook editions.
THE RESERVES ARE
COMING!
by Jerry Asher with Eric Hammel
Copyright © 1987 by Jerrold S. Asher and Eric Hammel
The summons of veteran crews to man the IDF’s Reserve bri-gades had
begun in mid-morning.
The Reservists were older than the conscripted crewmen manning
the 7th and Barak Brigade Centurions, and there was little joy about
being back in uniform. Some, like Amos Ben David, took the time to
phone friends before leaving home. Others just said their good-byes
and went off to their mobilization centers. For most, the juxtaposition
of Yom Kippur observances and the mobilization imbued this call-up
with a unique character.
The mobilization had a rhythm all its own. The armored infan-trymen
were called up after the tankers. This frustrated David Givati, who had
to stand by at the window of his apartment and watch trucks arrive to
pick up men with higher priorities. Givati decided to kill time with a
nap, but he soon found himself pacing again. At last, there was the bynow welcome knock at his door. Another armored infantryman, Benjamin
Sheskapovits, was at least as impatient. After waiting for hours, he
declared to his wife, “If they don’t come soon, I’ll go myself.” He was
summoned a short time later.
Some men mobilized themselves. When Ehud Dafna heard of the
mobilization, he telephoned around to locate “old buddies.” He found
they were on the way to the Golan, so he ventured from home on his
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own to join them. Giora Bierman, a staff officer, was in a hospital being
treated for jaundice. He decided that his comrades needed him more
than he needed perfect health, so he discharged himself to make his way
to his depot. Each individual wrestled with problems and pas-sages.
Many talked and speculated as they waited for transportation at the
pickup points. On the other hand, Sorial Birnbaum ignored the talkers
as much as possible to concentrate on the observances of Sab-bath and
Yom Kippur that this great hubbub had interrupted.
A piece of paper, a phone call, or a verbal message does not begin to
make a civilian a soldier, nor even a soldier a combatant. The man must
leave his home with whatever necessary equipment he stores there, get
to a pickup point, be transported to a depot, be recorded as present, and
told what to do by the professional soldiers comprising his unit’s
permanent cadre. Where the system is working, the arriving Re-servist
finds all or most of his equipment neatly layed out, perhaps piled on the
floor of a building, aligned with piles of equipment await-ing the arrival
of the other members of his platoon or company. Per-sonal weapons
and ammunition must be issued from the armory, with all the required
paperwork. Vehicles must be located, and last-minute provisioning and
servicing must be undertaken. Where men are late or ill, or where there
are unfilled gaps because of transfers or incomplete expansions,
substitutes must be found and incorporated into vehicle crews or service
and support units. Slowly the individuals are married to their
organizations, and the organizations are rebuilt into cohesive fighting
units. Within hours, commanders such as Moshe Waks, now Captain
Waks once again, are able to declare, “The company’s ready.”
Naturally, the news that war had actually erupted added a great sense
of urgency to what was, for many, a maddening interruption of the holy
day observances or just plain real life. Somehow the govern-ment was
replaced in evil mutterings by the many names Israelis have for their
enemies.
Lieutenant Moshe Nir’s company commander was vacationing
out-side Israel, so Nir was made acting company commander. While
issu-ing orders, Nir was approached by one of his men, who clearly
needed reassurance. “Do you know,” the man asked, “there is a war?”
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In an army where authorities habitually “look the other way” when
men “organize” jeeps, half-tracks, and even tanks, improvising was
second nature. For example, Lieutenant Shimon Ryan could not find his
jeep, though he searched high and low through his unit’s depot. Fi-nally
he went to his company commander and admitted failure. The company
commander left Ryan, but returned only minutes later with a brand-new
jeep he had stolen. (The owner found Ryan a month and a war later and,
of course, demanded that he return the vehicle.)
Amos Ben David, Moshe Waks, Giora Bierman, Moshe Nir, and
Shimon Ryan had no inkling that the hundreds of tiny decisions they
made in those first, critical hours would substantially reverse the course
of the war. They hurried through the familiar process because there was
a war on, but they were not fully aware of the ultimate im-portance
those preparations were becoming to senior commanders.
*
Out of the chaos of thousands of individual arrivals, Northern Command
anticipated that three fully constituted Reserve brigades— the 679th,
the 9th, and the 70th—and two separate Reserve battalions would deploy
on the Golan before nightfall of October 7. As it turned out, this was
about twenty-eight hours after the onset of the war. The 159 tanks
assigned to the Reserve units would nearly equal the number of tanks
Northern Command had been able to deploy on the Golan at the moment
the war started.
There were considerable differences among the Reserve units.
Colonel Gideon Gordon’s 70th Armored Infantry Brigade was a unit
that time had forgotten. Indeed, there were plans to disband it because it
was equipped with unmodified World War II-vintage Sherman tanks
and equally ancient M3 half-tracks. The troops still wore old footballtype helmets rather than the modern plastic headgear that had been issued
almost universally throughout the IDF armored and mechanized units.
All things considered, the brigade was a perfect snapshot of a 1963vintage formation. It was thought that 70th Brigade could be called upon
to defend prepared positions or guard lines of communications, but no
one believed the unit could be effectively or even safely employed in
the attack.
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In sharp contrast, Colonel Mordechai Ben Porat’s 9th Armored
In-fantry Brigade, also equipped with Shermans, was perceived as being
a useful striking force. The Shermans had been upgunned and
exten-sively and expensively modernized, and the troops were younger
than the veterans of 70th Brigade. Moreover, 9th Brigade had long been
a stalwart fighting force, nearly always operating in Northern Com-mand.
Most of the officers and troops had trained on the Golan and knew their
way around.
Colonel Uri Orr’s 679th Armored Brigade, a relatively new
forma-tion, was equipped with early-model Centurion tanks that had
been scheduled to be upgraded over the next few years. The crews were
composed of younger men. In all, 679th Brigade was considered to be
only marginally inferior to Barak Brigade.
The two separate Reserve battalions—71st Armored Infantry
Battal-ion, under Lieutenant Colonel Yoav Vaspe, and an unnumbered
tank battalion directly attached to Northern Command—were perceived
as absolutely first-rate units. Seventy-first Battalion, which featured two
organic tank companies and one APC company, was earmarked for direct
attachment to Barak Brigade. The Northern Command Tank Battalion,
commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Uzi More, was equipped with
thoroughly updated Centurions; officially it was to operate as a weapon
of opportunity under the direct control of Northern Command
headquarters. Both of the separate Reserve battalions had trained
spe-cifically for assignment to the Golan.
*
Brigadier General Rafoul Eitan was emerging as the sparkplug run-ning
the Israeli engine of war. A parachute officer, Eitan had trained for many
years in the art of instant assessment of battlefield puzzles and the fine
art of rapidly moving troops and equipment to solve them. While fellow
paratrooper Major General Yitzhak Hofi kept his attention riveted to
the larger panorama, and his ear glued to the phone linking him with the
chief of staff and the government, Eitan focused his energies and powers
of concentration on the shifting events and fragmentary reports from
the hard-hit bunkers and tank battalions.
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At length, his observations caused him to place an urgent call to the
Reserve tank unit whose depot was nearest the Golan. He asked that a
force—any force, really—be immediately dispatched to the heights.
Colonel Ran Sarig, who was supervising the mobilization of the
separate tank battalion, was more surprised by the locale to which the
troops were to be sent than he was by the immediacy of Eitan’s request.
The mobilization was proceeding more rapidly than usual. If crew
integrity and unit cohesion were disregarded, men and machines could
be made available to Eitan.
Colonel Sarig, a highly skilled professional armor officer well
schooled in his branch’s doctrine of applying mass on the battlefield,
asked Eitan if it was indeed desirable to divide even the few tanks he
could then scrape together. Eitan confirmed his feelings that in this case
it certainly was.
At that moment, Sarig could field just eight Centurions to meet
Eitan’s requirements. If no tragedy befell it, the stopgap force would
reach the front sometime early Sunday morning.
*
The dispatch of the first group of eight tanks was yet another pressure
on the Reservists still mobilizing. The yelling and prodding were not
part of the time-honored exercise of hurry up and wait. The troops fully
comprehended the urgency of the orders and oaths. They felt needed.
The Syrian breakthrough near Hushniya showed them just how crucial
their presence on the battlefield might be. Colonel Yitzhak Ben Shoham
had succinctly stated his priorities: “One tank or two.”
Under the direct leadership of the separate battalion’s commander,
Lieutenant Colonel Uzi More, the eight Centurions ascended the Golan
escarpment to Vasit and then proceeded southward along the Petroleum
Road to link up with Zvika Force.
By the time More reached Zvika, a second group of fourteen
Centu-rions was on the way up the escarpment. They were under the
command of More’s deputy, Major Baruch Lenschner, and Captain
Moshe Waks. General Hofi considered Lenschner’s force—Baruch
Force—”a big force.” The commanding general felt it was what he
needed to confront the Syrian breakthrough at Hushniya.
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*
Colonel Ben Shoham requested the use of “More Force” in an im-mediate
counterattack against the Syrians holding the Petroleum-Hushniya
crossroads. In Ben Shoham’s reading of the battle, time was a greater
factor than mass. As he told Hofi, “What we can do now, we might not
be able to do later.” As Baruch Force was well on the way, Hofi
sanctioned Ben Shoham’s immediate night counterattack with More’s
eight Centurions.
As soon as More was briefed by Zvika, he decided to attack in two
columns. Zvika would have four tanks in the right column, and More
would lead the other five on the left.
The attack commenced immediately. The first tank in Zvika’s
col-umn was set ablaze by a rocket-propelled grenade.
When Zvika saw that the road ahead was blocked by Syrian tanks
equipped with searchlights, he took a short break to think things through.
Then he ordered one of the remaining tanks forward to res-cue the crew
of the burning Centurion, and he positioned his own tank to cover the
flank.
Both tanks—Zvika’s and the rescue tank—were hit. Zvika’s gunner
was injured, and the lieutenant felt the shock of the blast and a searing
pain. He pulled himself out of the turret and clumsily somersaulted to
the ground. Zvika lay flat for a moment and collected his wits, but the
realization that he was next to a burning tank that might explode at any
moment was sufficient to goad him to his feet. He unthinkingly ran
straight toward the Syrians, then cut back to the last tank in his col-umn.
He had been wounded in the upper left arm and the left side of his face,
but he felt no need to be evacuated. He climbed aboard the last
battleworthy Centurion in his column and ordered its commander to
turn around and leave the vicinity of the fight.
*
Unbeknownst to Zvika, the Syrians had redeployed following his abortive
attack. He had found them roadbound, lined up in column preparatory
to moving. The attack had been misread by the Syrian 452nd Tank
Battalion commander, Major Farouk Ismail, who as-sumed he had faced
a more significant enemy force. Ismail decided to wait for daylight before
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moving on, and he ordered his troop leaders to establish defensive
positions along a front of two kilometers.
Lieutenant Colonel More’s five-tank attack followed Zvika’s by a
lengthy interval. It did a great deal to confirm Ismail’s convictions, but
the initial contact upset More, who reasoned that his attack was based
upon faulty information with respect to the Syrian disposition and, it
appeared, the composition of the Syrian force. In the heat of his brief,
sharp fight, Zvika had not observed the mechanized infantry
accom-panying Ismail’s tanks.
More’s tanks were hit and disabled, one at a time. When the battal-ion
commander saw a Syrian aim an antitank rocket at his command tank,
he grabbed hold of his free machine gun and opened fire. But the machine
gun jammed and the Syrian grenadier let fly. Uzi More lost an arm and
an eye in the blast.
Zvika emerged from the dark, standing erect in the turret of the only
Centurion to survive his column’s abortive attack. He reached Colonel
Ben Shoham by radio and reported the destruction of More Force.
For his part, Ben Shoham acknowledged that what could not be done
immediately would have to be done later. He raised Eitan on the
command net and told him of the failed counterattack, suggesting that
Baruch Force be split to reinforce Zvika on the Petroleum Force. The
balance of Major Lenschner’s tanks would establish defensive posi-tions
on the Sindiana Road.
*
At this stage of his holding battle, Eitan discarded specific limited
counterattacks to establish a coherent defensive line through the southern
Golan. What Eitan proposed was a considerable undertaking in light of
the numbers and dispositions of men and equipment and the complexity
of moving them through the darkened battle area. Eitan laid out a new
defense line from Bunker 110, on the east, through Tel Yosifon to the
Kuzabia crossroads, on the west. The line was then ex-tended southward,
through the waterfall area to Tel Bazak and on to the El Al Ridge. The
forces involved were not large, but they incorporated Regulars and
Reservists in six distinct movements and concentrations.
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The southern anchor of Eitan’s new line was manned by Lieutenant
Colonel Yair Yaron’s 50th Parachute Battalion, which still could field
several APC-borne infantry squads in the vicinity of Ramat Magshimim
and Tel Saki.
In addition, Yaron unknowingly and quite temporarily received some
assistance in the form of several jeeps and APCs manned by Is-raeli
border patrolmen. Without bothering to inform their own headquarters,
much less Yaron’s, the inquisitive patrolmen had simply gravitated
toward the sound of the guns. In time, they bumped into Syrian tanks.
Amid the heated exchange of gunfire and crude Arabic epithets on the
El Al Ridge, the border patrolmen did the sensible thing and fled.
Slightly to the north of Yaron, on a dirt trail known as the Waterfall
Route, was Colonel Ben Shoham, with his command tank and
communications half-track. Nearby, at Tel Bazak, artillerymen who had
been forced to give way earlier were at work on a new batterysite. To
Ben Shoham’s northwest was the Arik Bridge, the southernmost Jor-dan
crossing in the Golan sector. The route from the bridge was the most
direct from the Jordan Valley to the Hushniya area, so Eitan used it to
dispatch Major Gideon Weiler’s force of Centurions from the Armor
School Tank Battalion to establish a blocking position domi-nating the
Tel Zohar–Kuzabia crossroads. Northeast of Weiler’s position was
Baruch Force, fourteen Northern Command Tank Bat-talion Centurions
deployed to cover the two roads leading from Hushniya.
*
Paralleling Ben Shoham’s and Eitan’s concerns for time and move-ment,
Colonel Hassan Tourkmani’s 9th Infantry Division sought to exploit the
Hushniya breakthrough. Checked to the north and west by the Northern
Command Tank Battalion, Tourkmani ordered the 43rd Mechanized
Brigade tank battalion to advance up the Rafid-Kuneitra Road.
This movement was spotted by Israelis manning a nearby outpost,
and a highly accurate report claiming an attack by forty Syrian tanks
was flashed to General Eitan. Tourkmani had managed to find the one
approach that the Israelis had not covered.
Eitan wrestled with finding a way to block this new threat. The
Reservists were too far to the west to be of any use in countering
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Tourk-mani’s new thrust, and Ben Shoham had absolutely nothing left
to spare. Eitan called Colonel Ben Gal of 7th Armored Brigade and
ordered him to assume responsibility for the Rafid–Kuneitra Road.
Ben Gal earlier had kept back Captain Meir “Tiger” Zamir’s
com-pany of 82nd Tank Battalion as his unofficial reserve. He now
ordered Major Eitan Kauli to use Zamir’s company to stop the Syrian
advance.
*
Tiger Zamir deployed two tanks abreast Bunker 109 as a rear guard,
two more tanks on the same hill but farther south, and a single Centu-rion
on a small hill across and overlooking the roadway. The deputy
commander was given four tanks and sent to another small hill a mile to
the south, from which he was to trigger the ambush Zamir had in mind.
When all the tanks had been deployed, Tiger returned to the posi-tion
abreast Bunker 109 in his own tank and ordered all crews to shut down
and wait in total silence for the approach of the Syrian column and the
illumination of his deputy’s searchlight.
The Syrians rolled down the road oblivious to the waiting Israelis.
Though Tiger had planned to contain all the Syrian tanks between the
ends of his ambush, he had to allow a dozen of them to pass through the
head of the ambush before the last of them passed the deputy commander.
The gunners were losing their minds, so great was the tension of having
to wait with so many good targets so easy to reach.
The searchlight snapped on, followed by the instantaneous bark of a
105mm tank gun. Every Israeli gunner had been tracking targets, so all
opened fire within a matter of seconds. Beneath their seats, to the right,
the well-drilled loaders rammed home fresh antitank rounds and hit the
gunners to let them know they could resume firing. Load, fire, train,
load, fire, train. The gunners and loaders worked in superb harmony as
the deputy company commander illuminated the roadway.
The Syrians returned fire, but the Israelis were hull-down, virtually
impossible to spot—except for the deputy commander, whose searchlight
drew heavy fire. Suddenly the light snapped off. Zamir first feared that
his gunners would be unable to acquire targets, but there was more than
enough light from blazing hulks.
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When nearly twenty-five Syrian tanks had been destroyed, Tiger
reorganized his company and led it southward to get at the survivors. To
his surprise, his entire company still was operational, including the deputy
commander’s tank. This last both relieved and upset Zamir, who asked
the lieutenant why he had shut off the light. The man mumbled that it
was dangerous.
The lieutenant was both right and wrong. Zvika earlier had used
Syrian searchlights to acquire targets, and Tiger’s ambush certainly had
been successful because the roadway was amply lighted by burn-ing
tanks. However, Tiger felt that his deputy had given in to his fears before
the company could safely do without the light. As an officer, Tiger
reasoned, his deputy had a prime responsibility to the mission and only
secondarily to himself.
*
Eitan’s calculated maneuvering and the timely introduction of the first
tiny Reserve formations had contained the Hushniya break-through, but
a threat to the north still had to be eradicated with the resources at hand.
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FIRE IN THE STREETS
The Battle for Hue, Tet 1968
By Eric Hammel
The Tet Offensive of January 1968 was the most important military
campaign of the Vietnam War. The ancient capital city of Hue, once
considered the jewel of Indochina’s cities, was a key objective of that
surprise Communist offensive launched on Vietnam’s most important
holiday. But when the North Vietnamese launched their massive invasion
of the city, instead of the general civilian uprising and easy victory they
had hoped for, they were faced with a U.S.—South Vietnamese
counterattack and a devastating battle of attrition with enormous
casualties on both sides. In the end, the battle for Hue was an
unambiguous military and political victory for South Vietnam and the
United States.
In Fire in the Streets, the dramatic narrative of the battle unfolds on
an hour-by-hour, day-by-day basis. The focus is on the U.S. and South
Vietnamese soldiers and Marines—from the top commanders down to
the frontline infantrymen—and on the men and women who supported
them. Eric Hammel, a renowned military historian, expertly draws on
first-hand accounts from the battle participants in this engrossing mixture of action and commentary.
In addition, Hammel examines the tremendous strain the surprise
attack put on the South Vietnamese—U.S. alliance, the shocking brutality of the Communist “liberators,” and the lessons gained by U.S.
Marines forced to wage battle in a city—a task for which they were
utterly unprepared and which has a special relevance today.
With access to rare documents from both North and South Vietnam
and hundreds of hours of interviews, Hammel, in a highly readable style,
has produced the only complete and authoritative account of this crucial landmark battle.
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Critical Acclaim for Fire in the Streets
U.S. Naval Institute Proceeding says: “Startles the reader with the
scale and intensity of action required to recapture Hue City . . . Hammel
‘s narrative style . . . bonds the reader to the subject [and] certainly to
the participants.”
Military Magazine says: “[Fire in the Streets] is true military history
at its finest. Hammel writes in a highly readable style that anyone would
find a joy to read.”
Armor Magazine says: “The author has performed an outstanding job
in reconstructing the details of the battle actions through extensive
interviews with the people who fought the battle.”
Sea Power Magazine says: “A detailed and engrossing account . . .
The extensive use of recollections of the U.S. and South Vietnamese
front-line troops and commanders give immediacy and credibility to
Hammel’s account of one of the war’s bloodiest battles . . .”
Library Journal says: “The gritty, detailed war scenes and compelling
narrative that are the author’s trademarks are evident.”
Infantry Magazine says: “Written in a lively and readable style, it is
the most complete and detailed account of this central action of the war.
Highly recommended.”
Leatherneck Magazine says: “Hammel is at his best when he weaves
the individual stories of pain, frustration, hope, and heroics of the
multitude of players who were caught in the maelstrom of death and
destruction that was Hue City in February 1968.”
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book Fire in the
Streets: The Battle for Hue, Tet 1968 by Eric Hammel. The book is
currently available in a $32.50 trade paperback edition published
by Pacifica Military History. The book is also available in ebook
editions.
MEAN STREETS
by Eric Hammel
Copyright 1996 © by Eric Hammel
On the afternoon of January 31, 1968—the first day of the Communist
Tet Offensive—2/5 was undertaking a coordinated three- company effort
to clear an NVA battalion out of the area around the vital twin-span
Troi Bridge complex, eight kilometers south of Phu Bai. Suddenly, with
no warning, the 5th Marines CP ordered Fox/2/5 to break contact with
the enemy and report to Phu Bai immediately for unspecified duty. The
order was peremptory and non-negotiable; Fox/2/5 pulled out of the
battalion line and assembled in a field for the drive north to Phu Bai.
Fox/2/5 was in terrific shape when it left Troi Bridge for Phu Bai. Though
the unit had sustained several losses around the bridge on January 31,
hardly anyone was on R and R; all the men who had been lightly
wounded, injured, or sick had been returned to duty; and the few
replacements required had arrived. Thus Fox/2/5 was nearly at full
strength, well rested, and well inte-grated. It had its full complement of
lieutenants and staff non-commissioned officers, and all the squads were
led by sergeants or seasoned corporals.
When Fox/2/5 reached Phu Bai by truck late in the afternoon, the
company commander, Captain Mike Downs, was or-dered to report to
the Task Force X-Ray CP. There Downs met with the task force
operations officer and his assistant, both lieutenant colonels. Though
Downs knew nothing of the situa-tion in Hue or even around Phu Bai,
he could not imagine why the CP was in a state of confusion bordering
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on panic. Following a useless briefing, Downs was sent over to the 1st
Marines CP, where the regimental operations officer told him that Fox/
2/5 would be flying up to Hue the next day to operate with Lieuten-ant
Colonel Mark Gravel’s 1/1. Once again, Captain Downs emerged from
a sketchy briefing with only the vaguest sense of what was going on in
Hue. As far as Downs could figure it, there were enemy troops inside
Hue, and Fox/2/5 was needed to push them out. The impression Downs
had was that his company would be back in Phu Bai pretty quickly, in a
few days at most.
Like Golf/2/5 before it, Fox/2/5 was going to Hue with-out its packs.
The troops had grounded their personal possessions before going into
the attack at Troi Bridge, and there had not been time to retrieve them
when the call came to report to Phu Bai. All they had was ammunition,
weapons, web gear, and whatever they had had the foresight to cram
into their pockets.
The troops received a hot meal that evening, and everyone slept
under canvas that night. On the morning of February 1, the troops learned
through unofficial channels that they were bound for Hue. None of them
had ever spent any time in Hue, but virtually all of them were glad to be
going. Fox/2/5 had been months in the bush, had taken casualties, and
had very little besides its corporate bitterness to show for the experience.
Word had it that the NVA was standing and fighting in Hue—some-thing
neither the NVA nor its VC allies had ever done in the bush Fox/2/5 had
tromped. Word was, Hue was the place to “get some,” the ideal venue in
which to exact payback for all the unavenged casualties Fox/2/5 had
sustained in the bush.
Reinforced with a pair of 81mm mortars and two 106mm recoilless
rifles, Fox/2/5 began lifting out of Phu Bai at 1458, February 1, aboard
a small number of CH-46 transport helicop-ters. They were bound for
the Doc Lao Park LZ. In addition to lifting out Fox/2/5, the Marine
helicopters were charged with carrying a significant resupply of
ammunition and other goods for 1/1 and the two Marine companies
already in Hue.
The Fox/2/5 Marines and their officers were unprepared for the
sporadic fire that greeted most of the helicopters as they set down on the
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Doc Lao Park LZ. In a few cases, the helicopters were struck by smallarms fire, which penetrated the thin metal skin and terrorized the
unwitting troops inside. Fortunately, no one was injured, but the Marines
charged off the helicopters’ rear ramps with serious intent, certain the
LZ itself was under ground assault.
Among the many terrorized by the incoming fire was a load of
American news reporters who had hitched a ride into Hue aboard Mike
Downs’s CH-46. Shortly after landing, the company commander could
account for only two of the reporters, a United Press International team.
Downs surmised that the other news-people had returned to Phu Bai,
without ever leaving the heli-copter.
There were not enough helicopters to fly the reinforced company
the short distance to Hue in one lift, so the last squads did not arrive
until 1705. By then, the leading elements of Fox/ 2/5 were already in a
bloody fight.
*
Lieutenant Mike McNeil’s platoon of Golf/2/5 had been battling the
entire day in an effort to relieve the GVN force in the Provincial Prison,
six long blocks southwest of MACV. A dogged effort had carried Captain
Meadows’s tired troops across the highway and about fifteen meters up
the first block of Tran Cao Van Street, but the NVA’s resistance had
steadily stiffened. The attack had ground to a standstill. As the hours
wore on, the mission was scaled back. All Meadows’s and McNeil’s
platoon had to do was reach a small compound housing a U.S. Air Force
communications contingent. The hostel was only a few blocks southwest
of Highway 1, half the distance to the prison. Three blocks or six blocks,
it didn’t matter: Golf/2/5 remained bogged down less than a half block
from its line of departure.
The eye-opener of the day for Chuck Meadows and his Ma-rines
was how many men it took to secure a row of buildings. In order to
achieve this, Golf/2/5 was learning, a unit had to secure every room in
every one of the structures; it had to fight a war in three dimensions
rather than the usual two.
As soon as two platoons of Fox/2/5 were assembled at MACV,
Lieutenant Colonel Gravel decided to send them to re-store some
momentum to the drive on the Air Force hostel. Captain Downs had
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hardly reported to Mark Gravel’s CP, at MACV, before an Air Force
sergeant who had lived in the hostel was attached to the company as a
guide. Then Captain Downs’s company marched one block southeast on
Highway 1 and turned right—southwest—up Tran Cao Van, the first cross
street. The entire route looked like a cyclone—or a war—had hit it.
Just before reaching Tran Cao Van, Mike Downs had met Chuck
Meadows and Captain Jim Gallagher, 1/1’s new opera-tions officer.
Gallagher, a communicator by trade, had recently extended his tour of
duty in Vietnam to take a crack at command-ing an infantry company.
He had barely taken over Delta/1/1 when news of Major Walt Murphy’s
death had reached him. As 1/1’s senior captain, he had felt obliged,
despite his lack of hard infantry experience, to fly to Hue to assume
Murphy’s duties until a more suitable replacement could be found.
Captain Gal-lagher had arrived aboard one of the night medevac choppers
and had assumed his new duties as soon as he reached MACV. He had
been up front with Chuck Meadows all day, learning on the run.
Learning on the run was Fox/2/5’s operative mode, just as it had
been Golf/2/5’s from the beginning of duty in Hue. Learning to deal
with defended urban terrain had cost Golf/ 2/5 two killed and five
wounded on February 1—that made a total of seven killed and fiftyseven wounded in twenty-four hours. Now it was Fox/2/ 5’s turn to pay
the price of experience.
*
Corporal Chris Brown’s squad of 2nd Lieutenant Rich Horner’s 2nd
Platoon took the Fox/2/5 point as soon as Chuck Meadows and Mike
Downs had completed the formal turnover. At word from Lieutenant
Horner, Brown’s squad was to turn the corner from Highway 1 onto
Tran Cao Van and attack down the right sidewalk. Another squad from
Horner’s platoon would follow and then peel off to attack up the left
side of the treelined residential thoroughfare. The officers had already
told everyone that every building on both sides of the street had to be
com-pletely secured from bottom to top before anyone could go on to
the next building and that units on both sides of the street had to advance
apace to avoid NVA flanking fire from second-story windows.
The Air Force sergeant-guide joined Brown’s squad a few moments
before the Marines were to turn the corner. The first thing he told Chris
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Brown was that Golf/2/5 had been trying to fight its way up the street
since around sunup and that the men had had their “butts beat every
time.” He went on to render his opinion that the mission was “suicidal.”
Corporal Brown went over to Lieutenant Horner to convey the Air Force
sergeant’s sentiments, but Horner just shrugged his shoulders and said,
“Let’s move out.”
Horner’s platoon advanced about fifteen meters up Tran Cao Van
with two squads abreast and one in reserve, a classic infantry formation.
After passing through Golf/2/5, the two Marines constituting the lead
fire team of Corporal Brown’s squad set up behind a shoulder-high
masonry wall to provide cover. This was another classic infantry
maneuver, strictly by the book. Though Fox/2/5 had never fought in a
town and the junior troops had never been adequately trained to undertake
house-to-house com-bat, the troop leaders knew very well how to feel
their way into hostile terrain. It was about then, however, that Corporal
Brown, Lieutenant Horner, and Captain Downs went beyond the
knowl-edge that had been keeping them and large numbers of Marines
like them alive in the bush. It was then that Fox/2/5 learned what the
term mean streets really signifies.
Private First Class Louis Gasbarrini moved out first. He stepped
from behind the wall and scuttled down the sidewalk to the nearest tree.
Lance Corporal Charles Campbell went next, up and over the wall. Before
Campbell had hit the ground, Gasbar-rini had been seriously wounded
in the arm by a burst of AK-47 fire that could have come from anywhere.
Someone yelled, “Corpsman, up!” and Hospital Corpsman 3rd Class
James Gosselin, a twenty-six-year-old former Green Beret, charged into
the open from behind the wall. He was halfway to Gasbarrini when he
was shot dead in his tracks, Fox/2/5’s first fatality in Hue.
No sooner had Doc Gosselin fallen than the NVA trained their fire
on Corporal Brown; the Air Force sergeant; and Private Stanley Murdock,
Brown’s radioman. No doubt the NVA were drawn to the whip antenna
on Murdock’s squad radio. Lance Corporal Carnell Poole was a few
steps behind the three men when the automatic-weapons fire reached
out at them. Poole distinctly saw the stream of bullets pin Murdock to a
wall at his back; the sheer force of the bullets held the radioman on his
feet. The firing stopped, but Murdock just stood there, holding his M-
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16 loosely at his side, gasping for air every few seconds. In extreme
slow motion, before Lance Corporal Poole or any of the other shocked
onlookers could act, Private Murdock’s eyes glazed over and the gasping
stopped. Fox/2/5 had sustained its second death in a matter of seconds.
The Air Force sergeant was seriously wounded by the same burst.
Despite the gunfire spraying the back side of the wall—or because
of it—several members of Brown’s squad streaked into the street, intent
upon reaching the apparently safer left side. Most of the men made it to
cover, but Corporal David Collins, Private First Class William Henschel,
and Private First Class Cristobal Figueroa-Perez were shot off their feet.
When the dust settled, none of them was moving.
As Chris Brown shrugged off the shock of near sudden death,
Lieutenant Homer’s piercing yell reached him: “Move it out!” Brown
looked up, but there was no one around him. For a second, the squad
leader didn’t know what to do. Then he went into automatic overdrive—
he moved on training and instinct. Brown whipped out from behind the
wall and zigzagged down the sidewalk. When it seemed the right time
to dive in, he landed next to Lance Corporal Campbell, who told Brown
that, every time he tried to fire back at the NVA in the buildings, bullets
kicked cement dust into his face.
Corporal Brown yelled to Private First Class Gasbarrini, who was
in front of everyone. Gasbarrini yelled back that he had been hit in the
arm and that he was playing dead because he was afraid to move behind
the nearest cover.
Corporal Brown’s squad was stymied. If anyone made a move, NVA
soldiers in the buildings overlooking the street fired into Tran Cao Van.
Brown sent word back to Lieutenant Horner that Gasbarrini was wounded
and beyond reach. Horner sent word forward to Brown that he was trying
to get a tank up to cover a rescue effort. Brown ordered everyone who
could to withdraw back behind the wall. Then Fox/2/5 settled in to wait.
There wasn’t anything else anyone could do. Minutes later, Lieu-tenant
Colonel Gravel ordered Fox/2/5 to call it a day and return to MACV as
soon as the company could police up its casualties.
It seemed to Chris Brown that hours passed before two Marine M48 tanks turned into Tran Cao Van and chugged toward Private First
Class Gasbarrini. When the lead tank pulled up even with the wall Brown
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was using as a sanctuary, he gin-gerly stepped out behind the armored
vehicle and followed it warily down the right side of the street. The tank
passed Gasbar-rini and stopped, a steel wall to protect the evacuation.
When Chris Brown leaned down to help the wounded man, a stream of
bullets reached out toward them. Brown felt warm fluid streak over his
outstretched hands; he was certain Gasbarrini had been wounded again,
but it was only water. A round had gone through Gasbarrini’s canteen.
Brown pulled the wounded man behind the tank, and other members of
the squad helped Gasbarrini toward the rear.
As the lead tank stood guard and probed the surrounding buildings
with fire from its .50-caliber cupola machine gun, members of Brown’s
squad warily convened in the street to lift their wounded and dead
comrades onto the flat rear deck of the second tank. Four of the men—
Doc Gosselin, Private Murdock, Corporal Collins, and Private First Class
Henschel—appeared to be dead. A fifth, Private First Class FigueroaPerez, appeared to be seriously injured.
As the rear tank, which was also firing its .50-caliber ma-chine gun,
pulled back, a B-40 rocket streaked out from a second-story window
and struck it squarely on the side of the engine compartment. Two of the
bodies on the rear deck, which was over the engine, were thrown to the
street. Immediately, piercing screams erupted from one of the bodies.
Several Marines ven-tured back to the tank to see who it was and why.
The screaming man was Private First Class William Hen-schel. He
had been shot in the head in his bid to cross Tran Cao Van, and knocked
unconscious. It was no wonder his spooked comrades had mistaken him
for dead; his gruesome head wound had looked fatal, and there had
been no time to conduct an adequate check in the middle of bullet-swept
Tran Cao Van. When the B-40 blew Henschel off the tank, the shock of
the blast apparently roused him. A closer inspection revealed that HenschePs left leg was missing below the knee. No one could tell if it had
been blown off by the B-40 or if the tank had backed over it. It didn’t
matter; the leg was gone. Henschel was known in Fox/ 2/5 as the “Marine
Doc.” Though he had no formal first-aid training, he carried a Unit One
aid pack, just like the Navy corpsmen. He still had it when his shocked
and dazed comrades peeled him off the surface of Tran Cao Van. Its
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contents were used to affix a tourniquet and control the bleeding of his
leg. The head wound turned out to be superficial.
After the tanks pulled back around the corner to Highway 1, one
more absolutely motionless Marine still lay in an exposed position about
twenty meters down Tran Cao Van. A nose count revealed that he was
Private Roberto de la Riva-Vara. Every effort had been made to reach
de la Riva-Vara’s body, but the tanks had been unable to shield the
rescuers, and the NVA had staked it out, certain they could kill any
rescuers who ventured out after it. Lieutenant Horner had had enough.
With nothing to show for it, Fox/2/5’s 2nd Platoon had suffered fifteen
casualties, of whom three were known dead, one (Figueroa-Perez) was
expected to die, and one (de la Riva-Vara) was presumed dead. The
lieutenant asked Captain Downs to please call it a day; there was no
sense losing more men to rescue de la Riva-Vara’s body.
Mike Downs was not going to leave anyone behind. After the
wounded and dead were unloaded from the tank and sent on their way
to M ACV, Downs ordered both tanks back up Tran Cao Van to cover
Lieutenant Horner’s recovery of de la Riva-Vara’s body. Firing their
machine guns as they went, the tanks advanced cautiously past the spot
at which one of them had already been hit by a B-40. Nothing much
happened. The NVA fired their AK-47s at the tanks, but no more B-40s
were fired. The tanks moved forward, and the infantrymen followed
them. As they reached de la Riva-Vara, he waved his arms a little. He
had been shot in both legs and had been cannily playing dead. On the
way back, Lieutenant Horner was wounded.
The Fox/2/5 casualties were taken back to MACV without further
incident. Later that night, all the serious casualties of the day, including
Lieutenant Horner, were medevacked off the LZ in Doc Lao Park. Unlike
the bloody medevac effort of the previous night, the convoy to the LZ
was led by one of the M-48 tanks, which simply drove through houses
and courtyards along a path the NVA snipers could never have staked
out in advance.
Before dawn, news arrived that Private First Class Cristobal
Figueroa-Perez had died of his wounds in Phu Bai’s triage center.
***
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FIRST ACROSS THE RHINE
The 291st Engineer Combat Battalion in France, Belgium,
and Germany
By Col. David E. Pergrin with Eric Hammel
First Across the Rhine is the first-person narrative by the commander of
the celebrated 291st Engineer Combat Battalion, one of the rough, hardworking U.S. Army engineer combat units that literally paved the way
from Normandy to the Rhine and beyond.
After it landed in Normandy shortly after D-Day, the 291st quickly
acquired a reputation as a savvy, can-do engineer combat unit. During
the race across France and Belgium in the summer of 1944, the 291st
proved itself to be the U.S. First Army’s premier engineer battalion. In
December 1944, the lightly armed 291st found itself virtually alone as
it stood astride the route of the panzer spearhead charged with leading
the northern army group in Hitler’s last-ditch Ardennes offensive—the
Battle of the Bulge. Tough and confident, the 291st blew up bridge after
vital bridge in the face of the German assault and thus denied Germany
her needed victory in the West. Weeks later, the 291st was selected from
among all U.S. Army engineer combat battalions in Germany to throw
the first bridge across the Rhine River in the face of enormous resistance. It thus built the longest combat bridge in Europe in record time
and opened the German heartland to the Allied juggernaut.
Few American combat units have achieved the distinction and recognition accorded the 291st Engineer Combat Battalion. Here, in the
words of its only combat commander, is the 291st’s recipe for success—
stiff training and a group ethos for excellence. This is an exciting, inspiring story about an essential aspect of warfare all but ignored in the
thousands of World War II books that have flooded the market over the
past half century.
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book FIRST
ACROSS THE RHINE: The 291st Engineer Combat Battalion in
France, Belgium, and Germany by Col David E. Pergrin and Eric
Hammel. The book is currently available in a $17.95 trade paperback
edition published by Zenith Press. The book is also available in ebook
editions.
ENGINEERS AT WAR
by Col David E. Pergin and Eric Hammel
Copyright © 1994 by David E. Pergrin and EricHammel.
Lieutenant Colonel David Pergrin’s 291st Engineer Combat Battalion
was the premier U.S. Army engineer unit in the European Theater of
Operations in World War II. Through a combination of being at the
right place at the right time, having the ingrained skills to complete any
task under any conditions, and boasting the kind of leadership and human
material that made any task seem easy, the 291st received more accolades
than any of its marvelous sister engineering units. The battalion’s two
greatest accomplishments in the war were, first, almost single-handedly
stopping the powerful German armored thrust in the northern Ardennes
during the Battle of the Bulge, and, second, building the first engineer
bridge across the Rhine River in March 1945, at Remagen. But there
was luck at play in those towering historical endeavors—being where
the action happened to be—and so the fair way to judge the 291st is by
what it accomplished on a work-a-day basis.
After assisting elements of the U.S. First Army in regaining all the
territory lost during the Battle of the Bulge, the 291st Engineer Combat
Battalion was assigned to assist the 82d Airborne Division in taking a
new and dangerous objective. The objective of the 82d Airborne Division
at the end of January 1945 was achieving a breakthrough of the Siegfried
Line at Losheim, the same place the Germans had broken through in the
opposite direction at the start of their Ardennes Offensive. For the new
attack, Colonel H. Wallis Anderson’s entire 1111th Engineer Combat
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Group was attached to the XVIII Airborne Corps, so the 291st Engineer
Combat Battalion was transferred from a temporary assignment with
the 1186th Engineer Combat Group to Colonel Anderson’s direct
command, under which it had served for most of the time since landing
in Normandy in June 1944.
*
At 0600 hours, January 29, Major General James Gavin’s 82nd Airborne
Division jumped off through the 7th Armored Division into the Losheim
Gap. Occupying an initial front line between Born and Ambleve, the
82nd Airborne attacked northeast across the high ground overlooking
Wereth with the 325th Glider Infantry Regi-ment on the left, the 504th
Parachute Infantry on the right, and the 505th and 508th Parachute
Infantry regiments in reserve. Attacking beside the 82nd, on the left,
was the crack 1st Infantry Division.
The men of the 291st Engineer Combat Battalion did not follow the
lead companies of the 82nd Airborne into the Losheim Gap as we had
followed the lead companies of the 30th Infantry Division toward St.Vith. No, mostly we led the paratroopers through the hip- and thighdeep ice and snow, scraping paths through trackless minefields with our
armored bulldozers so the lightly armed and largely unsupported
paratroopers and glider infantrymen could move at all. From the outset,
we faced a howling blizzard and minus-degree temperatures through a
dense forest that lacked all but rudimentary footpaths. The problems
and hardships we faced were surmountable, but only by battle-hardened
troops with stout hearts and iron determination. Fortunately, the 291st
had those in abundance.
Particularly noteworthy were the heroic efforts of Technician 5th
Grade Herbert Helgerson, a Company B bulldozer operator, near Wereth
on January 29. Helgerson distinguished himself as he was clearing
heavily drifted snow from a supply road directly along the front lines.
Often working ahead of the infantry, he was once pinned down by a
German machine gun and was almost constantly exposed to mortar and
artillery fire called by German forward observers who seemed to have
him under observation throughout his mission. Despite the unnerving
proximity of the fire, Helgerson nevertheless got the road cleared so the
infantry could receive vital support from the rear.
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Another noteworthy performance was turned in by Corporal Edward
Woertz, who became so wrapped up in his work that he worked eighteen
hours or more at a time for four consecutive days. In fact, Woertz kept
working at one point even though German machine-gun fire was hitting
the body of his bulldozer.
Not surprisingly, some of the most stout-hearted men were those
who had already proven themselves in close combat with the en-emy.
One such, who constantly drove his armored bulldozer di-rectly into
the face of enemy emplacements, was Technician 4th Grade Tom Noland,
whose exemplary leadership had done much to save the day against the
Skorzeny brigade at Malmedy. Eventu-ally, though, Tom was seriously
injured by a flurry of German rifle fire as he cut a trail for the troops of
the 325th Glider Infantry in front of an active German defensive position.
Also working far above and beyond his expected performance,
Lieutenant Wade Colbeck took miserable, life-threatening turns in the
cabs of the armored bulldozers when his platoon’s cold-dazed operators
needed respite or relief.
In addition to the bulldozers and road graders we directly com-mitted
to supporting the infantry, we had as many as ten bulldozers and five
road graders in constant operation behind the lines, labori-ously opening
or cutting supply and evacuation trails. The Germans had mined every
possible route through the forest, but our mine-sweeping teams seemed
to have found every mine along the routes we opened and used.
Despite the formidable natural obstacles and hardships, the 504th
Parachute Infantry advanced seven thousand yards on January 28,
capturing Herresback after killing 65 and capturing 201 Germans without
sustaining any losses. The 325th Glider Infantry faced stiffer opposition
in its zone and suffered losses accordingly. How-ever, it also wound up
the day far ahead of its line of departure.
The 82nd Airborne Division’s attack continued on a northeasterly
heading on January 29, but abominable weather conditions—a full-scale
blizzard—restricted the 325th and 504th regiments to gains averaging
two thousand yards. A subsidiary attack by the 505th Parachute Infantry
southeastward on the high ground toward Honsfeld eked out only fifteen
hundred yards. The 291st thus found itself still within the same area of
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Belgium in which we had oper-ated prior to the German offensive, which
had begun about six weeks earlier.
On January 30, the 325th Glider Infantry jumped off to the northeast
at 0500 hours. By 1500 hours, elements of the regiment had reached
Bucholtz, abreast the Honsfeld-Losheim railway line. By nightfall,
patrols of glider infantrymen were reporting back from the German side
of the frontier. On that day, also, the newly committed 508th Parachute
Infantry captured Lanzerath and the damaged highway bridge over the
railway line. American troops were thus in possession of Kampfgruppe
Peiper’s original jumping-off position, a significant gain. On January
31, a day of con-solidation in the 82nd Division’s zone, the 505th
Parachute Infantry bullied its way forward to Losheim-Ergraben against
moderate resistance.
As Technician 5th Grade Mike Popp and I toured the frontier area
visiting my operating platoons, we noted how many German vehicles
and horse-drawn artillery units had been knocked out by our tactical air.
Also, many of the villages had suffered extensive damage at the hands
of our fighter-bomber pilots, and there was no evidence of German
civilians in the region. Apparently, a decree from Hitler that the civilians
defend the Fatherland unto death was being rigorously ignored.
Captain Bill McKinsey reported that the Lanzerath bridge, which
the 82nd Airborne was counting on to get its mobile artillery and armor
forward, was impassable. Based on Bill’s frontline survey, we prepared
to build a 180-foot Bailey span across an 80-foot-deep railroad cut
through the Lanzerath ridge. The location of the new bridge would be
precisely on the Belgian-German border, our first construction
assignment in the Nazi homeland. The job was a typical rush. General
Gavin’s division headquarters wanted to bol-ster the 508th Parachute
Infantry’s positions on the high ground between Losheim and Manderfeld
with the self-propelled guns of the 629th Tank Destroyer Battalion. As
it was, the 508th had already repulsed one German counterattack with
its light infantry weapons and, though Bill McKinsey reported seeing
German infantry in retreat, no one knew what the Germans might throw
in next in symbolic defense of their border.
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On February 1, the 291st’s battalion CP moved forward from
Malmedy to Meyerode and Companies A and C were consolidated to
build the Lanzerath bridge. Before advancing to the bridge site, however,
our mine-sweeping teams had to probe forward and clear all the
approaches. As expected, the Germans had mined all the shoulder areas
with antitank and antipersonnel devices and, as ex-pected also, had wired
in numerous booby traps whose only pur-pose was to kill or maim
engineers clearing the mines. As usual, we suffered no losses, but working
in the snow and ice made matters extremely ticklish.
Major Ed Lampp’s plan was to begin work on the bridge at 0030
hours, February 2. Long experience had imbued Ed with the belief that
a bridge as critically important as this one would be under observation
by German artillery forward observers, so his typical response was to
do as much work as possible under cover of darkness. Beginning at
sunset, the two engineer companies and all their equipment moved into
holding areas within a mile of the bridge site. For the next six hours, all
the troops worked feverishly to prepare for the massive, miserable job
ahead. Then, at 0030 hours, right on schedule, Captain Warren
Rombaugh’s Company C advanced to the bridge site en masse to begin
the first continuous twelve-hour shift. Because it was so cold, Warren
could work his platoons for only four hours apiece, which we had learned
is about as long as human beings could endure the superhuman task of
wrestling the unbelievably frigid five-hundred-pound steel bridge panels
into place.
The night was foggy and sleet fell steadily upon all the men whose
duties prevented them from seeking even rudimentary cover. Progress
was dampened a bit by the sleet because it obliged all the workers to
pull their woolen watch caps down across their ears and faces. Sporadic
artillery fire added considerably to the delaying action of the weather
but fortunately resulted in no casualties. One of the greatest dangers lay
in the potential for slipping or sliding off the glazed steel bridge panels
into the eighty-foot-deep railroad cut. Again, no one was injured, though
there were repeated heartstoppers throughout the ordeal. All this was
done with the knowledge that the lightly armed and relatively
unsupported troops of the 508th Parachute Infantry were waiting for
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their tank destroyers in vulnerable infantry fighting positions about a
mile in front of the bridge.
Mike Popp wrestled our command car to the bridge site at about
0300 hours, February 2, in the immediate wake of one of uncount-able
numbers of artillery barrages. As I watched the miserably cold battlehardened Company C troopers wrestle the five-by-ten-foot panels of
the double-triple Bailey bridge across an eighty-foot-deep chasm in the
midst of a vertical ice storm, I became convinced that these were men
who would finish anything, literally anything, that anyone could
conceivably dream up to be accomplished by combat engineers.
The bridge, which would be two panels thick and three panels high
with a single-span treadway floor required the placement of 216 fivehundred-pound panels. When completed, with one end in Belgium and
the other end in Germany, the 180-foot span would be able to support a
forty-ton load moving at six miles per hour.
We opened the bridge to traffic at 1700 hours, February 3, forty and
a half hours after work began. We did so following an around-the-clock
effort by two complete engineer combat companies and with-out
suffering a single casualty or injury despite the incessant German artillery
fire and incredibly dangerous working conditions. Our first customers
were all the self-propelled tank destroyers of the 629th Tank Destroyer
Battalion. And the payoff, soon to arrive, was a coordinated attack, amply
supported by way of the Lanzerath bridge, in which the 325th Glider
Infantry and 504th Parachute Infantry regiments quickly and decisively
cracked the Siegfried Line between Neuhof and Udenreth, just north of
the Losheim Gap.
As soon as possible, the 291st followed the 82nd Airborne through
the dragon’s teeth and formidable array of bunkers and pillboxes
comprising the Siegfried Line. Behind us lay the long-sought breach in
the enemy frontier and ahead of us lay victory, but not without privation
and struggle, hope and glory as we had never seen them before.
*
On February 7, 1945, Colonel Anderson contacted me with orders to
move the entire 291st Engineer Combat Battalion to a new jumping-off
point in the Hurtgen forest. The news was unwelcome and immediately
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became the cause of deep-seated anxiety among those of us who had
followed the largely unsuccessful pre-Bulge efforts by up to 120,000
Americans to secure this vital, densely wooded, frontier region.
Unfortunately for the many Americans who had tried and failed and the
many more of us who would try again, the capture of the Hurtgen forest
was absolutely essential to the contemplated broad-front Allied attack
across the Cologne plain to the Rhine River, the last important natural
barrier keeping us from Germany’s western heartland. The essential
features within the forest region were two massive hydroelectric dams,
the Urftallsperre and the Schwammenauel, that controlled the water level
of the north-flowing Roer River. If the Allies could not capture the dams
intact, the Germans could flood the Roer valley and deny us the broadfront access to the Rhine that appeared essential to our strategic concept.
The previous fighting in the Hurtgen had been about the grim-mest
of the war in Western Europe. Not only had the Germans made a special
effort to plant mines and booby traps—they knew how important the
region was to us—they took special pleasure in firing their artillery into
the densely packed treetops in order to create exceptionally deadly sprays
of shrapnel and wood splinters against which infantrymen advancing in
the open could in no way defend themselves. Together with many
extremely complex, exten-sive, continuous, interlocking, and hardened
defensive sectors on the ground, these features had resulted in over nine
thousand casu-alties prior to the Bulge.
We were double annoyed with the news of our commitment to the
renewed Hurtgen drive because we felt we had narrowly evaded a
December commitment due to the onset of the German Ardennes
Offensive. I had already traveled through the American-held Hurtgen
region in the days immediately prior to the German offensive to review
the manner in which the 291st was to be employed in the effort to capture
the Roer dams. I had frankly hoped in the weeks after the Bulge that the
higher headquarters responsible for reduc-ing the Hurtgen defenses had
forgotten about the 291st’s prospec-tive commitment. As it turned out,
my wishes came to nothing.
To get set for the new Hurtgen drive, the entire battalion caravaned
from Meyerode to Walheim, a German town east of the Siegfried Line
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in the vicinity of Schmidt. We remained attached to the 1111th Engineer
Group, but we now came under the control of Major General John
Millikin’s III Corps, which was in the center of the 1st U.S. Army zone,
directly facing the Hurtgen forest. On our left was the VII Corps and on
our right was the V Corps. Unless the III Corps was able to secure the
Roer dams intact, the 9th U.S. Army, adjacent to the 1st Army in the
north, could not attack into the Roer valley for fear of being flooded out
by the Germans, who after all could see the shape of our strategy. If the
9th U.S. Army could not advance, neither could Field Marshal
Montgomery’s entire 21st Army Group, to which it had been attached.
And, if the 21st Army Group could not advance, neither could the four
Allied armies arrayed in the center and the south— the 1st and 3rd U.S.
armies in the 12th Army Group zone and the 7th U.S. and 1st French
armies in the 6th Army Group zone. When all was said and done, then,
an Allied advance to the strategic Rhine barrier came down to III Corps’
hoped-for success in the Hurtgen forest.
*
The corps-wide preparations for the assault on the Roer dams gave us
some time to clean up and take care of overdue housekeeping chores—
and to settle down after our harrowing weeks in the fore-front of the
assault into Germany. The billets we took over for the troops were only
fair, but they were warm and snug compared to the places in which we
had been hunkering down for weeks. Everyone had an opportunity to
heed my command to shave daily, and showers were set up to handle
everyone’s needs. Only margin-ally less important than the care and
feeding of the troops was the opportunity the break afforded us to
maintain, refurbish, and re-place our sorely abused equipment.
A spate of letter writing was immediately requited by the arrival of
a ton of mail that had been following us around through the battle zone
for weeks. This included hundreds of responses to the 650 Christmas
cards the battalion headquarters staff had mailed to the families of our
men just before the onset of the Bulge. It was gratifying reading, though
some responses had been mailed by relatives of several of our dead
comrades before news of the deaths reached home. A surprising number
of letters and cards addressed to me complained that sons and husbands
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had not been writing home and would I please get “Johnny” to write
more often. The many packages that had been late getting to us before
Christmas brightened our respite with a dizzying array of goodies from
home. As the “Old Man,” I was obliged to sample more sweets than any
human being should have. Given our fears regarding the battalion’s next
battle, the caring attitude of our relatives and friends at home came as
sweeter news than I can possibly express.
We kept up our skills with a variety of local engineering chores. The
area around Walheim was riddled with uncleared minefields, and Captain
Jim Gamble’s Company A kept itself in trim by building a small airstrip
near Schmidt for use by light Piper Cub artillery spotting planes.
Naturally, all the letter companies were out every day, from sunrise to
sunset, repairing the muddy, shell-damaged roads and bridges that would
carry supplies forward and casualties rearward when the new assault
got underway.
*
There was no certainty that the 291st would actually wind up having
anything to do with the Roer dams themselves, but the betting around
the senior staff ran heavily in that direction. Major Ed Lampp was
extremely forceful in such prognostications. We knew we were
considered a crack battalion. Being so judged had its good points, but it
also meant facing the dirtiest assignments. Besides, our pre-Bulge
preparations had been directed toward the dams; there was no reason to
suppose that the folks who had remembered our early surveys and
briefings would forget the sub-ject of those plans.
To be on the safe side, I had Captain Bill McKinsey send out a recon
team on February 9 to look over the dams from the closest possible
vantage point and to assess the overall situation in the HI Corps zone.
Bill briefed the battalion staff and company command-ers late.
The 78th Infantry Division had jumped off against the dams on
February 5 following its series of unsuccessful attacks against Schmidt.
(The mission of capturing Schmidt had been turned over to Major General
James Gavin’s 82nd Airborne Division on February 2 and Gavin had
proceeded toward the city by a new route—directly down the main
highway through Lammersdorf rather than over-land through the often-
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used and stoutly defended steep-sided Kail Gorge.) Also on February 5,
the 9th Armored Division’s Combat Command R (for Reserve) went in
south of the 78th Division, in the vicinity of Wahlerscheid, in the
Monschau forest, a region of the Hurtgen. It came as considerable relief
to learn that the second-largest of the Roer dams, the Urftallsperre, had
fallen intact to the 9th Armored on the first day of its assault. As Bill
McKinsey gleefully pointed out, “That’s one dam we won’t have to
rebuild!”
The main assault, that by the 78th Infantry Division, met light
opposition on February 5 and 6 but nonetheless proceeded at a cautious
pace. On February 7, the division commander decided to put all three of
his infantry regiments into an effort to leap forward to the unsecured
Schwammenauel Dam. A company of the divi-sion’s organic engineer
battalion, the 303rd, was placed at the front with each of the attacking
infantry regiments. In the ensuing action, the engineers alone destroyed
or directly helped destroy over two hundred concrete pillboxes in the
defended sector between Lammersdorf and the Roer.
Bill McKinsey saved the best news for last. The 9th Armored Division
had been sent to the aid of the 78th Infantry Division on February 9,
permitting the 78th Division to redirect its 309th Infan-try Regiment
cross-country against the Schwammenauel Dam. By day’s end, only
hours before Bill conducted his briefing, the vital dam had fallen into
the hands of the 309th Infantry. Better than that, the dam was intact.
And, best of all, the fall of the dam had allowed the 9th Infantry Division’s
60th Infantry Regiment to spring forward right into Schmidt. All of the
III Corps objectives had been taken and the entire SHAEF assault to the
Rhine could commence— without the 291st’s having been committed
to the bloody fighting in the Hurtgen forest.
*
Early on the morning of February 10, Colonel Anderson called the
battalion CP and asked me to get over to Group immediately with Major
Ed Lampp. There, Major Harry Webb, the group operations officer,
briefed Ed and me on Operation GRENADE, the projected assault across
the Roer River.
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First Webb told us that although the Germans had not destroyed the
dams they had accomplished several acts of mischief. In particular, they
had destroyed the powerful dam machinery and discharge valves on the
Schwammenauel and had diverted the water from behind the
Urftallsperre to behind the Schwammenauel. The effect was not, as
feared, an unstoppable torrent of water, but we were faced with stopping
a relentless flow that, unchecked, would flood the Roer valley for about
two weeks. If that happened, the 9th U.S. Army’s drive toward the Rhine
would be seriously delayed and that would have a ripple effect across
the entire SHAEF front. Accord-ing to Webb, it looked as though the
assault would be delayed for about two weeks.
In addition to wrecking the machinery, the Germans had blown part
of the spillway, leaving a big gap on top of the dam. The eighty-foot gap
prevented the 78th Infantry Division from getting any armored support
across the dam to the thin infantry screen defending the bridgehead on
the east bank of the Roer.
Major Webb next directed our attention to his situation map. He told
us that when Operation GRENADE commenced, we were to directly
support the 78th Infantry Division by building a bridge across the gap
in Schwammenauel Dam and thus assure the free flow of armored
vehicles and supplies toward the east. As Webb spoke, Ed Lampp caught
my eye and smiled as if to say, “I told you so!” Indeed he had, many
times over the past few days.
After telling us that the effort undoubtedly would be made under
direct German fire, Webb ended the briefing with a rather too chipper,
“You guys got the contract.”
Before returning to my CP to mount out the battalion, I was taken
aside by Colonel Anderson. He told me that the 291st had been selected
for the job by senior 1st Army officers because of the sterling regard in
which we were held.
Ed and I returned to the CP and called a meeting of senior staff and
line officers to discuss the new and challenging mission. Bill McKinsey
immediately dispatched patrols to survey the entire 78th Division rear
and report back about any damaged or destroyed bridges and stretches
of roadway that needed to be swept for mines or repaired. By then, the
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early thaw had left many long stretches of vital roadway in utter disrepair
following the passage of our army’s steel-cleated tracked vehicles. As
soon as Bill left to dispatch the patrols. Captain Max Schmidt got on the
phone to Group to line up our fair share of the available engineering
supplies.
*
The overall plan for Operation GRENADE was to start the assault at
the northern end of the battlefield by building bridges in the zone of the
northernmost assault divisions—in the zone of the 9th U.S. Army’s XIX
Corps. Once a bridgehead had been established east of the river,
succeeding divisions would cross the same bridges and hook south
through the preceding units.
Thanks to the slow flooding by way of the Schwammenauel Dam,
the Roer had swollen from thirty yards to over a hundred yards in the
zone of the XIX Corps. This caused an incalculable delay while engineers
tried to figure out if they should try to bridge the wider-than-anticipated
river or wait for the water to recede, in which case they would face a
wide muddy bog across the entire flood plain. It was decided to wait.
While the battalion CP moved from Walheim to Rotgen, due west of
Schmidt, the letter companies of the 291st used the delay to clear mines
and restore the road net in our zone. We also dug in the heavy field
pieces of the 78th Division’s general support artillery battalion.
On February 18, Group called to say that it had just received a
dispatch from III Corps that had apparently passed through the
headquarters of the 1st Army, the 12th Army Group, and SHAEF on its
way from the White House. President Roosevelt had signed the
Presidential Unit Citation for which the 291st had been recom-mended
for its wide-ranging service during the Bulge. Colonel Anderson asked
me to drop by Group headquarters to add my endorsement to a section
of signatures that included Roosevelt, Eisenhower, Bradley, and Hodges.
Every man in the battalion— and those who had been wounded and
evacuated during and since the actions in which we had earned this
honor—was given a copy of the citation and authorized to wear the
ribbon. However, we had no time to undertake a formal ceremony, for
we were too busy preparing for our next great adventure.
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*
On February 19, a damaged B-24 heavy bomber came down in a smallish
field south of Rotgen. Those of us at the CP heard the plane go in so I
jumped into my command car with Technician 5th Grade Mike Popp
and rushed to see what was going on. The makeshift landing field, part
of an extensive minefield, was in the zone of Lieutenant Don Davis’s
platoon of Company C. By the time I arrived, the crew of the heavy
bomber was climbing out of the airplane amidst shouted pleas from
Don and his men that they stay put until a safe path through the mines
had been cleared with the aid of mine detectors. The entire fresh-faced
bomber crew—they all looked to be about eighteen years old—
disregarded the instructions and trudged across the muddy field toward
us. When they got to the road, we pointed to the many signs that warned
of the presence of mines in the field, but those cocky boys laughed and
boasted, “If we can crash-land a heavy bomber in a small field like this,
there’s no minefield that can do us in.” With those foolish flyboys looking
on, Davis’s men immediately went to work plucking mines from exactly
the route they had followed from the bomber. When the airmen saw the
mines, they became so agitated that they refused to return to the bomber
to collect their personal effects.
*
By February 22, the flood waters in the Roer valley had receded
sufficiently for Operation GRENADE to commence the next day,
February 23. As planned, the assault began in the north, toward Julich,
in the zone of the 9th U.S. Army’s southernmost XIX Corps. German
air and artillery knocked out the assault bridges in the zone of the 102nd
Infantry Division, but engineers employing a massive smoke screen in
the adjacent 29th Infantry Division zone breached the river. By day’s
end, tanks were advancing into Julich. In the next zone south, elements
of the 30th Infantry Division conducted an assault river crossing in boats,
but no bridges were completed in its zone and, thus, no armor could be
sent to support the bridgehead.
In the northern 1st Army sector, the VII Corps got no bridges across
the Roer on February 23, but, next day, engineers built a Bailey bridge
on the piers of the blown main highway bridge into Düren. This was the
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only bridge built to support the VII Corps assault that day. A treadway
pontoon bridge that was to be thrown across the river on February 24
was delayed by a fierce defensive effort on the part of the 12th
Volksgrenadier Division. This bridge was eventually completed, but the
Germans continued to harass the units crossing there.
By February 28, parts of six divisions on the XIX and VII corps
zones were across the Roer, advancing into the Cologne plain toward
the Rhine. During the morning, our battalion liaison officer, Captain
Lloyd Sheetz, called from the 78th Infantry Division CP to tell us that
all three regiments of the 78th were safely across the river and preparing
to attack across the Cologne plain next day, March 1, along-side the 9th
Armored Division. Among other jobs, the 291st was to support the III
Corps attack by building a Bailey bridge at Blens.
*
As soon as we got the news from Lloyd Sheetz, Ed Lampp sent Bill
McKinsey to Blens to survey the bridge site. Toward evening on the
28th, Bill returned—overdue—from the last-minute reconnais-sance
with a uncharacteristic haunted expression on his face. As the story
developed, Bill’s recon team had approached the blown Blens bridge so
it could confirm the measurement of the length of the Bailey bridges we
were to throw the next day. Germans on the east bank of the Roer had
apparently spotted Bill and his team and had put a great deal of effort
into keeping them pinned. The scouts had spent the entire day crouched
behind an abutment and had escaped only after the onset of darkness.
Major Lampp assigned the Blens bridge to Captain Frank Rhea’s
Company B. In turn, Frank assigned the Blens job to Lieutenant John
Kirkpatrick’s platoon.
Frank moved the Company B CP into a building near the bridge site
at about noon, March 1, so he could oversee the staging of the bridging
equipment. Almost as soon as Frank arrived, however, the Germans
opened with a vicious artillery barrage. The shelling was still going on
when Kirkpatrick’s platoon moved into the open to launch the bridge
nose out over the turbulent Roer.
The Blens bridge was to be a 130-foot triple-single span. We had
built dozens of such bridges across France and Belgium, but the layout
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at Blens presented us with several unique challenges. Chief among our
headaches was the fact that the far-shore abutment sloped downhill,
thus causing the launching nose to be high above the ground. This was
solved by holding the bridge in alignment and level by means of a stout
cable affixed to a bulldozer winch while the structure was being shoved
across rollers set on the near shore.
The initial artillery barrage abated, but the German guns opened
with renewed fury at around 2300 hours. One of the heavy-caliber rounds
struck the bridge itself and the resulting spray of shrapnel wounded five
engineers. Though German rounds continued to fall all around the bridge
site, Lieutenant Kirkpatrick stayed out on the span with the wounded
men and helped the medics administer aid and dress wounds. Then,
through more artillery detonations, John helped carry the wounded men
to safety. As soon as the shelling abated, John calmly reorganized the
platoon and led his engineers back out onto the span. Sporadic artillery
fire ensued, but Kirkpatrick’s platoon completed the job at 0310 hours,
March 2—a record-setting performance of fifteen hours and ten minutes.
As soon as the bridge was completed, tanks and assault guns already
lined up behind cover in the town pushed across to join up with the 78th
Division’s waiting infantry components. Before long, military policemen
were herding German captives back across the Blens bridge.
*
While Company B was wrestling with the tricky, dangerous Blens bridge,
Captain Jim Gamble’s Company A was preparing to under-take different
but equally challenging headaches at Heimbach. The objective, placed
in the hands of Lieutenant Bucky Walters’s and Lieutenant Arch Taylor’s
platoons, was the construction of a 110-foot triple-single Bailey span to
replace a destroyed stone arch bridge that had been built on a curve.
Working against established procedure, Jim Gamble wanted to get
the bridge started in full daylight because of the severe difficulty his
platoons would face as they attempted to install a straight bridge on a
curve. Thus, construction work began at 1430 hours, March 2. Because
the existing part of the bridge was too narrow to set base plates,
Lieutenants Taylor and Walters had their men emplace tran-soms to
extend the width of the existing structure.
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When I arrived to survey progress, the bridge was creeping out slowly
above the river despite some very inaccurate shelling. After the troops
added each new ten-foot section, the entire structure was angled slightly
on the baseplate rollers, the only solution available for building a fortyton assault bridge at such a tough location. The work was not only
strenuous, it was hazardous. Perfect timing was required to prevent the
entire structure from tumbling forty feet into the river.
The commander of the 78th Division’s 303rd Engineer Combat
Battalion, Lieutenant Colonel John Cosner, arrived shortly after me. He
had just come from having his first look at the Blens bridge, and he was
effusive in his praise. After Cosner had had a good look at what Company
A was doing there, at Heimbach, he described feelings of awe. As we
continued to watch, the 310th Infantry Regiment, which was screening
the bridge site, sent back about fifty German prisoners—a real tonic for
the engineers, whose backs were breaking from the grueling effort. They
got the job done by 0900 hours, March 3—in eighteen and a half hours.
*
As soon as I returned to Rotgen on the morning of March 3 to check in
at the battalion CP, I was given a message that Colonel Anderson wanted
me to return his call. I dutifully complied, but the colonel was not in.
Major Webb, the 1111th Group operations officer, told me that the colonel
wanted to know how the bridge-building was shaping up. I told him that
the Blens bridge was in and the Heimbach bridge had been completed
an hour earlier. Next up was the Schwammenauel Dam bridge, which
Captain Warren Rombaugh’s Company C was slated to begin in a matter
of hours. I told Webb that we had heard through 78th Division sources
that the infantry had advanced far beyond the dam bridgehead and that
they did not expect much artillery fire to be directed against Company
C. Before ringing off, Webb told me that the colonel wanted to meet
with me at the site of the dam bridge within the hour.
I immediately left the battalion CP and drove over to pick up
Lieutenant Colonel Cosner at the 303rd Engineer Combat Battalion CP.
We had agreed earlier to visit all three bridge sites and to discuss plans
for supporting the 78th Division’s drive across the Cologne plain. Cosner
had information that all of the 78th Divi-sion’s three infantry regiments
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were advancing rapidly in company with the 9th Armored Division
against weakening opposition. Ac-cording to Cosner, the 9th Armored
Division’s Combat Command B and the 78th Infantry Division’s 310th
Infantry were already about fifteen miles east of the Roer. As we drove,
we ruminated about breaching the next great barrier, the mighty Rhine.
We were both certain that the Germans would blow every span across
the mighty river from the Swiss frontier to the North Sea and that they
would commit every available soldier, gun, and airplane to keeping all
the Allied armies from crossing.
Everything was in order at Heimbach and Blens. Maintenance teams
were working over both bridges and my engineers were out policing up
the last of the mines. Speed-limit signs had already been posted on both
bridges, which were in heavy use.
We arrived at the Schwammenauel Dam at 1330, March 3, and found
Lieutenant Don Davis’s and Lieutenant Tom Stack’s platoons of Captain
Warren Rombaugh’s Company C having a ball. The vistas to the east
and west were utterly breathtaking, with rich pine forests stretching into
the haze of the Roer valley and snow-capped hills marching beyond
sight. We heard the rumble of artillery, but it was far east of the dam, far
beyond range.
The open breach where the Germans had demolished the spillway
was seventy-five feet wide. It must have taken several tons of explosives
to do the job. Work had begun at 1245 hours, right after lunch, and it
was expected to be completed before dinner, say around 1830 hours.
The bridge was an eighty-foot double-single Bailey span and the job
was an absolutely straightforward affair in which Company C sustained
only one casualty, a sprained back.
The line platoons were about two thirds through the job when Colonel
Anderson finally arrived. I knew things were going well as soon as I
saw the twinkle in the Old Man’s eyes. As he stood with Cosner and me
watching the completion of the very last act in the long and bloody
battle of the Hurtgen forest, the colonel reminded us that the ordeal had
begun with an assault by the 28th Infantry Division, the Pennsylvania
National Guard unit with which he had fought in World War I and whose
engineer regiment he had commanded when the division was activated
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before America’s com-mitment to World War II. Maybe because I was a
fellow Pennsylvanian, the colonel waxed nostalgic about the many scores
of Pennsylvania infantrymen and engineers who had died on their way
to this dam.
That evening, when he got back to his quarters, Colonel Ander-son
wrote in his nightly letter to his wife: “I didn’t sleep well last night.
Pergrin was involved in building three bridges across a river where the
danger was extremely in evidence from all the hazards of war. When I
didn’t hear from him this morning, I went to the sites and saw three
masterpieces of engineering skill and courageous leadership. I will sleep
well tonight.”
Shortly, the 291st Engineer Combat Battalion was called upon to
throw the first Allied engineer bridge across the mighty Rhine River, at
Remagen.
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GUADALCANAl
Starvation Island
By Eric Hammel
The Japanese defeats at Midway and Guadalcanal decided the outcome
of the Pacific War. Guadalcanal was the classic three-dimensional
campaign. On land, at sea, and in the air, fierce battles were fought with
both sides stretching their supplies and equipment to the breaking point.
The campaign lasted six months, involved nearly one million men, and
stopped Japanese expansion in the Pacific.
When the campaign began on August 7, 1942, no one on either side
quite knew how to conduct it, as Eric Hammel shows in this masterly
account. Guadalcanal: Starvation Island corrects numerous errors and
omissions in the official records that have been perpetuated in all the
books previously published about the campaign. Hammel also draws
on the recollections of more than 100 participants on both sides, especially the enlisted men at the sharp end. Their words bring us into the
heart of the battle and portray the fighting accurately, realistically, and
powerfully.
Guadalcanal: Starvation Island follows the men and the commanders of this decisive World War II campaign in an integrated, brilliantly
told narrative of the desperate struggle at sea, on land, and in the air.
Praise for Guadalcanal: Starvation Island and Eric Hammel
“A comprehensive history of the Guadalcanal Campaign . . . [and] a
well balanced account. Well written and fast moving.” —Marine Corps
Gazette
“Hammel has written the most comprehensive popular ac-count to date
. . . and exposes controversial aspects often passed over,” —Publishers
Weekly
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“Hammel takes the reader behind the scenes and details how decisions
were made . . . and how they impacted on the troops carrying them out.
He tells the story in a very human way.” —Leatherneck Magazine
“A splendid record of this decisive campaign. Hammel offers a wealth
of fresh material drawn from archival records and the recollections of
100 odd surviving participants. . . . A praise-worthy contribution to
Guadalcanal lore.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Hammel’s ability to reveal both the immediacy and the hu-manity of
war without judgment or bias makes all his books both readable and
scholarly. —San Francisco Chronicle
“Hammel does not write dry history. His battle sequences are masterfully
portrayed. —Library Journal
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book
GUADALCANAL: Starvation Island by Eric Hammel. The book is
currently available in a $27.50 trade paperback edition published
by Pacifica Military History. It is also available in ebook editions.
EDSON’S RIDGE
by Eric Hammel
Copyright 1987 © by Eric Hammel
The Guadalcanal invasion—August 7-8, 1942—had gone of almost
without a hitch. But the Imperial Navy had soundly defeated the Allied
invasion fleet in a daring night action off Savo Island, and the U.S.
transports a warships had fled.
The prize at Guadalcanal for both sides was Henderson Field, the
only airstrip within 600 miles of the main Japanese regional base at
Rabaul. While Marines dangled the end of an inadequate supply line,
Japan achieved mastery of the seas around Guadalcanal and was thus
able to land infantry forces almost with impunity. The first large infantry
force, accidentally goaded by Marines into a premature assault in late
August, had been defeated. A second, much larger, Japanese infantry
force had been landed east of the Marines’ Lunga Perimeter. It had
marched overland to deliver what its commanders believed would an
overwhelming assault against the thinly held Marine line south of
Henderson Field.
*
September 12, 1942, was a red-letter day for Lieutenant Colonel Merritt
“Red Mike” Edson’s 1st Marine Raider Battalion, which received its
first mail from home in several months. For a few hours in the afternoon,
the troops were left alone to think and talk about a life only a few could
actually believe they had once lived.
In the rain forest south of the T-shaped ridge, Kawaguchi Butai’s
main body was winding up its prep-arations for taking the airfield. It
was only after dusk that MGen Kiyotake Kawaguchi first learned that
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the jumbled ridge manned by Marines lay between his assault force and
the main runway. There was no time to maneuver around the ridge; the
hungry, exhausted Japanese would have to advance over the defended
ground.
Last-minute work parties and scouts fanned out to blaze trails and
observe the enemy. The Emperor’s soldiers prepared to do their duty
amidst a mood of relief. Mementos were exchanged and words of
encouragement passed between old friends or from of-ficers to their
men.
An afternoon patrol by LtCol Sam Griffith and two riflemen brought
news to LtCol Red Mike Edson that there was a large force of Japanese
to the front. Griffith had been unable to determine how many Japanese
there were, or where they were heading. Edson decided to mount several
strong combat patrols next morning, and he called his company
commanders and staffers to his CP for an evening planning session.
Most of the Raiders and ‘Chutes turned in for the night while sentries
settled down to what would, they hoped, remain a quiet watch.
*
The T-shaped ridge rose out of the rain forest about a mile south of the
main runway, its stem running in a north-south direc-tion for about 1,000
yards parallel to the Lunga River, about 600 yards to the west. The
crossbar was high, clear, fairly broken ground dominated by four distinct
spurs, two each on either side of the stem. Steep gullies and junglechoked ravines isolated the bare ridge in most directions. The only
feasible path from south of the ridge to the Lunga Plain was down the
long axis of the spurs and stem.
Two Raider companies were on the line: B Company was on clear,
high ground, its right flank tied in with C Company, Raiders, which
was extended out to the right, its own right flank dangling off into the
tree-choked flats beside the Lunga River. A and D com-panies, Raiders,
were close by, in reserve. The battalion head-quarters and elements of
E Company, the weapons unit, were bivouacked several hundred yards
to the rear, on the stem of the T. B Company, ‘Chutes, about seventy
troopers, was tied in with B Company, Raiders, east (left) of the center
of the stem, which served as the battalion boundary; A and C companies,
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‘Chutes, were bivouacked in the woods just behind and below the stem.
The minuscule parachute-battalion headquarters was to the rear, near
Edson’s CP.
An increment of 1st Pioneer Battalion was holding a hill overlooking
the west bank of the Lunga, well to the right of C Com-pany, Raiders,
and elements of 1st Engineer Battalion were on another nearby hill, to
the left of the ‘Chutes.
*
It started just as Red Mike was ending his briefing. As the leading
elements of Kawaguchi Butai briefly floundered in the jungle flats below
the ridge, seeking the first line of Marine listening posts, the artillery
supported by the rear echelon of Ichiki Butai east of Alligator Creek
opened fire several minutes before 2100, dead on schedule. Immediately,
a Japanese naval floatplane ranged in from over the channel and dropped
a parachute flare just south of the main runway. Two Japanese cruisers
and a destroyer then opened fire on the T-shaped ridge. Several “overs”
killed a number of Kawaguchi’s advancing infantrymen.
Shouts of “Japs!” and “Here they come!” intermingled with screams
of “Totsugeki!”—”Charge!”
Several listening posts screening the Raiders’ front were swept away
in the opening rush, then the Japanese crunched up against the main
line, manned at the points of impact by platoons from B and C companies,
Raiders.
Spreading left and right, the Japanese screamed and yelled and hurled
strings of firecrackers to rattle the defenders. The most hard-pressed of
the C Company platoons slowly fell back from its position overlooking
the river. Communications became unglued all along the line as attackers
and defenders intermingled under the eerie glow of shellbursts and
parachute flares. Before any Marines could effectively react, Japanese
soldiers were cutting fire lanes through the dense underbrush and firing
along them at the stunned Raiders. Within minutes, a second C Company
platoon was iso-lated by a human wedge of oath-screaming Japanese.
All the disor-ganized Raiders who could withdrew.
Severely disabled in the opening minutes of the fight, C Com-pany,
Raiders, was forced to give ground. This, in turn, forced adjacent B
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Company to undertake a fighting withdrawal to re-fuse its now-dangling
right flank. When the withdrawal had been com-pleted, B Company’s
right platoon was bent far back, holding a north-south line. The Japanese
could not press their advantage against the main body of B Company,
for they had their hands full with isolated individuals and pockets of
Raiders who had not been able to withdraw with the herd. The attackers
were so taken aback by the unexpectedly stiff opposition that the fighting
tapered off immediately after the first successful rushes had been driven
home. Heavy skirmishing ensued through the long night, but the Japanese
had all withdrawn by sunrise.
*
Early on September 13, pilots from carriers Hornet and Wasp ferried in
eighteen brand-new F4F-4 Wildcat fighters for Cactus pilots whose own
Wildcats had been lost in the heavy air fighting of the previous week.
The Hornet and Wasp pilots were flown out later in the day.
Lt Smokey Stover, of Fighting-5, roared aloft at 0830, one of
seventeen Navy and Marine fighter pilots to greet an early air strike.
Stover was at 25,000 feet peering all over the sky in search of targets
when his earphones crackled with his division leader’s ex-cited voice:
“Zero!”
The Americans had found two reconnaissance aircraft es-corted by
twenty Zeros. The Japanese were not there for a fight, did not even
expect one. Their sole mission was to determine who owned the airbase
following General Kawaguchi’s “crushing” night assault. They gamely
turned to meet the oncoming Americans. The four Fighting-5 pilots
descended steeply, and were passing 18,000 feet before Smokey Stover
even saw the quarry. Immedi-ately, Stover saw his wingman bailing out
of his burning Wildcat. Then he was jumped by a Zero, which doggedly
chased him into clouds at 6,000 feet. Hugging the clouds, Stover got
into position to bag a Zero. The Japanese pulled up right in front of him,
but Stover managed to hang on and fire his six .50-caliber wing guns
until the Zero burst into flames and crashed into the rain forest. Next,
Stover forced a Zero into a head-on contest as it pulled away from a
firing run on another Wildcat. Stover saw good hits on the Zero’s
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fuselage. He watched as it circled, trailing smoke, but he did not see it
fall, so claimed only a probable.
Fighting-5 claimed three Zeros definitely destroyed and one
probable. The Marines made no claims. One Fighting-5 airman was
lost with his Wildcat and another—Smokey Stover’s veteran wingman,
Ens Don Innis—was seriously burned before bailing out; he was picked
up in the channel by a landing craft from Kukum. A third Navy pilot
was wounded, but landed safely.
The reconnaissance report to 11th Air Fleet resulted in a bomber
strike later in the day against “artillery” positions near Taivu Point. The
Bettys destroyed most of what little remained of Kawaguchi Butai’s
supplies. The Japanese bombers were hit first by Maj Bob Galer and
two other Marine airmen as soon as they turned for home. Each of the
three Marines claimed a kill. Smokey Stover, in one of seven Navy
Wildcats to get in on the melee, got to 25,000 feet in time to make one
pass, but with no observable results. Other Fighting-5 flyers destroyed
two Bettys over Savo. However, a furi-ous Wildcat-versus-Zero dogfight
claimed the lives of three Ma-rines and two Japanese. One Navy F4F
was lost in a launching mishap.
Late in the afternoon, a pair of Zero floatplanes caught every-one
flatfooted and flamed a Marine SBD coming in for a landing, killing the
pilot and gunner. Ten minutes later, antiaircraft gunners opened upon a
dozen “intruders,” but fortunately failed to score. The “intruders” were
U.S. Navy SBD Dauntless dive-bombers manned by aircrews from
Scouting-3, which had been transferred to RAdm Slew McCain’s
Aircraft, South Pacific, following the de-parture of Saratoga after she
suffered torpedo damage on August 31. Soon after, the first American
torpedo bombers to be sent to Cactus—six TBF Avengers from
Saratoga’s Torpedo-8—also landed.
*
The Raiders moved to recover lost ground after sunrise. Jap-anese snipers
abounded, so the advance by elements of B and C companies was
cautious and slow. B Company riflemen who suc-ceeded in reclaiming
fighting holes lost in the night found that the gear they had left behind
had been rifled by the Japanese, and that much of the food they had
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pilfered at Tasimboko had, in the end, gotten into the stomachs for which
it had been intended.
A Company, ‘Chutes, had had no contact with the Japanese during
the night, so was ordered down to the jungle flats to support the Raiders’
attempts to regain their original positions. The company advanced only
a bit before it was stopped by gunfire from concealed emplacements.
Unwilling to risk a major fight while de-ployed on so narrow a front,
Capt Bill McKennan ordered his unit to back away from the Japanese.
Once clear, however, McKennan pushed in from another direction, this
time with some artillery sup-port. The second attempt brought forth a
few Japanese snipers, but they did little to impede the ‘Chutes, who
accomplished their mis-sion by midafternoon. A Company returned to
the ridge at 1530 to find that the cooks had saved the morning meal. All
hands ate their first food of the day, then lined up again to collect their
afternoon meal, which was always served punctually at 1630.
C Company, Raiders, which had been badly mauled in the night
fighting, was withdrawn from the front. A Company, the only Raider
unit anywhere near full strength, and the remnants of D Company, which
had been disbanded to fill out the ranks of the other companies, were
sent to hold the Raider right.
Red Mike decided to shorten the line somewhat, and pull it back
nearly 100 yards to force attackers to cross open ground through grazing
automatic-weapons fire. Improved fields of fire were cut, and much of
the line was wired in. Deeper fighting holes were dug, and automatic
weapons were repositioned. Asked by Archer Vandegrift what he thought
of the night action, the grim, unflappable Red Mike whispered that he
thought it was a test. Then he smiled his peculiar, bloodless smile and
added that the Japanese would be back that night. Vandegrift ordered up
2nd Bat-talion, 5th, which had fought beside the Raiders on Tulagi five
weeks earlier.
When the reserve battalion was delayed by the day’s busy air
activities as it crossed the main runway on its way from Kukum, LtCol
Bill Whaling, exec of 5th Marines, and the rifle-company commanders
arrived at Edson’s CP late in the day to look over the ground. It was a
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wise precaution, for the main body of the battalion would be delayed
until after dark.
Late in the afternoon, all twelve 105mm howitzers of LtCol Hayden
Price’s 5th Battalion, nth, were moved with the aid of prisoners from
their forest revetments to more-exposed firing positions south of the
main runway. The gunners quickly plotted gen-eral and direct support
concentrations on their maps, and zone registrations were fired before
dark.
The registration fire caused some excitement along the ridge, where
Raiders and ‘Chutes paused to see if they were under attack. When Capt
Bill McKennan, who had been up all night and all day overseeing his A
Company, ‘Chutes, saw that the rounds were landing well beyond his
position, he dozed off.
Once the guns were registered, everyone except gunners was moved
back into the woods to man a secondary line; if the Japanese broke
through the Raiders and ‘Chutes, they would certainly over-run the
howitzers. There was nothing between the artillerymen and the vital
airfield.
*
First Raider Battalion mustered just over 400 effectives. They held an
1,800-yard line anchored on the southern slope of a high, projecting
knob to the right of the center of the crossbar of the T. B Company was
on the left, and A Company and the remnants of D Company held the
right. C Company, the battalion headquar-ters, and elements of E
Company were the reserve.
First Parachute Battalion had yet to come in contact with
KawaguchiButai. B Company, mustering about seventy-five effectives,
was tied in at the ridge’s center with B Company, Raiders. C Com-pany,
which had landed fewer than eighty men at Gavutu and which now
fielded no more than fifty, was to B Company’s left rear, holding about
200 yards along a knob overlooking the jungle flats. A Company, the
battalion reserve, was in the woods right behind C Company. The
battalion was down to well under 200 troopers in all from the 377 who
had landed at Gavutu. As with most Marine battalions in the Eastern
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Solomons, 1st ‘Chutes had lost far more Marines to illness and disease
than to enemy bullets and bombs.
General Kawaguchi reckoned that he had about 1,000 orga-nized
effectives for the coming assault, a number far exceeding the combined
strength of the two battalions holding the ridge. Despite casualties
suffered the previous night, and the fact that many stragglers had not
rejoined their companies, Kawaguchi decided early in the day to mount
a new assault.
With the onset of darkness, Raiders and ‘Chutes could hear more
and more talk from the woods to the front. The Raiders re-plied with
taunts and curses. Bullets flew sporadically as each side psyched itself
up.
Capt Bill McKennan, of A Company, ‘Chutes, was awakened from
his afternoon nap by a runner summoning him to the battalion CP. He
made his way through the dense woods in pitch darkness and was advised
that the situation on the front had become “threat-ening.” A Company
was to move to the ridge. McKennan returned to the company bivouac
and ordered 1stSgt Marion LeNoir to call the troops out. The tension
was alleviated when one young trooper said to McKennan as he passed
in the dark, “I s’pose we get time-and-a-half for this, Cap’n.” The men
dropped down beside the road to wait for the attack to begin.
*
B Company, Raiders, took it on the nose, at 1830, September 13. The
Japanese struck most heavily on the right, just where they had hit C
Company the night before. A platoon was quickly iso-lated from the
rest of the company and surrounded. Then B Com-pany fell apart under
repeated hammer blows. Driven back, the Raiders reformed just behind
the crest and surged forward to re-gain some of the lost ground. But the
Japanese were pouring through a 200-yard gap in the line. Within
minutes, B Company’s front had been reduced to a series of tiny pockets
and strongpoints manned by desperate men. A Company, Raiders,
isolated by the Lunga on one flank and the gap torn at its juncture with
B Com-pany, was not seriously molested by Kawaguchi Butai’s main
effort, which was aimed at the stem of the ridge, a direct path to
Hender-son Field.
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Shortly after B Company collapsed, Red Mike moved his CP forward
to the high knob dominating the southern end of the ridge, only several
yards behind the most advanced machine-gun em-placement. As Edson
sought to steady his rattled troops, Cpl Walt Burak, his runner, scuttled
to the rear in search of communications wire, which was spliced in to
the battalion message center and run back to the division CP, where the
senior staff was anxiously await-ing news. Edson was coldly determined
to stand his ground, though he, as every man around him, could barely
lift his head for fear of having it blown off by the sheets of fire the
Japanese were putting out. Edson presented a terse rundown to LtCol
Jerry Thomas, the division operations officer, who was directing the
overall effort from his operations center, just north of the ridge. (Red
Mike would leave his exposed CP only once that long night, and then
only to briefly spring to the rear to alleviate some of the confusion
experienced by his superiors at division headquarters.)
Individual Marines drifted back through the blackness from overrun
positions while others crept forward. As the life-and-death struggle raged
across the killing ground, Red Mike called on C Company to defend the
knob on which he had established his for-ward CP. Then beleaguered B
Company was allowed to withdraw. Only sixty Raiders responded, but
many other B Company Ma-rines were fighting individually and in small
groups on other parts of the battleground.
*
Fifth Battalion, 11th, was having the most active night in its brief history.
Its twelve 105mm howitzers had been brought so close to the ridge
during the late afternoon that the crews had had to dig pits beneath the
breech blocks in order to take up the recoil when they fired at extreme
high angle. The tubes were so steeply inclined that the rounds described
trajectories similar to those of mortars. Initial fire missions consisted of
individual concentrations directed by trained artillery forward observers
on the ridge or by infantry officers and NCOs who had open lines to the
battery fire direction centers.
All that separated the howitzers from the Japanese was the line of
Raiders and ‘Chutes on the ridge. Pfc Larry McDonald, the nineteenyear-old O Battery recorder, was obliged to use a narrow-beamed pen-
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light to make certain that his records and readings were in accord. Within
a short time of the onset of the action, he drew sniper fire each and
every time he used the light, no matter how briefly. Despite the danger,
it was imperative that McDonald and other recorders continue; all guns
had been set on base azi-muths, and any variation right, left, up, or
down had to be noted in order to bring them back to the base.
Communication between the artillery forward observers and the
firing batteries was disrupted early in the action. When Red Mike
requested an urgent replacement at dusk, Maj Charles Nees, the 11th
Marines’ assistant operations officer, volunteered to take the job. The
thirty-three-year-old reservist worked his way for-ward and, at about
2000, found a spot from which he could observe the front and adjacent
positions. He reported to Red Mike, who had been directing the artillery,
simply by shouting that he had arrived, was in position, and had
established communications with the 105mm fire direction center. Nees
immediately began calling the pinpoint fires the Raiders and ‘Chutes
needed to survive. At about the time Nees went forward, an aristocratic,
silver-thatched older private first class named Tom Watson left his job
as a clerk with the 105mm battalion’s headquarters battery to serve as a
for-ward observer. Watson would be a second lieutenant by morning,
so flawless was his direction of the guns.
By 2100, the howitzer crews shifted from called fire to box barrages,
then to rolling barrages, which entailed firing a salvo at maximum
elevation and subsequent salvos outward at fifty-yard increments to 300
yards, then pulling the fire back fifty yards at a time. The gunners could
not believe that Raiders and ‘Chutes were calling ranges so close to
their own positions, but they complied. The only time the guns stopped
firing was when the battery execs, who were in charge of the fire direction
centers, ordered individual tubes swabbed and cooled.
One Japanese officer was so impressed with the rapid-firing
howitzers that he later referred to them as “automatic artillery.” Much
of the artillery’s success stemmed from Japanese assault tac-tics: Every
time the Emperor’s soldiers were about to launch a new assault, they
lofted a red flare from their starting position. The Japanese who managed
to breast the curtain of steel often pitched calcium flares at the American
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lines, and those drew yet more fire. The quality and speed of the gunnery
paid deadly dividends.
*
The tiny parachute battalion, spared the previous night, bore the brunt
of a vicious head-on assault. The action on the ‘Chutes’ front began
when two mortar rounds landed in C Company’s lines, killing one trooper
and wounding another. The ‘Chutes responded by pitching hand grenades
down the steep slopes at the sound of voices.
As the action heated up and the Japanese routes of advance were
revealed, Capt Bill McKennan’s A Company was ordered for-ward from
its reserve position to man a secondary line on the re-verse slope of the
ridge, behind B and C companies.
Fearful that a powerful attack might breach his weak line, Capt Justin
Duryea, whose B Company was holding the cleared area in the center
of the ridge, directly beneath Red Mike’s forward CP, ordered smoke
pots ignited to screen his front. A red flare burst overhead at the moment
of ignition, and its light was reflected off the smudgy black curtain.
Someone yelled, “Gas attack!” Blood ran cold as the smoke oozed over
the red-lighted ground; everyone had long ago discarded his gas mask.
The Japanese struck as additional flares were lofted into the red
sky, surging down the spurs and wildly charging along the pro-truding
spine and the dark edges of the low jungle flats. They punched through
from dead ahead, officers waving swords aloft while yelling “Totsugeki!”
and “Banzai!” at the top of their lungs. Riflemen fired their .25-caliber
Arisaka rifles and 7.7mm Nambu light machine guns from their hips,
hurled grenades, and fired their strange little “knee mortars.” They
screamed their oaths and fired their weapons and sacrificed their lives
for their emperor.
Most of the B Company troopers held firm, and the Japanese rolled
away to their right front, hitting Capt Dick Johnson’s pla-toon-size C
Company. Cpl Ernie DeFazio, a squad leader whose squad had been
disbanded, was firing at sounds in the dark when he saw a red, glowing
light coming at him. There was barely time to secure his helmet with
his left hand and duck. The object, a grenade launched by a knee mortar,
burst overhead and badly lac-erated DeFazio’s left hand. DeFazio did
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not dare get up, and he knew that yelling for a corpsman in all that din
would be a waste of effort, so he crawled on his belly toward the rear
until shock and pain caused him to faint.
Most of the C Company troopers bolted, but the Japanese were
momentarily halted when a C Company machine gunner cradled his
gun in his arms and charged forward firing a long burst. The attackers
were held for only a moment, for the gunner was shot dead in his tracks.
The unremitting, repeated hammer blows finally forced Duryea’s B
Company to give ground. That in turn caused most of the remainder of
Johnson’s C Company to flee. While troopers from the forward
companies ran headlong toward the rear, McKennan’s A Company
revealed itself to the Japanese by opening with power-ful defensive fires
centered on three well-emplaced medium ma-chine guns. Japanese
Nambus, whose muzzle-flash suppressors made them extremely hard to
spot at night, reached out from the dark to duel the Marine machine
guns. American gunners were going down, one after another, but
volunteers from the rifle squads replaced them. A Company held its
line.
Pfc Larry Moran, of B Company, ran nearly 1,000 yards down the
stem of the ridge before he was stopped by 1stSgt Donald Doxey, who
was reorganizing B Company stragglers in a stand of trees. Doxey
ordered the ‘Chutes to win back the lost ridgeline. As Larry Moran
worked forward, he could hear bellowing voices from the Raider lines,
exhorting the troops to keep the machine guns firing and “kill the Jap
bastards!”
Elements of B Company, Pfc Larry Moran included, regained the
summit, but Moran was soon blasted over the side by a concus-sion
grenade. Uninjured, he collected his wits and scrabbled uphill to rejoin
the fight. Suddenly, a challenge was hurled through the night. Moran
recognized the voice as belonging to MG Bob Man-ning, but he could
not recall the password.
“Mr. Manning,” he called.
“Yeah,” Manning replied.
“It’s Moran; I can’t remember the password.”
“Okay, come on up.”
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Another voice suddenly called Manning’s name and said that
reinforcements were coming up on the right, that he should have his
troopers hold fire. As Gunner Manning expected no help from any
direction, he alerted the men around him to the ruse, then shouted
approval. The attempted penetration was easily repulsed..
At 2200, three-and-one-half hours into the battle, Red Mike informed
LtCol Jerry Thomas that his force of Raiders and ‘Chutes had dwindled
to about 300 organized effectives, and that the Jap-anese had yet to
ease the pressure. Isolated groups and individuals continued to contribute
to the success of the effort by stalling rushes and confusing Japanese
troop leaders by firing from odd places at odd moments. Nevertheless,
though many Japanese were down, the Marines were increasingly
outnumbered.
Pfc Larry Moran was struck in the thigh by a red-hot sliver of
shrapnel. He fought on until a lull allowed him to hobble with another
injured Marine to an aid station about 100 yards back. When the two
arrived at the sickbay, they were told that the corps-man was on the
line, that there was no one qualified to deal with their injuries. The two
continued toward the rear, permanently out of the fight.
Pfc Bill Keller, an A Company BAR-man, bowled over three
Japanese who popped out of the trees directly beneath his position.
One screamed for endless minutes, so painful were his wounds. A
corpsman asked Keller what the trouble was. When the BAR-man said
that a wounded enemy soldier was making all the noise, the corpsman
sort of grinned and dropped into the trees to get at the wounded man.
The screaming stopped, but Bill Keller never learned the outcome, for
two Japanese concussion grenades ex-ploded within a yard of his
position. The next thing Keller knew, he was being lifted onto a jeep at
the base of the ridge. Shrapnel wounds pitted the lower part of his face
and upper back. His pre-cious BAR was clutched tightly in his fists.
Capt Bill McKennan was working out of his CP, right behind the
forwardmost machine guns, when he and istSgt Marion LeNoir saw a
Japanese grenade sputter out of the darkness. LeNoir dived one way
and McKennan went the other, right into the orbit of a second grenade
he did not see. McKennan next found that he was rolling downhill, and
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he came to rest by the roadway running parallel to the base of the ridge,
tangled up with a rifleman who had been knocked down by the same
blast. The two groggily regained their feet and tried to regain their
bearings, then felt their way along the trees beside the road until they
reached an aid station. Both men were placed in a jeep and bounced
rearward. An infil-trator hurled a grenade from out of the darkness, but
the jeep rolled through the blast, and the two groggy, injured Marines
were car-ried into a tent, where their wounds were swabbed with sulfa
com-pounds. McKennan dropped off as morphine combined with the
effects of forty-eight hours on the go.
*
In a conversation with LtCol Jerry Thomas at 0230, Lieuten-ant Colonel
Edson said that he was “out of the woods.” While the Japanese had not
yet begun to acknowledge defeat, it was generally felt that they had
spent themselves. Thomas informed Edson that 2nd Battalion, 5th, was
behind 5th Battalion, 11th, and would soon be closing on the ridge to
assist him.
G Company, 5th, moving up the left side of the stem of the T at
0400, was soon pinned by heavy fire from the woods to its left. It suffered
numerous dead and wounded before arriving behind the ‘Chutes and
pressing forward against heavy opposition. In all, G Company lost thirty
dead and wounded by dawn. As E Company attacked on the right of the
stem, it lost five killed and nine wounded to snipers it bypassed in the
dark.
*
The Japanese mustered one final assault at first light, but it ran directly
into the guns and bombs of the last three serviceable P-400S at Henderson
Field. The three Army pilots turned out of their high-powered takeoffs
and dipped over the ridge, wreaking unbe-lievable destruction upon
Kawaguchi Butai, which put out enough return fire to force two of the
aircraft to glide back to the runway without functioning engines.
*
Cpl Carlo Fulgenzi, an eighteen-year-old suburban New Yorker serving
with Headquarters Company, 1st Engineer Bat-talion, had been placed
in charge of a group of engineers who, like himself, were suffering from
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the effects of malaria or other tropical diseases. Positioned across the
jeep track at the base of the ridge, Fulgenzi’s group was whittled down
through the long night by Jap-anese infiltrators, but the survivors held.
At about 0500, Fulgenzi decided to venture up to the ridgeline to
find a buddy whose machine gun had stopped firing hours ear-lier. He
stopped dead in his tracks when he ran into about thirty Japanese—
laughing, joking men who had simply sauntered through or around the
American positions higher up. All Carlo Fulgenzi had to fight them off
with was a Colt .32-caIiber revolver he had smuggled ashore, a gift
from his father. He had only the six rounds in the cylinder. As Fulgenzi
ducked away from the Jap-anese, he found a dugout and rolled inside,
silently praying for deliverance. He was shaking so badly that he had to
steady the pistol between his knees.
The chattering Japanese stopped outside the dugout. Several climbed
on top of the coconut logs over the engineer’s head while others
proceeded to rip apart tents throughout the area. They soon discovered
that wounded and ill Marines were in the tents, and proceeded to flay
two of them with bayonets and knives.
A grenade landed in the trench leading into Fulgenzi’s dugout, and a
steel sliver tore into his left leg. Immediately, four Japanese dived into
the trench; they could not see Corporal Fulgenzi, but he could see them
silhouetted in the entryway. The leader was only a foot away when Carlo
Fulgenzi lifted the barrel of his Colt pistol and squeezed off a round into
the man’s forehead. The first Jap-anese pitched to the side, and Fulgenzi
put a round into the second head. And the third. And the fourth. He
started to climb out of the dugout to make his escape when he ran
headlong into a fifth Japanese. The man had his rifle raised and was
already squeezing the trigger when Fulgenzi shot him dead.
Fulgenzi turned toward his company area, but got only about twentyfive yards when he found twelve Japanese furtively moving through the
trees. They yelled oaths as Fulgenzi dived toward a nearby machinegun emplacement, uncertain whose it was. He found three Marines,
who turned their gun to the flank and dropped all the Japanese in sight.
After one of the Marines in the gun emplacement handed Fulgenzi a
submachine gun, the engineer corporal bandaged his leg wound and
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hobbled off to the 1st Engineer Battalion CP to issue an alert concerning
the infiltration. Then he volunteered to lead a pa-trol to rescue the gunner
he had set out to find earlier.
Four of eight engineers in the patrol were wounded as they crawled
on their bellies through a rain of sniper fire toward the silent machine
gun. It took what seemed like hours to traverse a mere hundred yards.
Moans from the position, however, egged on the rescuers. Carlo Fulgenzi
broke into the open and leaped into the fighting hole. A Japanese machine
gun that opened fire as Fulgenzi was airborne put a round through his
left wrist, but he ignored the wound when he saw the two Marines who
had been manning the position. The dead man on top had a dozen bayonet
holes through his chest. The survivor had been shot through both legs
above the knees, and one leg had been slashed to the bone by a sword.
Ful-genzi was helping to lift the wounded man onto a stretcher when he
was shot through the right arm. Despite the excruciating pain, he helped
carry the wounded Marine to safety, then turned himself in for treatment
of his own wounds.
*
There was a moment of heart-stopping drama at the division CP when a
sword-wielding Japanese officer stepped into the open with two riflemen
and headed directly for Archer Vandegrift, who was in the open, alone
and unarmed.
MG Sheffield Banta, an utterly unflappable old salt, stopped typing
a report long enough to unholster his .45-caliber automatic pistol and
plug the officer dead in his tracks. A corporal whose pistol jammed
attempted to tackle one of the enlisted gate crashers, but two quick
gunshots from nearby felled the quarry practically at the commanding
general’s feet. The third intruder was dropped where he stood and, later,
a fourth infiltrator was routed out of the division commander’s closet.
*
A and B companies, 1st Marines, were sent from reserve jjosi-tions by
Alligator Creek before dawn to mount a sweep below the ridge to sever
the Japanese line of retreat. Though these Marines were veterans who
had weathered the carnage in the coconut grove on Au-gust 21, many
were utterly appalled by what they saw as they passed through the tiny
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remnant of the parachute battalion; mail and debris were strewn all over
the place, and Marines with dark, hunted expressions nervously peered
at the jungle flats below.
The two companies cautiously advanced west and south for nearly
two hours without opposition. Then A Company ran into gunfire put out
by a tiny blocking force. Capt Charlie Brush ordered 2ndLt John
Jachym’s platoon to hold the rear while the remainder of the company
withdrew. Though Jachym was unable to comprehend why the powerful
force was not going to launch an attack against the Japanese ahead, he
fought a slow rearguard action. When A Company was reformed, Captain
Brush explained that he had been ordered back to Alligator Creek to
withstand an assault there. He had also received word, however, that B
Com-pany had been engaged by a far superior Japanese force. He
or-dered Jachym’s platoon to mount a relief.
When Lieutenant Jachym reported to the B Company CP, he found
four of the company officers wringing their hands over the possible fate
of a rifle platoon that had been ambushed and was pinned in the dense
undergrowth. As the officers talked, Japanese machine guns on the
opposite bank of the nearby Lunga River opened fire on them. Then a
mortar round landed at their feet. The five officers and their runners
burst in all directions from the point of impact, scrambling for cover.
The round proved to be a dud.
John Jachym could see that the demoralized B Company of-ficers
were not about to commit themselves to bailing out the lost platoon, and
he felt he needed more than his own understrength platoon to do the
job. He sent his runner after the rest of A Company, which arrived at the
B Company CP in due course, winded but up for the effort. Captain
Brush reported to battalion headquarters, which reported to division
headquarters, which replied that it could not afford to have the two
companies involved in the rescue mission. Brush was ordered to
withdraw posthaste to Alligator Creek.
The abandoned B Company platoon was destroyed. In all, twentyfour Marines were killed in a fight to the last bullet. One of the few
survivors, Pvt Harry Dunn, spent three days carrying a wounded comrade
to safety; he hid during the day and traveled by night. It was a remarkable
feat of survival and devotion.
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*
More than 600 Japanese corpses were counted on and about Bloody
Ridge, as it came to be called; many wounded were laboriously carried
into the rain forest by their spent comrades; a large number of dead or
missing soldiers was never found, not even by American patrols that,
for days, combed the jungle flats south of the ridge. Perhaps 1,200
Japanese officers and soldiers followed their general away from the
beaten zone, across the Lunga, westward to link up with Colonel Oka’s
battered contingent.
The march was too much for many of the injured; scores of wounded
Japanese were left by the wayside with scores of dead. They had neither
food nor medical supplies. By the fifth day, NCOs were beating their
flagging charges with switches, cursing them onward. In the end, the
survivors emerged from the forest near Point Cruz and rushed to lap up
the water washing over the beach. Many died, convulsed in agony. Of
the 2,100 souls Kiyotake Kawaguchi had led to the foot of Bloody Ridge
on September 12, just 1,000 returned safely.
The Raiders lost 31 killed and 104 wounded, and the ‘Chutes lost
18 killed and 118 wounded. B Company, 1st, lost 24 killed. Several
dozen engineers and artillerymen also died.. The Japanese September
offensive was over.
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GUADALCANAL
Decision at Sea
The Naval Battle of Guadalcanal
November 13–15,1942
By Eric Hammel
Guadalcanal: Decision at Sea is a full-blown examination in vivid detail
of the Naval Battle of Guadalcanal, November 13–15, 1942, a crucial
step toward America’s victory over the Japanese during World War II.
The three day air and naval action incorporated America’s most decisive surface battle of the war and the only naval battle of this century
in which Ameri-can battleships directly confronted and mor-tally
wounded an enemy battleship. This American victory decided the future course of the naval war in the Pacific, indeed of the entire Pacific
War. Hammel has blended the detailed historical records with personal
accounts of many of the officers and enlisted men involved, creating an
engrossing nar-rative of the strategy and struggle as seen by both sides.
He has also included major new insights into crucial details of the battles,
including a riveting account of the American forces’ failure to effectively use their radar advantage.
Originally published in 1988 as the concluding volume in Eric
Hammel’s series of three independent books focusing on the Guadalcanal
campaign and exploring all the elements that made it a turning point of
the war in the Pacific, Guadalcanal: Decision at Sea lives up to the
high standards and expectations that have marked this author’s many
historical books and articles.
Praise for Guadalcanal: Decision at Sea and Eric Hammel
“Hammel’s description of surface tactics, naval gunnery, and what
happens when the order to abandon ship is given is vivid and
memorable.” —Publishers Weekly
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“[Hammel’s] detailed and fast-paced chronicle includes a number of
incidents and anecdotes not found in the more prosaic official histories.”
—Sea Power
“Meticulously well-researched and scholarly, but still readable. Author
Hammel presents an interesting account of the three-phase battle with
frequently gripping ship-by-ship, plane-by-plane, blow-by-blow
narratives laden with many human-interest vignettes from both sides.”
—The Hook
“[Hammel] mixes action with his history, the result being a highly
readable story difficult to put down.” —Riverside Press-Enterprise
“Hammel’s painstaking reconstruction affords not only a wealth of
strategic and tactical detail but also a full measure of critical judgements.
. . . a kaleidoscopic but invariably intelligible accounts of key actions .
. .” —Kirkus Reviews
“Hammel does not write dry history. His battle sequences are masterfully
portrayed.” —Library Journal
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book
GUADALCANAL: Decision at Sea by Eric Hammel. The book is
currently available in a $27.50 trade paperback edition published
by Pacifica Military History. It is also available in ebook editions.
THE ATLANTA’S ORDEAL
by Eric Hammel
Copyright 1988 © by Eric Hammel
It is Friday the Thirteenth of November, 1942. Thirteen U.S. Navy
cruisers and destroyers are prowling the waters off Savo Island, adjacent
to Guadalcanal, in the hope of forestalling a bombardment force of
Imperial Navy warships, including two battleships. The USS Atlanta is
the fifth ship in the American column, behind a vanguard of four
destroyers and followed by several cruisers and several additional
destroyers. The enemy is out there, somewhere.
At 0150, one sharp searchlight beam from destroyer Akatsuki penetrated
the blackness toward the highest near silhouette in the American column.
The light from off her port bow struck Atlanta on the port wing of her
bridge, startling all who stood in its sharp luminescence. The source of
the light was so close and the light itself was so intense that Lt Stew
Moredock, RAdm Norman Scott’s operations officer, could just about
feel the heat it was throwing off.
Instantaneously, Atlanta’s gunnery officer shifted his attention from
a solid radar target crossing from port to starboard due north and 3,000
yards ahead and yelled, “Commence firing! Counterilluminate!”
As all four of her 36-inch searchlights snapped on, Atlanta be-came
the first ship on either side to open fire. Immediately, her after group of
four dual 5-inch mounts put out rounds straight up the cone of light,
right at the searchlights themselves, right at Akatsuki. The target was
only 1,600 yards to port, too close to miss.
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At the same time Atlanta’s after gun group opened on Akatsuki, her
forward group of three dual 5-inch mounts was shifted to a destroyer—
possibly Inazuma—which was about 300 yards behind Akatsuki. All
the guns of both groups appeared to be dead on their targets. At least
twenty rounds were observed striking all parts of the rear destroyer’s
hull and upper works, and numerous hits were scored on Akatsuki. But
not soon enough.
Especially concerned with his crew of engineers who were sealed
below decks in the fire rooms and engine rooms, Atlanta’s chief engineer,
LCdr Arthur Loeser, had arranged for topside talk-ers to keep him abreast
of what was going on outside while he re-layed a running commentary
via loudspeakers from his station in the forward engine room. Thus the
engineering staff throughout the cruiser was listening as Lieutenant
Commander Loeser de-scribed the first seconds of the gunnery
exchange—”We’re really putting rounds into them!”
Even as at least one of Atlanta’s two targets disappeared from view,
the American light cruiser’s forward superstructure was raked by a dozen
5.5-inch rounds fired by light cruiser Nagara, which had by then turned
back the way she had come and was at that moment swiftly steaming
down the starboard side of and on the same general heading as the
American column. Among other areas that were struck were Atlanta’s
charthouse and forward 5-inch gun director. But the worst blows—
several of them—fell upon the bridge area and the men occupying it.
Lt Stew Moredock, who was observing the action from the port wing
of the bridge, just ahead of the charthouse, was struck in the right arm
by a piece of shrapnel, but he felt no pain and did not yet know he had
been wounded. However, as soon as Moredock tried to use the injured
limb, he was gripped by intense pain. In-stinctively, he glanced back at
Admiral Scott, who was standing right outside the charthouse. At that
moment, the admiral was in the process of taking a step forward. Then
he collapsed to the steel deck, dead as he was caving in. Three of Admiral
Scott’s staffers died with him; only Stew Moredock survived. Only three
of the thirteen enlisted sailors on the bridge survived along with
Lieuten-ant Moredock and two or three other officers. One of the
survivors was Capt Samuel Jenkins, who had made a fortuitous trip to
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the port wing of the bridge to find targets for his ship’s port torpedo
mount. Though the captain had turned back to starboard by the time
Nagara’s 5.5-inch shells struck the bridge, he was shielded from the
effects of the blast and suffered no injuries.
*
At nearly the instant Atlanta’s bridge was devastated, the Jap-anese
destroyers to port put at least eight rounds into that side of the ship,
from up near Atlanta’s bows to just beneath Mount-2. One of these rounds
detonated directly on the face of Mount-1, killing every member but
one of the right-hand gun crew. Another round struck the mount’s upper
handling room, killing and injuring every-one there and cutting the flow
of ammunition to the viable left gun.
As soon as Mount-1’S right gun was disabled, GM3 Ed Huddleston,
the left gun’s first shellman, took command from the wounded chief
turret captain. Though Huddleston’s ears were still ringing from the
effects of the direct hit on the mount, he called Lt Lloyd Mustin, the
assistant gunnery officer, to request permission to secure. Mustin agreed,
but cautioned Huddleston to be careful since the ship was still taking
hits. As soon as Huddleston stepped through the hatch to the main deck,
a Japanese shell ignited the ammunition and powder in Mount-2’s upper
handling room. Though a cloud of shrapnel and debris erupted from the
struck space, Huddleston was not touched, so he turned to help the next
man out of his own mount. All the wounded from Mount-1 were laid
out on the main deck beside the mount and given rudimentary first aid.
Then, as Japanese shells continued to strike the ship, Huddleston was
confronted by a panicked lieutenant who was yell-ing, “Abandon ship!”
Huddleston was not so easily rattled, but other sailors who were
immediately released several life rafts and followed them straight over
the side.
*
One of Nagara’s 5.5-inch rounds killed a pair of mess atten-dants who
were passing one another as each ran to the opposite side of the ship
from his battle station in each of the midships 20mm ammunition clipping
rooms. Neither of those places was damaged and no one inside them
was injured.
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A 5-inch round fired from port struck the mast, toppling it and
spreading shrapnel into the adjacent after stack and across the after
searchlight platform. Another Japanese round penetrated the unoc-cupied
flag cabin, and two more 5-inch rounds struck the after su-perstructure;
one of them went all the way through Mount-4, the port waist mount,
and then bored all the way through the ship. In fact, this armor-piercing
round did not detonate until it had pene-trated Mount-5, the starboard
waist mount. All but one member of the gun crew was killed; the survivor
was blown into the water after being forcibly ejected from the mount
when its roof was blown open. Finally, three lighter rounds, probably 3inch antiaircraft rounds fired from starboard by Nagara, struck Mount-6.
*
The Mount-5 handling-room crew evacuated the compartment in
good order after the mount direcdy overhead was hit. However, as soon
as the ammunition handlers were outside on the unengaged starboard
deck, someone mentioned that at least several live 5-inch rounds were
rolling around in the handling room. S2 Don McKay volunteered to go
back in to retrieve them. The room was filled with stagnant smoke, so
someone tied a rope around McKay’s waist and promised to reel him in
if he ran into trouble. With that, McKay held his breath and groped his
way into the darkened com-partment. He found several shells on the
deck, picked them up, and passed them outside one at a time. Then he
took a breather. As McKay was completing his second trip into the
smoke-filled com-partment, an officer appeared and asked what was
going on. He put a stop to McKay’s trips when he learned that McKay
did not have a gas mask, much less a more sophisticated device known
as an RBA (Rescue Breathing Apparatus). The officer felt the
compartment was probably filled with poisonous gas in addition to the
stagnant smoke. A runner was sent to find someone with an RBA.
*
The vanguard Japanese destroyer captains, drilled to perfec-tion in
their navy’s highly aggressive torpedo tactics, exploited their initial
immediate advantage and supplemented the gunfire with sev-eral salvos
of their deadly 24-inch Long Lance torpedoes. Crewmen in blind
engineering spaces throughout the ship heard LCdr Arthur Loeser’s mike
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open once again. Loeser said, “Ah ...” and the entire world fell in.
Loeser’s voice was stilled in mid-sentence—and forever.
The first Japanese torpedo to find any target struck Atlanta on the
port side, nearly amidships and exactly in the center of her forward
engine room. In addition to killing virtually everyone in the forward
engine room, the detonation blasted a hole in the over-head and killed
nearly everyone manning a damage-control station in the crew’s mess
hall. The shock of the massive detonation lifted the light cruiser right
out of the water.
When she landed, Atlanta came down with a jolt that sent shudders
and shivers up the spines of every member of her crew who was still
vertical. BM1 Leighton Spadone, whose 1.1-inch mount was on the
starboard side of the ship and well aft of the blast, was severely jostled
as the entire ship flexed and strained as steel decks and bulkheads
resonated the force of the detonation in all directions from the point of
impact. Spadone and many others throughout the stricken cruiser
distinctly heard and felt another massive explosion, right on the heels of
the first. Many thought this was caused by a second torpedo, but it was
almost certainly a sym-pathetic detonation in the engineering spaces.
EM3 Bill McKinney and S2 Dan Curtin, who were manning a
damage-control substation in a large crew’s quarters on the fourth deck,
two compartments forward of the forward fire room, were knocked off
their feet by the force of the blast. Immediately, the two jumped up and
examined the area, but they could find no dam-age. A quick check also
revealed that the battle phones and ship’s service phones were dead,
and their only light was provided by a battery-powered battle lantern.
McKinney was aware that Atlanta’s guns were no longer firing and that
the ship was slowing down. He could clearly hear rending and tearing
noises from above, as if the ammunition hoists running through the
compartment to Mount-3 were buckling off their tracks.
Most of the firemen, machinist’s mates, and watertenders who were
working in the forward engine room were killed or wounded in the
torpedo blast, which knocked out all the cruiser’s power except an
emergency diesel generator. The Navy’s first anitaircraft cruiser had
been rendered powerless and set adrift within minutes of opening fire.
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*
In the immediate wake of the torpedo hit, the survivors among her engineroom and fire-room watches had to fend for themselves. The inhabitants
of the after fire room were immediately beset by an enormous in-rush of
water through the breached double forward bulkhead. Fortunately, all
hands managed to scramble up ladders leading to escape trunks overhead.
Those who went up the port ladder made it to safety without much of a
struggle, but three who opted for the starboard ladder were unknowingly
beset by rigidly enforced rules pertaining to the watertight integrity of
the ship.
MM1 Ross Hilton, the machine-shop supervisor, and another
machinist’s mate were only just recovering from the effects of the blast
directly beneath their station when they saw that someone below was
undogging the clips securing the heavy counterweighted starboard escape
hatch in the midships passageway. However, as soon as Hilton began
releasing the clips from his side of the hatch, an overexcited lieutenant
appeared and bellowed, “Dog that hatch backdown, Hilton!”
“But, sir,” Hilton protested, “there’s someone alive down there.”
“I don’t give a damn! Dog it down!”
“Sir, they’re trying to get out. They’re alive!”
The officer reached for his .45-caliber pistol, fixed a mur-derous
stare at Hilton, and piped in his by-then shrill voice, “Dog it down or
I’ll blow your brains out!”
Hilton was thinking about what to do or say next when a sailor arrived
behind the officer and told him of an urgent matter requir-ing his presence
elsewhere. As soon as the officer was distracted and gone, Hilton and
his companion bent over to undog the hatch. By then, the man beneath
the hatch had virtually completed the job, so Hilton and his companion
jerked the hatch open. Immedi-ately, a fuel-covered machinist’s mate
and two fuel-covered firemen cannonballed onto the deck. Behind them,
the water had risen to within 2 feet of the overhead; the three would
have drowned in a matter of moments. Hilton and his companion
immediately re-sealed the hatch while the rescued machinist’s mate
explained that everyone else from the after fire room had escaped up
the port ladder.
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*
After helping to clear volatile ammunition from the Mount-5 handling
room, S2 Don McKay tagged along with an officer and several other
sailors who were on their way forward to look for topside damage caused
from the torpedo detonation. As the small group passed an escape hatch
leading up from the damaged engineering spaces, the officer ordered
McKay to redog several clips that someone had left open. McKay said
that he thought someone might be trying to get out, but the officer
remained firm; he had direct orders from his superiors to batten down
all hatches. As they spoke, a thin gout of water burbled up from the
edge of the hatch-way. The officer left McKay and several others to
redog that hatch and check others in the vicinity. He said he would be
back for them. By then, the forward engine room and after fire room
were both flooded to the overheads, and all the men remaining in the
former were dead.
*
S2 Dave Driscoll, the Mount-8 shell-hoist loader, worked him-self to a
smooth, continuous flow while the action was hot, but a distinct shudder
Driscoll felt early in the action was followed by an order to cease firing.
Mindful for the first time of the intense phys-ical ordeal of continuously
throwing heavy 5-inch shells onto the moving hoist, Driscoll and the
other shellmen reacted to the cease-fire order by dropping to the deck or
reeling back against the sup-port of the bulkheads of the gray steel
compartment in which they had been sealed. After a minute or two, the
babble of many con-fused voices making its way down the hoist from
the gun chamber overhead was suddenly overwhelmed by an unwelcome
command: “Abandon ship!” S2 Driscoll reacted by repeating the order
down the powder hoist to the men who had been sealed into the Mount8 magazine. Then, as others climbed up to Mount-8, Driscoll undogged
the handling-room hatch to gain access to an adjacent berthing
compartment. There being no one in the berthing compartment, Driscoll
next defied rigid regulations and undogged the hatch leading to the
magazine. He was immediately confronted by sailors from the lower
handling room crew, all of whom displayed expressions of pure animal
fear mixed with pure human relief. S2 Dave Driscoll fell in with the
thundering herd and began climbing the nearest ladder of the main deck.
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*
Despite all the obvious hits and the jolt he had received from the torpedo
blast, BM1 Leighton Spadone was not overly con-cerned until he realized
that his ship was no longer firing her guns. As Spadone’s confidence
reached its low ebb, he found himself muttering, “Please, God, stop
them from firing, stop them from firing, stop them from firing. ...”
However, his prayers were an-swered by hits that seemed to be coming
in from somewhere aft of the ship.
Atlanta had been in the last stages of speeding up and complet-ing a
right turn to regain her position in the column when she was struck by
the torpedo. She was pointed south and sliding powerlessly to the end
of that maneuver when San Francisco’s main battery fired a full ninegun salvo at what must have been Hiei. Atlanta’s unchecked forward
momentum carried her directly into San Fran-cisco’s line of fire.
Every one of the flagship’s nine 8-inch rounds—and every one from
the next full salvo—struck Atlanta from a relative angle of 240 degrees,
aft of the port beam, at a range estimated to be about 3,600 yards. Captain
Jenkins, who had not yet had an opportunity to assess the damage or
extent of casualties on his shattered bridge, was game to take the assailing
vessel under fire with the remaining 5-inch mounts that could be brought
to bear, but he recognized the familiarly American outline of the flagship
in the flare of her own main battery and so countermanded the order as
soon as he uttered it. It is doubtful in any case that the order could have
been relayed to the guns because all power and communications
throughout the stricken vessel were out.
Mount-3 received two direct 8-inch hits, as did Mount-6 and Mount5. The rest of the 8-inch hits were scattered in two large groupings
throughout the forward and after superstructures. By no means fatal to
the stricken ship, the incoming friendly rounds nevertheless cut down
many Atlanta crewmen.
One of the mess attendants assigned to the crew running the
ammunition hoist to the two midships i. i-inch mounts was in mor-tal
fear of being hit on the head and killed. When F1 Chuck Dodd, who was
in charge of the crew, had enough of standing around with nothing to do
in the vulnerable little compartment, he gave the order to head to the
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starboard side of the ship. One of San Francisco’s 8-inch rounds
detonated nearby as Dodd opened the hatch. Its blast jarred the steel
ladder running through the compartment from the bulkhead. The heavy
ladder fell on the fearful mess attendant, crushing his helmet and his
skull.
*
RM3 Ray Duke, a member of a repair party stationed topside in a
passageway just forward of the radio transmission room, was in the act
of cutting loose a fire extinguisher from an outside bulkhead when he
was struck by shrapnel in the right knee. The force of the impact, which
shattered the knee, threw Duke and the heavy TBS transceiver he was
backpacking headfirst down an 11-foot ladder. Duke landed on his head
and shoulders but was saved by his steel helmet, which took most of the
impact when he landed. The nearby 1.1-inch ammunition handling room
was on fire, and the area was filled with smoke. Slightly dazed and in
need of fresh air, RM3 Duke staggered into the open on the unengaged
starboard side and breathed deeply to regain his composure. His ordeal
had only just begun.
His lungs filled with fresh air, Duke hobbled into the burning and
smoking 1.1-inch handling room to see if he could help there. He
immediately found a friend who was lying in the middle of the ruin with
his right leg shot off at the knee. Duke offered to fetch the other man
some morphine and staggered down to the next deck to find a boatswain’s
mate he knew was authorized to carry the nar-cotic. However, as soon
as Duke asked for morphine, the boat-swain’s mate jabbed him with a
full syrette and made him lie down on the deck. Duke tried to protest,
but he was groggy from shock and smoke inhalation and never quite got
the words out. No sooner was Duke on the deck than the adjacent pay
office took a direct hit. The beam from the large flashlight he still carried
revealed a hole in the bulkhead about half the size of a basketball.
Shrapnel from the blast went right between Duke’s legs, ripping off a
large chunk of flesh from his left thigh right above the knee and severing
the femoral artery. Blood was pulsing from the wound in spurts that
appeared as thick as his wrist. Another piece of shrapnel slid be-tween
Duke and the steel deck and sliced open the back of his right thigh from
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knee to buttocks. At the same time, shrapnel punctured the 1.1-inch
coolant tank right overhead and Duke was bathed in hot salt water. As
soon as Duke recovered his senses, he and a sailor right beside him
helped one another up a nearby ladder and crawled out onto the port
quarterdeck. At that point, Duke stood up and walked all of 10 feet
before his damaged right knee gave way. He fell heavily to the deck and
lay there until someone came by and administered a second shot of
morphine. Soon after that, a supply officer held Duke’s head in his lap
while a corpsman laved the wounds, applied bandages, and administered
yet another dose of morphine. With that, RM3 Ray Duke lost track of
his surroundings.
*
The electrician’s mates manning the after searchlights were in danger
of being roasted alive by fires reaching nearly as high as the platform on
which they were trapped. Not only was there no evi-dent way off the
platform, dense smoke and shooting flames from shrapnel holes in the
after stack, to which the searchlight platform was affixed, totally obscured
the vista and blocked all possible es-cape routes. Indeed, there was so
much acrid smoke billowing up around the after searchlights that the
operators were not certain if they would die from roasting or smoke
inhalation.
Suddenly, when their plight seemed hopeless, the searchlight
operators were graced by a sudden rise in their fortunes, a wind change
that both blew the smoke away and revealed the silent pas-sage of Hiei
only 100 yards from the ship. Though the searchlight operators were
certain they were dead meat as they stared up at the battleship’s
searchlights, which were 20 feet over their heads, Hiei went on her way
without firing at burning Atlanta. Meantime, the wind held the smoke
and diverted the flames away from the search-light platform, so all hands
scrambled down to the relative safety of the main deck, where they
went to work fighting fires.
Atlanta’s emergency diesel generator got the lights back on at 0156.
By then, thankfully, Atlanta was out of the line of fire, and the fury of
the widening battle had passed her by.
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KHE SANH
Siege in the Clouds
An Oral History
By Eric Hammel
From critcally acclaimed military historian Eric Hammel comes a vivid
oral history account of the Tet 1968 siege of the Khe Sanh Combat
Base. The words of American fighting men caught up in the grueling,
deadly seventy-seven-day ordeal create a harrowing tapestry of tragedy
and triumph.
As two North Vietnamese Army divisions move to surround them,
the vastly outnumbered U.S. Marines rush to strengthen their defenses
at the isolated base and several nearby hilltop positions. The Communist forces repeatedly attack, are repeatedly repelled, and then dig in to
take the American base by siege–the makings of a classic, modern “setpiece” strategy in which the defenders become bait to tie the attackers
to fixed positions in which they can be pummeled and pulverized by
American artillery and air support.
Khe Sanh: Siege in the Clouds is a ground-breaking step forward in
the oral history genre. This gripping–and moving–narrative flows from
the masterfully woven threads provided by nearly a hundred men who
gallantly endured the wrenching all-out struggle to hold the combat base
and its vulnerable outlying positions.
Praise for KHE SANH: Siege in the Clouds and Eric Hammel
A harrowing, gut-level record of the Vietnam War’s Khe Sanh Campaign
. . . a vivid, day-by-day log. . . . Hammel conveys the ironies as well as
the horrors of the protracted engagement. ——Kirkus Reviews
A remarkably accurate account of a crucial 77-day battle . . . Khe Sanh:
Siege in the Clouds is retold as an oral history by the men who fought in
it, which gives the account not only a vividness and immediacy but a
human perspective so many other war analyses are missing. ——Playboy
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The author sets the stage for this epic battle, but then turns the narrative
over to the vivid accounts of nearly 100 individuals who survived. The
accounts cover all the bases—from privates in foxholes, to cooks,
chaplains, and the commanding generals. . . . A masterful telling of
history. ——Air Force Magazine
The story of the thankless siege is told in this vivid oral history by nearly
100 articulate survivors, mostly U.S. Marines, who convey the frustration
experienced by men trained for aggressive mobile warfare forced for
the most part to huddle inside a crowded perimeter. ——Publishers
Weekly
Hammel’s book captures the full flavor of day-to-day life and death that
was Khe Sanh. ——Marine Corps Gazette
Hammel’s ability to reveal both the immediacy and the humanity of war
without judgment or bias makes all his books both readable and scholarly.
With Khe Sanh: Siege in the Clouds, he elevates the standards of oral
history as well. ——San Francisco Chronicle
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book KHE SANH:
Siege in the Clouds, Tet 1968 by Eric Hammel. The book is currently
available in a $32.95 trade paperback edition published by Pacifica
Military History. It is also available in ebook editions.
RECORD INCOMING
by Eric Hammel
Copyright 1989 © by Eric Hammel
1stLt FRED McGRATH
Bravo Battery, 1/13
The sound of incoming is like no other in the world. We had ample
opportunities to hear it, learn it, adjust to it, and finally to live with it.
From descriptions of battles during World War II and Korea, we at Khe
Sanh got an inkling of what our fathers experienced. It was a constant
reminder, that even though we were in a very picturesque mountain
valley, somebody did not want us there. There were a lot of men who
had fears of dying. And there were plenty of chances. Like the day and
night the base took over 1,300 rounds of incoming.
HN ROD DeMOSS
26th Marines Regimental Aid Station
Another corpsman and I were topside at the entrance to our bunker,
talking with a couple of guys across the road, when we heard boomp.
We went below and soon we heard the round hit close. The two guys we
had been talking to took a direct hit. All that was left was pieces of two
bodies.
Cpl DENNIS SMITH
Bravo Company, 1/26
Lieutenant Kim Johnson was our 1st Battalion supply officer. He was
handsome, even with glasses, tall, articulate, a practicing Mormon
married to a former Miss Arizona who was going to school in Hawaii
while she awaited his return. He had the option of running the supply
end of things at Phu Bai—the battalion “rear”—but he sent his gunnery
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sergeant there instead so he could remain with his men. The guys at
battalion supply noticed the “funny” underwear he wore—lower-body
armor. He referred to it as “anti-mortar and -rocket skivvies.” He would
have quiet religious discussions with his men from time to time. They
loved him.
The last week of February was the “peak” of the siege. On February
23, we absorbed the record for the whole siege—[1,307] rockets and
artillery rounds in a twenty-four-hour period. That afternoon, during
the scariest barrage of rockets imaginable, LCpl James Jesse and I were
in our house, hugging the sandbags, quietly acknowledging the absolute
fear in each other’s eyes. The explosions were constant as they mounted
to a head-splitting crescendo of head-splitting, knee-knocking sound. I
can’t adequately describe the terror I felt that afternoon. We should have
been used to this, right?
Lieutenant Johnson was in his bunker, not far from mine, along with
the battalion motor-transport officer. An explosion that knocked Jesse
and me off our butts was a direct hit on the lieutenants’ hooch. I looked
out and saw the battalion supplymen scrambling out of their holes, so,
over Jesse’s protests, I ran across the road to help. The supplymen all
yelled at me, “Get back. We’ll handle it. Go on!” There were four or
five guys there already, throwing boards and sandbags aside like
madmen, machines, so I went back. During the next lull, one of the
supplymen came over to our hooch. He was the picture of dejection and
despair. He told us that Lieutenant Johnson was dead from a broken
back. There were no other visible wounds. The motor-transport officer
had been carried to the aid station; his legs looked so bad that everyone
thought he’d lose them.
When the supplyman left, I just sat there staring. Something inside
me had snapped. Jesse said, “Smitty, you’re pale and you’re shaking.
Have a Salem.” Right there, I started up a four-pack-a-day habit. The
incoming did not stop, but it became a little more irregular. I was still
sitting and staring when my eyes went to a little leather-bound Bible I
kept on a shelf. On an impulse, I flipped it open with my right index
finger. I was numbly looking at the 91st Psalm, verse five. Then verses
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six and seven. I was not feeling any comfort. All I could think was,
“Why the lieutenant? Why him?”
They had told us in boot camp not to make friends with anyone we
went into combat with, because if he was wasted you ran the risk of
coming unglued and losing your battle effectiveness. Good advice, but
impossible to follow. We depended on each other too much not to become
friends.
Maj TOM COOK
26th Marines Assistant Logistics Officer
One of the incoming rounds hit the ammo dump and created a loworder explosion that set the dump on fire. The fire kept getting hotter
and hotter and, finally, the dump blew. I saw all that stuff going up in
the air. It was one of the most amazing sights I had seen in my life, all
those mortar rounds, hand grenades—you name it—just going up into
the sky. I stood there and watched, totally amazed. Then it suddenly
occurred to me that all that stuff was going to come back down. As a
matter of fact, it had already started back down. I was about twenty or
thirty yards from a bunker. I took off running and just barely got in there
when I started hearing all that stuff hitting the ground. It blew mortar
rounds a mile from the dump. A helicopter pilot who happened to be
flying near Hill 881S at the time told me that he thought it was an atomic
blast, because there was a 1,400-foot fireball.
26th Marines Command Chronology
Enemy incoming caused a fire in ASP-1. Fire equipment
responded, but at 1705, the ammo began to cook off. The fire
destroyed 1,000 rounds of 90mm high explosive, 500 rounds of
106mm Beehive, and 120 rounds of 90mm canister ammunition.
Maj TOM COOK
26th Marines Assistant Logistics Officer
We had to have EOD people come up from Danang and clean the whole
thing up. It was quite a mess. It made my job a little tougher, too, because
I had to get all that stuff inventoried and reordered.
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Pfc LIONEL TRUFANT
106mm Platoon, 3/26
The rounds just kept coming in, kept coming in. There was such a
concentration of artillery hitting us! Usually, when artillery came in, we
just sat in our living bunker and played cards. We just played chicken
with the regular incoming, sitting in the living bunker. When it got real
heavy, we would usually jump into the trenchline, which was a smaller
target. But that particular day, it was coming in so heavy that three of us
hid out in the machine-gun bunker, which was tiny. We were just hugging
the ground, afraid. I had never smoked in my life, but that day I did. I
did a lot of praying, too.
Every once in a while, one of us had to stand up and look out to
make sure Charlie wasn’t coming. We knew this was Dienbienphu. This
was the day. One time, when I was looking out of the hole, a round
came in real close. Dirt and rocks and stuff pounded me right in the
face. I thought I was hit. I felt my face and thought aloud, “Oh, God,
I’m hit.” One of my buddies thought it was comical. “Damn,” he said,
“you ain’t hit.”
HN ROD DeMOSS
26th Marines Regimental Aid Station
Two Marines escorted a gunnery sergeant into the regimental aid station.
He came in shaking, wouldn’t talk, had both hands holding his helmet
down on his head, and every time a round hit he would shake. He was,
of course, suffering from shell shock, but it surprised me, because here
was this tough Marine gunnery sergeant—been through all kinds of
shit—and this makes him crack. I realized then that shell shock can
happen to anybody.
Lt RAY STUBBE
1/26 Battalion Chaplain
[Diary Entry] Went by the new operating-room bunker, visiting all the
wounded who kept coming in during the afternoon. One had a blast
wound on his foot. He was in bad pain, even with morphine. Another
said his legs hurt no matter where he put them. He was also in intense
pain and was given an injection of morphine, but it still hurt him. The
doctor said it was broken and would continue to hurt.
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More and more incoming.
The 106mm recoilless rifle bunker near us, where I had slept on
February 7, took a direct hit, and in the trench adjacent to it, injuring
one and killing four. I ran down there, through the internal barbed wire,
with the Catholic chaplain. There were pieces of arms and bodies. One
had no head; we couldn’t find it. There were small pieces of flesh all
over the place. I knew them all intimately. . . . I took this very hard, but
couldn’t cry. Parts of one man’s body hung out as I held him in my arms
carrying him into the ambulance. A hand, an arm, a stringy piece of
flesh intertwined with cloth and caked with mud. The 106mm recoilless
rifle was completely untouched.
Returned to my bunker. The west wall, by my rack, was protruding
in like it would collapse on my rack. Things inside had shifted.
We had taken in the following incoming today: 476 rounds of artillery,
42 rounds of 60mm, 372 rounds of 82mm, 4 rounds of 120mm, 437
rounds of 122mm, and 5 rounds of recoilless rifle. Total, 1336. But
Lieutenant Colonel Wilkinson reported (from the regimental briefing) a
total of 1,407 rounds. Major Smith, CO of FOB-3, told me we had
received 1,700 rounds of incoming, counting those that landed in his
area.
1stLt FRED McGRATH
Bravo Battery, 1/13
It was fortunate that the NVA gunners were short of fuses, because many
rounds would have done considerably more damage if they had exploded.
The rounds that were not fused were particularly eerie. They whistled.
We knew they would not explode, but when they hit, they were like
wrecking balls. No shrapnel damage, but what a hole! As it was, they
dug up a lot of dirt and nothing more. When EOD dug them up, they
found the lift lugs still in the rounds.
Capt DICK CAMP
3/26 Assistant Operations Officer
By sunset, I was physically and emotionally drained. All I wanted to do
was go to sleep. The adrenalin had been going through me for hours and
I was about to fall over.
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At last, the bombardment died way, and I walked outside, through
the remains of the trees that had once shielded the battalion CP from
view. I meandered through the trees, looking at the stars and feeling life
return to a landscape that resembled the surface of the moon. Then I
went back inside and drew two cups of coffee from the perpetual urn.
As I was handing one cup to Maj Matt Caulfield, I heard an observer up
on Hill 881S announce on the battalion net, “Arty! Arty! Arty! Co Roc.”
I instinctively hunched my head into my shoulders and wondered halfaloud, “So where’s this one going to hit?”
The next thing I knew, there was a tremendous explosion and all the
lights went out. The bunker instantly was filled with dust and there was
an immediate dead silence.
I think I was the first to speak—one of those dumb questions: “Is
everybody okay?” It was dead dark in there, so I was immensely relieved
to hear people say “Yeah, I’m okay,” and “I’m fine,” and “No sweat.”
Everyone had had his brains rattled, but no one had been hurt.
There was just the one round. Until someone got our generator going
again, there was nothing doing inside, so we all went out to see what
had hit us.
The round had come in on an angle, right between the trees, right
through the tent we had erected to camouflage the bunker. It had hit the
one-inch plywood outer shell and detonated—just the way we had hoped.
There were six feet of earth, wood, rocks, and metal between us and the
explosion, but the blast had blown off two feet of all those materials and
had taken down the three-ply blast walls we had erected around the
bunker.
Two Marines who had been exiting a tent just across the way were
saved by the blast walls, which directed the full force of the blast outward
in another direction. We found them flopping around on the ground,
stunned but unscathed except for a a few tiny shrapnel wounds, hardly
more than scratches.
We had taken a direct hit from a 152mm or 130mm round, but no
one was permanently injured. It was a miracle of foresight and faith in
our two main gods, Dirt and More Dirt.
*
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1stLt FRED McGRATH
Bravo Battery, 1/13
Bravo Battery pumped out over 1,250 rounds in reply. Bravo was really
a battery and a half. That is, we controlled six 105mm howitzers of our
own and three from Charlie Battery. So we combined our assets and
created a nine-gun battery. During that very busy day and night, I had,
at various times, five separate and distinct fire missions going
simultaneously. To the everlasting credit of the Marine gunners on the
line, they never missed a command or fired the wrong missions. In fact,
Colonel Lownds personally came to our position the next day and
thanked every Marine in the position for the superb fire support his
regiment had received.
HN ROD DeMOSS
26th Marines Regimental Aid Station
One of my more gruesome duties was identifying and tagging bodies to
be sent back home. I kept thinking to myself, “This could be me.” I was
thankful it wasn’t, but I felt bad, because I knew this was someone who
had a family or friend who would grieve over him, someone who had a
girlfriend or wife back home. All I could do, though, was zip up the bag
and try to make it through without ending up like that.
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LIMA-6
A Marine Company Commander in Vietnam
By R. D. Camp. Jr. with Eric Hammel
In this vividly told first person narrative, retired Marine Colonel Dick
Camp colorfully recounts the daily combat actions and command
decisions of his Vietnam experience as “Lima 6”—the com-mander of
Lima Company, 3rd Battalion, 26th Marines—from June 1967 through
January 1968.
Upon his arrival in Vietnam, Captain Camp finessed his way into
the immediate command of Lima Company following the death of its
previous commander near Khe Sanh. Instantly, he was thrown into the
tense experience of patrolling the beautiful, deadly jungle valleys around
Khe Sanh and escorting supply convoys along embattled Highway 9
between Dong Ha and Khe Sanh.
For six full months, Dick Camp commanded Lima Company in alternating periods of intense combat and intense waiting—a typical, virtually emblematic experience shared by his peers in the 1967–1968 phase
of the war in northern Quang Tri Province, bordering the DMZ and
North Vietnam. In early September 1967, Camp’s battalion was almost
overrun near besieged Con Thien in an ambush sprung by a full North
Vietnamese Army regiment. In early January 1968, Lima Company
ambushed the commander and staff of a North Vietnamese regiment
apparently charged with assaulting the Marine lines at Khe Sanh. Three
weeks later, Lima Company and the rest of the reinforced 26th Marine
Regiment were besieged inside the Khe Sanh Combat Base by two North
Vietnamese divisions.
As much as Lima 6 is about fighting the Vietnam War, it is also the
story of the tight camaraderie of the Marine infantry company at war—
of men from widely disparate backgrounds thrown together to succeed
or fail as a fighting force. It is a compelling human story of an infantry
company at war as seen through the eyes of its commander—the lonely
man upon whom all others depend for guidance, wisdom, strength, and
humor.
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An intensely frank, always human memoir, Lima-6 sets out to make
no political or ideological points. It is a candid, refreshing narrative by
a combat commander about the experience of command and the brotherhood of men at war. Lima-6 is, above all, an honest account of life and
death at the heart of the Vietnam War.
Critical Acclaim for Lima-6
“A solid contribution to Vietnam literature. . . . Always readable,
frequently vivid.” —Booklist Magazine
“Camp’s gritty narrative is flawless as it takes the reader through six
months of the Vietnam War through the eyes of an infantry officer . . . a
must for those who want to understand the awesome responsibility a
company commander has in war. An honest portrayal.” —Vietnam
Bookstore Book Report
“Solid, down to earth, and faithful in describing the way it was [for] one
Marine company commander.” —Leatherneck
“An honorable and dead-honest narrative.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Camp’s autobiography underscores the essential nobility often displayed
by men sharing dire circumstances.” —Cincinnati Enquirer
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book LIMA-6: A
Marine Company Commander in Vietnam by Col. R. D. Camp, Jr.,
with Eric Hammel. The book is currently available in a $24.95 trade
paperback edition published by Pacifica Military History. This book
is also available in ebook editions.
FIRST COMBAT
by Col. R. D. Camp, Jr. with Eric Hammel
Copyright 1989 © by R. D. Camp, Jr. and Eric Hammel
Leatherneck Square, Vietnam, August 21, 1967
Captain Dick Camp, a professional Marine, had taken command of Lima
Company, 3d Battaion, 26th Marine Regiment, in the field near Khe
Sanh at the end of June 1967. Through July and the first half of August,
the company had patrolled extensively around Khe Sanh and escorted
convoys to the highlands base from supply dumps near the coast. In
mid-August, Lima and another company of the battalion were
temporarily transferred to the 9th Marine Regiment to take part in sweep
opertions in the Leatherneck Square area around Con Thien, just south
of the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ). On August 20, the other company
returned to Khe Sanh and Lima Company was attached to the 2nd
Battalion, 9th Marines (2/9).
*
It was late in the afternoon, August 20, and 2/9 was moving along a trail
in the area immediately north of the sector in which our half of 3/26 had
been operating the week before. I was starting to get anxious because I
didn’t know the people from 2/9 and I didn’t like the way they operated.
As we moved along the trail and were pulling up over a hill, there
was a terrific explosion behind me. The whole column stopped as I
thought, “Oh shit. I wonder what the hell’s happened this time.” I worked
my way back in the column to discover that an Ontos we had with us
was blown all to shit.
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An Ontos was an ungainly tracked fighting vehicle mounting six
external 106mm recoilless rifles. It was not armored at all. In fact, a .50caliber round could go right through it. As far as I was concerned, bad
things always happened to Ontos and the men around them.
It looked like our Ontos had been the victim of a command-detonated
mine, which usually amounted to a dud 500-pound bomb dropped by
our side and salvaged by the other side for use against tanks, Ontos, and
amtracs. This mine—thankfully something lighter than a 500-pound
bomb—had gone off beneath the Ontos and sheared the track, driving
wheels, and all three recoilless rifles off one side. When I arrived, the
two crewmen were sitting on the ground beside the trail, dazed but unhurt.
Everyone else was just standing around.
It was staring to get dark and we were still on the road. I was getting
concerned and the troops were, too. Finally, as we moved up and over
the hill, the battalion CP told me to move in on the right side of the road
and form a perimeter. As we got in, I saw that there was a large open
area right behind us.
Fortunately, I had an SOP worked out so we could form a perimeter
in the order of march. The lead platoon moved first, straight into the
nearest designated position, followed to the right by the middle pla-toon,
and then by the rear platoon. As soon as we got the word from Battalion,
I called the platoon commanders back and verbally sketched it in for
them. They each said, “Right,” and we literally started running the troops
in so we could dig in before the sun set.
I checked in with the platoon commanders, each of whom escorted
me as fast as we could walk around his platoon’s section of the line. As
we went, I checked the position of each fighting hole and particularly
the field of fire of every M-60 machine gun. I tightened up here and
there, but the platoon commanders had known me from my first day
with Lima Company, and they had trained their troops in my ways. It
took only a few minutes to check the entire company and make sure we
were tied in with the companies on our left and right flanks.
After dark, as my troops were settling in, without telling me, Battalion
sent its 81mm mortar platoon right into our company posi-tion. It was
full dark by then, but the mortar platoon walked in on us with flashlights
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on and portable radios blaring. I was really upset, so I walked back to
the 81mm platoon commander and said, “If you don’t knock that bullshit
off, I’m going to shoot you myself.”
I hated being with 2/9. I had not been favorably impressed from the
first day we had operated with their Echo Company a week earlier, I
was not impressed with the battalion commander, I was not impressed
with how late we had started setting in for the night, and I definitely was
not impressed with the 81mm platoon’s sense of noise and light
discipline. Fortunately, and despite sleepless hours of concern, we spent
an uneventful night. Nothing happened.
At stand-to the next morning, August 21, the battalion CP gave me
the word that Lima Company was going to move out on an indepen-dent
company-size sweep. I didn’t want to be around 2/9 and I was used to
operating on my own. I couldn’t have been happier.
*
Bright and early, Lima Company found itself moving along a ridgeline
through a dense bamboo thicket that channelized us on the only trail.
The bamboo was so thick that we had to stay on the trail to get through
it. Unbeknownst to me as we moved along the little ridge—it was only
fourteen or fifteen feet high—the point bent around a little bit too far to
the right and started down off the ridgeline toward an open area, a
complex of rice paddies.
As the first four or five men of the lead element approached the
nearest rice paddy, they took several sniper rounds. As soon as I heard
the pop of the sniper rounds, I got on the radio to the lead platoon
commander, the 3rd Platoon’s Gunnery Sergeant Almanza. “Okay,
Gunny, what’s going on, what’s going on?” I knew that he was already
trying to find out from his vanguard squad, but I wanted news as soon
as possible.
We had all of four or five scattered sniper rounds, but that was good
enough. They stopped the point and the point stopped the whole column
on the ridgeline inside the bamboo. The main body of the company
never got out in the open, probably had not been seen.
When Gunny Almanza confirmed that the point had been fired on, I
said, “Okay, hold your position. I’ll come forward.” I worked my way
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through the troops angling down the slope. As I neared the point, I saw
the rice paddies for the first time. Beyond them, directly across from us,
was another low hill. Another low hill was to our rear.
I called the rear platoon and told Little John, “Move back along the
trail, hook a left, and see what you can see along the ridgeline to our
rear. We’ll look around down here.”
Little John’s 2nd Platoon backtracked, as ordered, and Little John
eventually came up on the net with his report. He had worked to the left
and had located a bunker complex. That made me extremely nervous.
The main body of the company was on the side of a hill. To our right
rear was another ridgeline with a bunker complex. Out ahead was an
open area of rice paddies. There were snipers out there, probably on the
ridge beyond the open area. Lima Company was in a box. There was no
way out.
Normally, Lima Company would have rated a forward air controller
(FAC), a fully qualified naval aviator, a pilot ranked lieutenant or even
captain. This time out, however, we had no FAC. There weren’t enough
in 2/9 to go around. What we had was a tactical air-control party (TACP)
operator, Private First Class Terry Smith, who was trained primarily to
guide resupply and medevac helicopters. As I pondered my options,
Terry came up beside me and said in a very calm, collected voice,
“Skipper, how’d you like some air?” I said, “Shit, I’d love some air.” I
didn’t know it then, but Terry had never actually run a tactical air strike.
He had been cross-trained to call in jets, but he had never really done
so.
Terry got on the tac-air frequency and called for any aviator to
respond. Fortunately, there was a Bird Dog in the area, and he responded
to Terry’s first call. He said he was right over us and that he had some
fast movers—jets—standing by. Terry told him that we had received
some scattered sniper fire from our front and gave him an azimuth. I
switched over to the tac-air frequency and added, “I’ll fire my mortar
section on the rice paddy if you’ll make sure the ridges are fairly well
clear.”
The aerial observer (AO) flew around our flanks and reported that
he could not see anything on the hills. Meantime, I ordered the mortar
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section to deploy and gave the section leader, Corporal Patrick McBride,
an azimuth to fire on. After McBride eyeballed the range and said the
guns were ready, I told him I would spot for him.
We threw several rounds into the far edge of the open area and the
AO came right up on the air in a jubilant voice, “My God, you just blew
a couple of them into the trees!” I immediately shouted back to McBride,
“Let ‘em have it. You just blew some NVA into a tree!” That was all
those gunners needed to hear. They went into automatic over-drive. They
were throwing mortar rounds down the tubes as fast as they could. They
were really going through their supply of mortar rounds, no doubt
encouraged by the ammo humpers’ desire to lighten loads.
The AO kept reporting, “My God, you’re right on target. I can see
them running. They look like they’re ants scurrying from a broken nest.
You just blew a couple more of ‘em into the trees.” Then he added, “I’m
gonna get some air on this.”
Not five minutes after the AO called for fast movers, Lima Company
had ringside seats for the greatest air show any of us probably had ever
seen. The AO was bringing in flight after flight of fixed wing. They
were using napalm and 500-pounders. They really dusted off that hill.
They worked it over for twenty or thirty minutes without letup.
During the whole thing, I kept updating Battalion. The CO was really
into it, but when I said, “I want to go up on the hill,” he replied, “No, no,
no! Wait a little while longer. Bring in some artillery.” So we waited a
little while longer and called in some artillery. When I reported that the
artillery had really dusted the hill off again, the CO said, “Okay. “I’m
sending up two tanks. Wait for them, then go take the hill.”
The tanks worked their way up to us and, as soon as they arrived, I
started Lima Company moving out to the edge of the near rice paddy
and on toward the hill, which was to our right front as we walked, about
250 meters away. The company was in the open, well spread out, but we
didn’t take any fire. As we started up the hill, we entered the bamboo
again. It was so thick we had to stop and wait for the tanks to knock
down a pair of trails we could walk along. I didn’t like having the
company forming up in two columns behind the tanks, but there was no
other way for us to plow through that really thick vegetation. Talk about
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tunnel vision: Except for what we could see ahead, past the tanks, we
were completely hemmed in by the bamboo.
Suddenly, the tank that I was following fired its 90mm main gun. I
was instantly on the intercom phone attached to the tank’s rear fender,
yelling to hear myself over the ringing in my ears, “What the hell did
you do that for? What are you doing?” The tank commander told me
that the tank had just broken through onto an unseen trail when the
gunner had spotted a North Vietnamese RPG team just in time to push
the firing button on the 90mm. After I acknowledged, the tank
commander added with considerable glee, “We just dusted them off.
There’s just a spray of blood and guts where those guys were.”
The tank started up again and we followed it the rest of the way up
the hill, which had really been blasted. Napalm had burned off most of
the growth and there were deep bomb craters everywhere. We couldn’t
find anything but we could smell death. We couldn’t find a sign of any
NVA or their positions. I had no idea what the AO had seen, but I could
smell death.
As the platoons set in and continued to search the hill, my company
radioman, Corporal Johnson, sat down at the edge of a huge bomb crater
and took off his radio. I went over to join him, but as I approached I
smelled something terrible. “Goddamn John, there’s something dead
around here somewhere.” He said, “I know, sir, I can smell it, I can
smell it.” He stood up and looked around. Right where he had been
sitting was a big chunk of meat that had obviously come from a body of
a North Vietnamese soldier. Johnson had been sitting right on it. Grease
from that chunk of meat had penetrated into his trousers and he smelled
to high heaven.
As soon as I realized what had happened, I said, “Get away! Just get
the hell away!” And he was muttering, “Oh, my God! Oh shit! My
utilities!”
Little John’s 2nd Platoon started moving off the top of the hill, toward
a little shoulder to the left of our former line of march. Down the back
side of the hill, the Marines started hitting ground that hadn’t been burned
off or bombed. A Marine suddenly yelled, “Hey, I got some bunkers
over here.” And a few other people said the same thing. One of the
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Marines, Private First Class David Francis, stut-tered every time he got
excited. As the other Marines were yelling about the bunkers, I heard
Francis yell even louder, “I-I-I-I s-s-s-see th-th-th-them! I s-s-s-s-see
th-th-them!” He no sooner got that out than a terrific burst of fire came
in on us. It sounded like on the rifle range, when everybody shoots at
his target at once. Everybody went to ground—except me.
There I was, kneeling on the ground beside the command radio. I
was just kneeling there like a dumb shit when it dawned on me: This
was the very first time I had ever been shot at. The troops—even the
green ones—were a little smarter than me. They were all on their bellies
by the time my little pea brain was thinking, “Hey, they’re shooting at
me.” Like a broken record, my mind was stopped on that one central
fact, “They’re shooting at me. They’re shooting at me\” Leaves and
twigs knocked loose from a tree were falling down on my head.
As I realized what was going on, I started getting lower and lower.
Finally, I was down on my stomach. By then, if I could have cut the
buttons off my shirt to get any lower, I would have.
My two radiomen, Johnson and Vogt, were in the bomb crater behind
me. They had been yelling from the moment the first shots were fired,
but it took awhile for me to realize that they were yelling at me: “Skipper,
come here, come here. Get in this bomb crater.” I crawled backward
and jumped into the bomb crater beside them. As I focused on wider
vistas, I heard how much shooting was going on, how much yelling and
screaming there was. Machine guns were going off, and dozens of rifles.
It was mass confusion. As I recomposed myself and tried to figure out
how to respond, I realized that I could not begin to decipher all the
sounds and voices.
I jumped into the bottom of the bomb crater. As soon as I did, a
bullet plunked in beside me. Obviously, it had come from somewhere
up in the treetops. As I was articulating the thought in my mind, an M60 gunner crawled up to the edge of the crater, got up on one knee,
looked in, and announced, “There’s a fucking gook in that tree.”
With that, the M-60 gunner stood up on both knees, put the weapon
into his shoulder, and started firing. From my place at the bottom of the
crater, I could see chunks flying off of a palm tree about fifty or sixty
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meters away. The M-60 gunner sprayed forty or fifty rounds into the
palm tree and then stopped. He looked down, right at me, and said, “I
think I still see the fucker.” Then he blasted the tree again with another
fifty rounds. I called up, “Jesus Christ, if that goddamn NVA is still
alive after that, don’t shoot at him again. You’re just gonna piss him
off.” The M-60 gunner looked down at me again and said, “Oh, yessir.”
Then he crawled off.
I was still trying to get a handle on the situation when, above the
sound of many M-16s and a few M-60s, I heard someone nearby yelling
threats. I climbed back up to the lip of the crater and saw our senior
corpsman, Doc Bratton, beating a Marine on the chest, swear-ing as
loud as he could, “Goddammit, you’re not gonna die! Dammit, you son
of a bitch, breathe! Breathe!”
As the firing died down—it was all ours by then—I found another
Marine lying on his rifle in another bomb crater. He was sort of kneeling
at the edge of the crater, with his arms and hands in a firing position on
his rifle, but his head was leaning against the rifle on the ground. I said,
“Are you all right, Marine?” I took him by the shoulder and pulled him
back. It was Private First Class Francis, the stutterer. His eyes and mouth
were wide open, but a second look revealed that he had been hit right in
the back of the head. He was dead. He was the first dead Marine I had
ever seen.
I called one of the corpsmen over to take care of Francis and then I
went over to see how Doc Bratton was doing with the wounded man.
Doc was beating on the man’s chest to try to keep his heart going. I saw
that the Marine was one of my best squad leaders, Corporal Pat Cochran,
formerly a semiprofessional football player, a handsome six-foot Texan
with enormous, wide shoulders. Cochran had taken a round in the initial
burst of enemy fire that sort of creased his scalp. Lance Corporal Anthony
Benedetto was kneeling right next to him when Cochran turned to him
and said, “I’m hit.” Benedetto said, “Right,” and reached around to get
a bandage. By the time Benedetto turned back, Cochran had been hit
again—right in the head. The second round had penetrated Cochran’s
skull and gone right into his brain. He was brain dead, but his body
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functions were still going on, so Doc Bratton was trying to keep him
alive.
Though the firing was dying off, Lima Company was still beset by
enormous confusion. Staff Sergeant Marvin Bailey, the company gunny,
was yelling for stretcher bearers and Sergeant Vogt was starting to call
casualty information to the battalion CP. The CP said it was trying to lay
on a helicopter for emergency medevac. Then the NVA started shooting
again and all the Marines on one side of the hill returned the fire. There
was an enormous amount of confusion. The battalion commander kept
calling, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. I was trying to
get reports from the platoon commanders, but I couldn’t quite make
sense of the confusion, so I couldn’t relate much to the CO.
Suddenly, I realized that we were the only ones shooting. So did a
bunch of other people. I yelled, “Cease fire! Cease fire!” and, pretty
soon, everyone was yelling, “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
As the last rounds were fired, Little John came up to me to report.
There were tears rolling right down his face. I said, “What’s the matter,
John? What’s the matter?” He told me he had been advancing toward
the sound of the original gunfire, his radioman in tow, when an NVA
soldier had jumped right up in front of him and shot the radio-man.
Little John had had a clear shot at the NVA, but his rifle had jammed.
He still was so angry that tears were rolling uncontrollably out of his
eyes.
The helicopters started coming in for the casualties, who were being
staged beside the big burned-out area on top of the hill. The litter teams
Gunny Bailey had organized were really sweating. It takes six or seven
men to lift a makeshift poncho litter. We got the two serious WIAs on
the first helo and Cochran and Francis waited for the second. Two other
Marines who were lightly wounded opted to stay with the company.
I looked up briefly from a conversation with a platoon commander
and spotted the 2/9 CO just as he was walking up. He must have come
out on one of the medevac helos. “Hey, Captain,” he said as he arrived
at my side, “what’s going on?” I tried to explain what I knew, which
apparently satisfied him because, after hearing me out, he ordered, “Okay,
I want you to continue on in this general direction.” I acknowledged the
order and he left the hill aboard the second helo.
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*
By the time we reorganized the company and got going again, it was the
middle of the afternoon. I was getting worried about having to set in
again after dark, but the battalion commander’s order to track down the
fleeing NVA had been firm. However, just as the point pushed off the
hilltop and started along the ridgeline bordering another rice paddy to
our right, the battalion CO ordered us to come back because it was getting
too late in the day to be pushing our way across hostile territory. He got
no argument from me.
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MARINES AT WAR
20 True, Heroic Tales of U.S. Marines in Combat
1942–1983
By Eric Hammel
In twenty hard-hitting, action-packed true, heroic stories, Eric Hammel
chronicles the making of the modern U.S. Marine Corps from the
desperate Guadalcanal landings in 1942 to the tragic bombing of the
Marine headquarters in Beirut in 1983. Excerpted from all of Hammel’s
books on Marine Corps battles and a number of articles he wrote over
the years for Leatherneck and other magazines, this collection includes
stories of ground combat in the South Pacific, Korea, Vietnam, and
Beirut, as well as tales of Marine aviators in action in three wars. Marines
at War will prove to be inspiring to Marines, former Marines, friends of
the U.S. Marine Corps, and any other reader of military history who
wants to know what war looks like from the bottom up.
Eric Hammel is well known to military-history readers for the way he
blends riveting accounts of men at the bloody spearpoint with the big
picture. His blending fact with analysis is the essence of his writing.
Several of the chapters in Marines at War are rendered in the actual
words of combat Marines.
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book MARINES
AT WAR: 20 True, Heroic Tales of U.S. Marines in Combat, 1942 1983 by Eric Hammel. The book is currently available in a $24.95
trade paperback edition published by Pacifica Military History. It
is also available in ebook editions.
THE CHOISEUL RAID
October 28–November 3, 1943
Copyright 1999 © by Eric Hammel
Charles J. “Nick” Waddell and C. W. Seton had been serving for many
months as coastwatchers on the large island of Choiseul, in the central
Solomon Islands. Their only contact with the outside world was their
radio transmitter and receiver. Although there were also many Japanese
serving on the island, Waddell and Seton felt fairly secure. The islanders
were friendly and almost completely loyal to the Crown. Like
coastwatchers serving in other occupied areas of the Solomons, Waddell
and Seton were eagly awaiting a major Allied invasion, for by October
1943, even the most loyal of the islanders were growing depressed after
being so long under Japanese domination; they did not understand why
the all-powerful British had not yet booted out the inferior and at times
brutal Japanese.
Seton more than Waddell was also growing restive; he wanted to
get out into the bush and kill Japanese. Although he and Waddell had
armed about twenty-five scouts with captured Japanese arms and
ammunition, orders from higher headquarters said to avoid scraps with
the Japanese. Coastwatchers were too valuable from the intelligencegathering standpoint to allow them to go about risking their lives on
nuisance attacks that could have no possible bearing on the progress of
the war. Their only recourse was to wait, and watch, and hope.
*
Unbeknown to Seton, Waddell, and their scouts and supporters,
Choiseul was to be bypassed by Allied forces; no invasion and no
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liberation were to take place. Rather, the 3d Marine Division was to
land at Empress Augusta Bay, on Bougainville’s west coast, on November
1. By this stage of the Solomons Campaign, air strategy shaped ground
strategy. Choiseul was a dead end; there was no place worth attacking
from the air that could be reached from potential air bases on the island.
But from central Bougainville, Allied fighters would be able to reach
Rabaul, the main Japanese base in the region.
Because the Japanese forces holding Bougainville’s many bases were
quite powerful in aggregate, and Allied forces were relatively weak, it
was decided early on in the invasion planning to tie down large numbers
of Japanese by forcing them to defend many possible invasion sites. In
fact, it seemed most probable to the Japanese that an invasion would
take place in the Shortland Islands or on southern Bougainville, where a
number of well-developed air and naval bases had already been built.
This was sound logic by Japanese standards, but the Allies had learned
to build airfields from scratch in very little time, and so attacking and
capturing a defended base was not necessary. This was why Empress
Augusta Bay was chosen. It was lightly defended, and new airfields
could be built quickly where none existed before. And those bases would
be more than fifty miles closer to Rabaul than existing Japanese bases
in southern Bougainville and the Shortland Islands.
Choiseul was not favorable for bases from which Rabaul could be
attacked, but a logical argument could be made for an Allied invasion
there. The island’s Japanese garrison did flank the Allied holdings in
the central Solomons—on New Georgia, Vella Lavella, and
Kolombangara—and the Allies had never before bypassed a Japanese
base, so there was no way to anticipate that they would now.
To help keep the Japanese focused on the unnecessary defense of
Choiseul, southern Bougainville, and the Shortland Islands—to keep
Japanese ground forces tied down in defense of widespread and isolated
bases—a New Zealand Army brigade occupied the Treasury Islands on
October 27, 1943, and the 2d U.S. Marine Parachute Battalion mounted
a raid against Japanese bases on Choiseul. The Treasurys were of some
value to the Allies, but the Choiseul operation was a ruse that had no
strategic purpose beyond keeping the Japanese there pinned down while
the invasion at Empress Augusta Bay took place.
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*
Before Choiseul was removed from active consideration as an
invasion target, operational intelligence data about the island’s Japanese
garrison had been systematically obtained. Small patrols were organized
and inserted at various points on Choiseul by submarine, PT-boat, and
amphibian bomber. One such patrol moved from PT boats under cover
of darkness on September 6,1943, and hiked from the landing site, on
the southwest coast, to a point a bit south of the Japanese base at Kakasa,
on the Slot (New Georgia Sound) side of the island. From there, the
patrol turned inland and crossed the island. It reached Kanaga safely
and was welcomed into the camp of coastwatchers Seton and Waddell.
U.S. Navy PBY amphibian patrol bombers flew up on the night of
September 12 and took the patrol out without incident.
Two other patrols were dispatched to the northern end of the island
and Choiseul Bay on September 22. These roamed their assigned areas
and were withdrawn without incident on September 30. The Marines
and New Zealanders who made up these two patrols reported that about
a thousand Japanese were at Kakasa and around three hundred others
maintained a barge depot at Choiseul Bay. Both patrols found a number
of suitable airfield sites and both marked a number of suitable landing
beaches. Insofar as Japanese military activity was concerned, only foot
patrols were sighted, and only in the immediate areas of Kakasa and
Choiseul Bay.
*
Following the capture of Munda Field, on New Georgia, in August
1943, Seton and Waddell had busy time of it. Not only did they have to
rescue, host, and send home a rising number of downed Allied aviators,
or assist the few outside intelligence-gathering patrols that came their
way, they had to maintain their watch on Japanese activities in their
realm. During the Japanese evacuation of the central Solomons, Choiseul
became a major relay point in the movement of troops and equipment
from Kolombangara to Bougainville. Barges were constantly depositing
troops on the southern end of the island, and other barges picked the
troops up at Choiseul Bay for a trip across open water to Bougainville.
Waddell and Seton had to keep a close watch on the barge traffic to and
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from Bougainville, and on the many hundreds of Japanese soldiers who
had to march from southern Choiseul to Choiseul Bay.
On October 13, 1943, Seton reported via radio to liaison officers on
Guadalcanal that between 3,000 and 4,000 Japanese had passed
Bambatana Mission, about thirty-five miles south of Choiseul Bay. On
October 19, he reported that Japanese camps in the vicinity of Choiseul
Bay and Sangigai were occupied by no fewer than 3,000 Japanese who
were apparently awaiting transport to Bougainville. According to his
scouts, Seton reported, these men were short on rations and living in
dispersed campsites. Islanders’ gardens were being looted, and foraging
parties were constantly in the bush searching for edible wildlife. Seton
added that these Japanese troops were particularly edgy and had blocked
all trails, tightened security, and had taken to shooting first and asking
questions after. Seton did not mention that this upswing in uneasiness
was probably the result of a minor foray on October 2 in which seven
Japanese had died at the hands of twenty-five of his armed scouts.
With this information on hand, it was finally and definitely decided
by the Allied South Pacific Area headquarters that a major effort would
not be made against Choiseul. Nevertheless, on October 20, Lieutenant
Colonel Robert Williams, the 1st Marine Parachute Regiment
commanding officer, and Lieutenant Colonel Victor Krulak, the 2d
Marine Parachute Battalion commanding officer, were summoned from
their camp on Vella Lavella to Guadalcanal to a briefing conducted by I
Marine Amphibious Corps (IMAC) staff officers. Indeed, it was the
IMAC staff secretary, Major James Murray, who first thought of
mounting a raid-in-force against Choiseul, and it was such a raid that
Williams and Krulak had been called down to Guadalcanal to discuss.
All Lieutenant Colonel Krulak’s battalion had to do was get safely
ashore in northern Choiseul and raise a ruckus big enough to lead the
Japanese to believe that a major invasion was underway or imminent.
At the same time, though on a very low key, several reconnaissance
missions would be carried out and a potential site for a possible PT-boat
base was to be assessed.
The enabling order for Operation BLISSFUL was issued by IMAC
headquarters on October 22. Based on a suggestion from Seton, the
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landing was to be made at Voza, a village about halfway between
Choiseul Bay and Bambatana Mission. The beaches were reportedly
good, and the local islanders were both loyal and willing to assist in
every way possible. More important was the fact that no Japanese were
known to be in the area even though Voza was directly on the Japanese
evacuation route.
Krulak no sooner picked up his operations orders than he prepared
to return to his battalion on Vella Lavella. While waiting for his plane,
he wrote out the entire working order for the mission.
*
The 2d Parachute Battalion had never been in combat, but it had
trained hard and had otherwise prepared itself for battle. It might have
been harder, in fact, than many combat-experienced units of the day.
Krulak’s original plan envisioned a combat jump into Voza, but there
was no suitable drop zone nearby; the rain forest, which was as thick as
any in the Solomon Islands, cloaked the objective and spread for many
miles in all directions save one, which was westward into New Georgia
Sound. Also, there were not enough transport aircraft in the South Pacific
to carry a full battalion and all its required supplies and equipment to
any destination in a single lift. As had the only other Marine parachute
battalion to enter combat—the 1st, at Gavutu, on August 7, 1942—
Krulak’s would have to mount an amphibious landing. This was a
heartbreaker for every member of the battalion, but the fact that combat
was imminent was more important to many than the method of insertion.
Krulak’s battalion had four days to get ready and get there. Frenzy
reigned in the 1st Marine Parachute Regiment bivouac on Vella Lavella
as all necessary gear was sorted into four huge stacks, all orders issued
to the three parachute-infantry companies and supporting units (the
regimental weapons company mortars and machine guns were going,
too, as was a detachment from an experimental rocket platoon that was
armed with bazookas and rockets. Total strength when the battalion left
Vella Lavella stood at thirty officers and 626 enlisted men. One Navy
officer was attached to assess sites for the proposed PT-boat base.
*
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At dusk on October 27, 1943, the U.S. Navy destroyer-transports
Ward, Kilty, Crosby, and McKean arrived at Vella Lavella following
their participation in landing a New Zealand Army brigade at Mono, in
the Treasury Islands. The 2d Parachute Battalion, which was standing
by with all its equipment and supplies aboard eight LCM landing craft,
boarded the destroyer-transports in very short order, a testament to the
unit’s discipline. The entire operation was completed in a record fortyfive minutes. At 1921, with the destroyer Conway acting as escort, the
laden destroyer-transports set course for Choiseul. The Conway’s radar
would pinpoint the landing site on the Choiseul coast. Among those
aboard the ships was coastwatcher Seton, who had been plucked from
Choiseul in order to guide the parachute battalion.
Shortly after 2300, while making way in column, the ships were
spotted by a Japanese patrol plane, which dropped a single bomb and
ran. The bomb landed close to the rear vessel, causing no damage.
Shortly after midnight, at a point some 2,000 yards off the northwest
coast of Choiseul, the little flotilla stopped. A reconnaissance party was
ordered over the side of one of the ships, and these Marines paddled
ashore in a rubber raft. While the reconnaissance was being carried out,
Lieutenant Colonel Krulak ordered Company G and Company F into
their landing craft. If the proper signal came from the beach—a single
light, indicating that the area was free of Japanese—the two companies
would be ready to go ashore.
As the ’Chutes waited, it was noted that the destroyer-transports
were drifting farther apart. By 0019, October 28, Company F, aboard
the Kilty, was closer to the beach even though Company G was to have
landed first. The Company G commander, Captain Spencer Pratt, was
ordered to take his men into the beach.
As there had been no light from the reconnaissance team, Pratt’s
company expected to go in shooting. But nothing happened. The patrol
was waiting on the beach. The signal light had been spotted aboard the
ships at 0023, but the Marines making the landing had not seen it.
After Company G had established a defensive perimeter ashore,
Krulak ordered the remainder of the battalion to land. As soon as the
main body of troops was ashore, the landing craft returned to the ships
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to begin loading supplies. While the supplies were being brought ashore,
the Conway, which was standing well out to sea, was sighted and attacked
by a lone Japanese airplane. The destroyer’s captain did not want to
draw the fully warranted attention of larger Japanese forces, so he
withheld his fire as two bombs landed near his ship. An Allied nightfighter pilot, who was over the flotilla in order to forestall such an attack,
drew considerable criticism for not having been low enough to intercepy
the enemy plane.
At about 0200, as the ’Chutes were getting their gear safely off the
beach, the entire convoy stood out to sea and made for Vella Lavella.
Four LCP(R) landing craft and their crews were left with the ‘Chutes.
These craft were dispersed under cover along the shore near Zinoa Island.
C. W. Seton, who had wandered into the forest as soon as he had
landed, returned to the beach with a large group of islanders, who
immediately got to work helping the Marines get their supplies off the
beach. All the gear was safely hidden in the bush when a group of
Japanese planes arrived at dawn to bomb the recently vacated beach.
During October 28, the ’Chutes set up a base of operations about a
mile inland from the beach, on a high plateau northwest of Voza. Outposts
were established and wire communications were installed. The base of
operations was hidden by the rain forest and on defensible terrain.
While the base was being put together, a second flight of Japanese
aircraft bombed and strafed the landing beach. The islanders had virtually
obliterated all traces of use at the beach after everything had been safely
dispersed and camouflaged inland. In fact, they fashioned a dummy
beachhead several miles north of Voza to give the Japanese something
to attack and think about.
The 2d Parachute Battalion got down to business on October 29.
The day before, Seton’s scouts had informed Krulak that there was a
barge-staging base eight miles south of the Marine base, at Sangigai,
and an outpost seventeen miles to the north, on the Warrior River. Thus,
on the morning of October 29, Krulak dispatched combat patrols in both
directions to locate trails, pinpoint the Japanese positions, and become
familiar with the area. Krulak accompanied the patrol to Sangigai. As it
neared the Vagara River, about halfway to Sangigai, the patrol split.
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Half the Marines turned inland to scout the area and locate an inland
approach to Sangigai, and Krulak continued with the remainder toward
the Vagara River.
At the river, the stealthy, silent Marines watched ten Japanese unload
a barge at the shore. Determining that this was as good a time and place
as any to leave his calling card, the battalion commander ordered his
troops to open fire. Seven of the Japanese were killed and the barge was
sunk. Krulak then led his men back to the base camp.
The second half of the patrol returned to the base camp soon after
Krulak’s, and then a squad was dispatched to the Vagara River to learn
what the Japanese were going to do about the attack. It bumped into a
platoon of Japanese about three-quarters of a mile from the original
landing site but was able to drive off the superior force.
*
On the morning of October 30, Krulak led Company E, Company F,
and the IMAC rocket detachment aboard the LCP(R)s hidden at Voza
and prepared to set sail for the Sangigai ferry base, which was marked
for destruction. The strength of the Japanese at Sangigai had been
estimated at one hundred fifty armed troops. Seton warned the ’Chutes
that the base could easily be reinforced from the south—and probably
already had been since the battalion’s landing.
To help foster the impression that Choiseul was the scene of an allout invasion, Krulak had requested powerful air support for the attack.
Just as the attack force was getting ready to sail from Voza, one of the
LCP(R)s was damaged in an attack by an American warplane. As a
result, the attack plan had to be altered.
At 0610, the scheduled air strike hit Sangigai. As twenty-six Allied
fighters flew escort, twelve Marine TBF Avenger light bombers dropped
more than two tons of bombs on the Japanese base.
Meantime, with more troops than could possibly be carried by three
landing craft, Krulak ordered the two companies to march overland to
the Vagara. Seton and his scouts led the way. Company F followed Seton
along with a machine-gun section and the IMAC rocket detachment,
and Company E followed with attached units.
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Nothing happened until 1110, when Japanese troops posted at the
Vagara River opened fire on the head of the approaching battalion
column. The ’Chutes returned the fire, and the Japanese were forced to
pull back to Sangigai. At this point, Krulak ordered Captain Robert
Manchester’s Company E to press on along the coast while the remainder
of the force cut inland to secure positions on the high ground at the rear
and east of the Japanese defenses.
At H-hour, Krulak’s enveloping force was still tangled up in the
hilly, dense rain forest behind Sangigai. As sounds of gunfire reached
the inland force from the direction of the beach, Seton’s scouts told the
harried battalion commander that the Japanese were just ahead.
Captain Manchester’s troops had opened their attack only a few
minutes behind schedule. The Japanese resisted for a few moments, but
the Marine rocket and mortar fire, combined with rifle and machinegun fire, proved to be too much for them, and they hurried from the
village, leaving Company E free to press on to the objective almost
unhindered.
Marines from Krulak’s force spotted the Japanese a few minutes
after the action began on the beach, and they moved to prevent the enemy
from dispersing into the bush. This was of paramount importance,
because Krulak wanted to destroy rather than disperse the Japanese force.
It was a matter of luck rather than good timing, but the Japanese were
forced to ground in prepared positions, which were immediately
contained by the ’Chutes.
As the Japanese moved north from the village, they ran head-on
into Captain Spencer Pratt’s Company F, which immediately opened
fire on them. A pitched battle raged on for nearly an hour. Company F
then managed to complete the desired envelopment behind a screen of
light-machine-gun fire. The Japanese panicked and mounted several
uncoordinated rushes that only resulted in additional casualties. As the
Marines maneuvered to close the right flank, the Japanese broke contact
and about forty of them escaped into the bush. Nevertheless, seventytwo Japanese were killed in the action. Four Marines were also killed,
and twelve, including Krulak and Captain Pratt, were wounded.
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While Company F was fighting in the bush, Company E had been
blowing up the Japanese base. Brand-new barges were scuttled, all
Japanese supplies were destroyed, and many documents were taken,
including a chart showing all the naval minefields off southern
Bougainville. After the Sangigai base had been razed, Company E
withdrew to the Vagara River and all four landing craft—the damaged
one had been repaired—picked it up and returned it to Voza.
Meantime, Krulak and the rest of the attackers buried the dead in
the bush and hiked to the Vagara River, where they arrived without
incident after Company E had left. When Company E returned to Voza
at dusk, Major Warner Bigger, the battalion executive officer, canceled
the planned pick-up of Krulak’s force—because the operation was many
hours behind schedule. Unfortunately, Krulak’s command radio had
broken down, so he did not receive word of Bigger’s decision and could
only guess at what his second-in-command was doing. The battalion
commander and his troops spent an extremely anxious but uneventful
night.
Early on the morning of October 31, the landing craft arrived and
withdrew Krulak’s force from the beach. Upon his return to Voza, Krulak
ordered that ambushes be set up and aggressive patrols be sent out to
see what the Japanese were going to do about their defeat at Sangigai.
On November 1, a Navy PBY landed in the water off Voza to pick
up the wounded ’Chutes and captured documents. Also, in answer to an
urgent request, 1,000 pounds of rice for Seton’s scouts, 500 pounds of
TNT, and 250 hand grenades were air-dropped near Voza. Several brisk
patrol clashes took place during the day, but the base camp was not
threatened. Seton’s scouts reported that the Japanese had reoccupied
Sangigai.
*
On November 1, Major Bigger led a combat patrol consisting of
eight-seven men from Captain William Day’s Company G toward Nukiki
Village, about ten miles north of the base camp. This was Bigger’s second
time out to Nukiki; he had scouted the place the day before. The purpose
of the large patrol was to check on reports from Seton’s scouts that a
large force of Japanese was manning an outpost on the Warrior River.
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Bigger was to move through Nukiki; cross the Warrior; destroy all
Japanese installations, outposts, and emplacements in his path; and
advance close enough to the main base at Choiseul Bay to hit the place
with 60mm mortar fire. Krulak approved of Guppy Island, in Choiseul
Bay, as an alternative objective in case Bigger’s patrol could not get to
the main base.
Bigger’s force made it past Nukiki without incident, but the LCP(R)s
in which it was riding constantly beached in the Warrior River’s shallow
mouth. The sound of the engines being gunned to break free from the
mucky bottom was quite loud, and Bigger feared that everyone for miles
around could hear it. He therefore ordered his men to disembark and
sent the boats downriver to be hidden in a cove near Nukiki. Four Marines
and a radio were left on the east bank of the river and all excess gear
was cached. The ’Chutes marched inland a considerable distance before
crossing the river.
In the middle of the afternoon, following a long march, the scouts
confessed to Major Bigger that they were lost. Bigger decided to wait
and rest, and he ordered his troops to bivouac on the spot, even though
they were in the middle of a swamp. A small patrol was sent back to the
radio to report the foul-up to base. When Krulak received the report, he
asked Seton if a man who knew the area was available. Seton supplied
the only man he had with him who was from the area, and this scout was
immediately dispatched to locate Bigger’s force. Meanwhile, at Bigger’s
order, the LCP(R)s were sent back to Voza.
The small patrol from Bigger’s main force spent the night with the
radio team. When they awoke next morning, they found that about thirty
Japanese had moved directly between their position and Bigger’s. Before
the Japanese could act, the handful of Marines made their way stealthily
to the landing craft, which were still hidden in the cove at the Warrior’s
mouth, and returned immediately to Voza, where they reported everything
to Krulak. Upon receiving the news, the battalion commander asked
IMAC for immediate air support, plus whatever PT-boats they could
arrange to get there fast.
All the while, Major Bigger was completely unaware of the activity
in his rear. He had lost much time, so he decided to strike out directly
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for Choiseul Bay. The patrol’s position was determined, and a second
small patrol was dispatched to the radio site to request that the boats
pick up the main body that afternoon.
Shortly after leaving, the second small patrol discovered that a large
Japanese force was tailing Bigger. These Marines were unable to return
to Bigger’s force, but they were able to fight their way through to Nukiki,
where they were soon spotted by the crews of the returning landing
craft.
Meanwhile, Seton’s guide had found Bigger and was leading the
patrol through thinning jungle toward the Choiseul Bay base. As the
Marines came abreast Redman Island, a small offshore hunk of rock, a
four-man Japanese outpost opened fire on them. Three of the Japanese
were quickly shot dead, but the fourth made good his escape and
apparently spread the alarm. Surprise was lost. Because the forest along
the beach was too thin to provide adequate cover, Bigger decided to
bombard Guppy Island.
The ’Chutes moved into positions opposite the island, but they
quickly discovered that forest growth masked the fire from their mortars.
The mortars were moved out to the beach and set up with their baseplates
partially submerged. The ’Chutes then proceeded to fire 143 highexplosive rounds into the Japanese fuel and supply dumps on the island.
As they were retiring, large fires—at least two—were spotted in the
target area. Prodded by return fire, the Marines withdrew toward the
Warrior River.
The Japanese wanted Bigger’s hide. Groups of infantrymen were
dispatched on fast barges, from which they landed at several points along
Bigger’s anticipated escape route. The retiring ’Chutes were attacked
four separate times before they reached the Warrior River, but they
overcame the opposition each time. When they reached the river, they
established a defensive perimeter and waited for the landing craft.
When they felt that the pressure had subsided, several ’Chutes
ventured into the surf to wash off some of the jungle grime accumulated
during the exhausting march. As they did, they were taken under fire
from the opposite bank of the river. The exposed Marines dived for the
nearest cover, but they believed they were being fired on by fellow
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Marines who had arrived on the scene to reinforce their group. Several
American flags were waved at the bushwhackers, but these only drew
increased fire. Bigger’s force sent back heavy return fire, which forced
the much smaller Japanese force to withdraw.
Bigger ordered three strong swimmers into the water to try to reach
the expected rescue party and warn it of the ambush. Several Japanese
had remained in the trees on the opposite bank of the river, and they
fired at the three helpless swimmers, of whom only one lived to return
to Bigger’s group.
As the fire fight became more intense, Bigger’s Marines spotted the
four LCP(R)s coming their way. But a storm was also moving in, and
the sea was quite rough. Under heavy covering fire from Bigger’s troops,
the boats beached themselves on the western bank of the river, and
Bigger’s men clambered aboard. As the tiny flotilla backed off the beach,
one of the fully laden LCP(R)s had its motor swamped by the rising
surf, and it drifted toward the Japanese-held side of the river. Fortunately,
it became fouled on a coral crag.
At this juncture, two PT-boats (one of which was skippered by
Lieutenant John Fitzgerald Kennedy) dashed in from the sea with all
guns blazing at the Japanese-held side of the river. While the PTs’ 20mm
and .50-caliber guns raked the Japanese positions, ’Chutes hurriedly
transferred from the stalled LCP(R) to another. The stalled LCP(R) was
towed away from the beach and its engine was restarted. All the landing
craft then withdrew from range of the beach under cover of a rain squall.
Aircraft from Munda Field and the two PT-boats provided close cover
during the journey back to Voza.
*
Also on November 1, about the time the Bigger patrol was departing
the base camp, a second strong combat patrol marched to the Vagara
River in the hope of driving a strong force of Japanese infantry back
toward their base at Sangigai. The Japanese encountered by this patrol
put up a particularly hard fight.
In assessing the various actions that evening, Lieutenant Colonel
Krulak and his staff concluded that the small size and, in all probability,
the intentions of their force had been divined to some extent by their
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adversaries. The findings of several Marine patrols were evaluated, and
it was determined that growing numbers of well-armed and wellorganized Japanese were drawing closer and closer to the base camp. It
appeared to be only a matter of time before the Japanese located the 2d
Parachute Battalion’s hideaway and discovered that they faced only a
very limited raid-in-force rather than an all-out invasion. If that happened,
the ’Chutes would be extremely vulnerable to an organized clearing
operation by the large numbers of Japanese that seemed to be
concentrating near Voza.
Although Krulak had originally envisioned an eight- to ten-day
mission, he now realized that the time to withdraw was fast approaching.
The clincher came on November 3, when a group of Seton’s scouts
reported that a force of between eight hundred and one thousand wellarmed Japanese was at Sangigai and that another strong force was north
of Voza, at Moli Point.
After Bigger’s patrol had been picked up at Nukiki, IMAC
headquarters radioed Krulak to ask whether he thought his mission could
be completed. By then—November 3—the Empress Augusta Bay
landings on Bougainville had been undertaken successfully by the bulk
of the 3d Marine Division, and the Japanese had quickly come to the
conclusion that it was the main event—and that American activity on
Choiseul was obviously a diversion. Even so, with Bougainville now
the center of attention, the Japanese needed their Choiseul evacuation
route more than ever, for their many bases in southern Bougainville and
the Shortland Islands had been bypassed. They needed to evacuate or
redeploy many of their units, and Choiseul was still the best route for
many such movements. It was becoming painfully obvious that the
Japanese on Choiseul now realized that they were facing a raiding force
of about battalion strength, and that they were busily preparing to launch
a counterstroke within forty-eight hours. Krulak told his superiors that
his food supply was sufficient for another seven days, that ammunition
was plentiful, and that he was holding a strong position, but added that
IMAC might as well evacuate his battalion if, in fact, his mission had
fulfilled its strategic purpose.
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Krulak would later write of the situation: “As a matter of fact, I felt
we’d not possibly be withdrawn before the [Japanese] cut the beach
route. However, we were so much better off than the [Japanese] that it
was not worrisome (I say now!). The natives were on our side—we
could move across the island far faster than the [Japanese] could follow,
and I felt if we were not picked up on the Voza side, we could make it on
the other side. Seton agreed, and we had already planned such a move.
Besides that, we felt confident that our position was strong enough to
hold in place if necessary.”
Nevertheless, on the night of November 3, three large LCI landing
ships arrived north of Voza and began embarking the waiting 2d
Parachute Battalion. As the troops filed up the ramps, loud explosions
could be heard—presumably from mines and booby traps the Marines
had set to delay the oncoming Japanese. Krulak’s Marines loaded all
gear (less their food, which went to Seton) and boarded in good order as
the nervous LCI crewmen implored them to hurry.
The entire loading operation took fifteen minutes. The LCIs backed
off the beach and set course for Vella Lavella, where they arrived shortly
after dawn on November 4.
*
In a later study of the operation in which Japanese records were
perused, it was found that Krulak’s estimation of the situation on
November 3 was largely incorrect. Within mere hours of the
withdrawal—and not two days later, as the battalion commander
guessed—large and powerful Japanese infantry units closed in on the
base camp and beach positions formerly held by the 2d Parachute
Battalion. The Japanese had indeed been thoroughly surprised by the
Marines’ initial actions on Choiseul, and, in the words of the assessment,
“undoubtedly [they] had been duped regarding the size of the landing
force by the swift activity of the battalion over a 25-mile front.”
Nevertheless, once the big show got underway at Bougainville, there
was far less doubt in Japanese minds as to what the Choiseul action
meant. That a very small force was conducting a very limited diversionary
operation on Choiseul became obvious, and immediate steps were taken
to erase that force and reinstate the much-needed evacuation routes.
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The operation cost the Japanese a known 143 dead in the Warrior
River and Sangigai actions. Equipment losses included two barges, more
than 180 tons of equipment and stores, total (but temporary) destruction
of the Sangigai base, and an unknown but presumably large loss of fuel
and supplies in the dumps on Guppy Island. The minefield maps taken
at Sangigai greatly eased the minds of many Allied naval officers and
eventually led to the mining of additional waters around Bougainville.
Although sources differ, it appears that nine Marines were killed in
action on Choiseul, that fifteen were wounded and two were missing in
action (and later presumed dead).
The actual total impact of the diversionary mission was small. The
2d Parachute Battalion arrived on Choiseul too close to the Empress
Augusta Bay landings to cause any major changes in the complexion of
the total Japanese defensive system. Had the battalion landed a week
earlier, the Japanese might have moved a large infantry force and
adequate supporting arms from Bougainville and the Shortlands. Also,
the small size of Krulak’s force limited its effective scope of operations.
The parachute battalions were smaller than other Marine infantry
battalions, and their largest supporting arms were 81mm mortars. There
was little damage the raiding force could have inflicted—and little
permanent damage that it did inflict.
The Choiseul Raid was a minor success of little strategic value, but
it was a good show nonetheless. It was the only time the painstakingly
trained 2d Parachute Battalion saw action, for the 1st Parachute Regiment
was dissolved in 1944 and its personnel converted to regular infantry,
many of whom took part in the battle for Iwo Jima.
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MUNDA TRAIL
The New Georgia Campaign
June–August 1943
By Eric Hammel
The Solomon island archipelago stretches in a roughly east west direction
from New Guinea to San Cristobal. For the Imperial Japanese forces in
1942, it was a natural highway into the South Pacific. When checked at
Guadalcanal, these forces realized they had moved east too quickly, and
that their defeat was caused in part by inade-quate air bases between the
front and their head-quarters at Rabaul, more than six hundred miles
away. As the last Japanese battalions were wrecking themselves against
the Marine defen-sive perimeter on Guadalcanal, the decision was made
to build the Munda airfield on New Georgia, right in the middle of the
Solomons chain.
The Americans also recognized the Solomons as a highway, but in
the other direction, toward Rabaul, the Philippines, and ultimately Japan. The two great Pacific powers clashed in the middle of this strategic
island corridor in June 1943, when an untried U.S. Army infantry division assaulted New Georgia and began to move up the Munda Trail to
take the airfield. This “forgotten” battle was in truth one of America’s
first sustained offensive actions in the Pacific, and as such it taught
green American troops and equally green commanders the realities of
jungle warfare.
Munda Trail is the dramatic, harrowing story of green American
soldiers encountering for the first time impenetrable swamps, solid rain
forests, invisible coconut log pillboxes, tenacious snipers tied into trees,
torren-tial tropical rains, counterattack by enemy aircraft and naval guns,
and the logistical nightmare of living and moving in endless mud. A
carefully planned offensive quickly degenerates into isolated small-unit
actions as the terrain breaks unit cohesion and leads inexperienced soldiers into deadly ambushes. As physical and psychologi-cal strains
mount, Army doctors begin to define a new disease nearing epidemic
proportions—combat fatigue. Men without injuries simply become
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useless for fur-ther fighting, the advance bogs down. Yet, over time, the
scared American soldiers find their inner resolve and climb out of the
psychological abyss, emerge steady and true, combat veterans at last—
and victors.
The New Georgia Campaign was, in Ham-mel’s words, “a
graphic study of the universal military truths attending the feeding of
innocents to the ravenous dogs of war.” Yet when it was over, there was
no question in anyone’s mind that the tide had turned, that the forces
moving through the Solomons would be American, and that they would
move toward Japan.
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book MUNDA
TRAIL: The New Georgia Campaign, July - August 1943 by Eric
Hammel. The book is currently available in a $24.95 trade paperback
edition published by Pacifica Military History. This book is also
available in ebook editions.
O’BRIEN HILL
by Eric Hammel
Copyright 1989 © by Eric Hammel
In the zone of the1st Battalion, 161st Infantry Regiment on July 27,
Lieutenant Colonel Slaftcho “Joe” Katsarsky’s infantry companies
descended early into the low-lying rain forest in front of O’Brien Hill
and advanced toward the next hill, another nameless hump that would
soon bear the name of a fallen American. Company C had the vanguard,
with Company B close behind. The battalion made continuous progress
until it reached the base of the objective. Then the Japanese on the heights
resisted with light and heavy machine guns, Japanese rifles, captured
American rifles and automatic rifles, and Japanese and American hand
grenades.
While B Company moved into the forest to bridge a widening gap
between Katsarsky’s battalion and the adjacent 1st Battalion, 145th, C
Company waded into the Japanese defenses. Second Lieutenant Louis
Christian was leading his C Company platoon up the slope when his
men froze under the fire of automatic weapons emplaced in a pillbox to
the front. Christian had been the regi-mental sergeant major during the
Guadalcanal fighting, but had accepted a battlefield commission. This
day, the new lieutenant crawled alone through the light mantle of
underbrush, right up to the face of the pillbox that had stymied his
platoon. He chucked in several hand grenades, which silenced the
Nambu.
The entire company was having a bad time. The troops waded into
the fire of several emplacements, but were forced to stop when they
came under fire from more and more machine guns. Then the Japanese
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infantry threw in a quick counterattack right off the ridgeline. Second
Lieutenant Louis Christian was taking a breather alone when he saw his
platoon begin to pull back. As the sur-prised American riflemen tumbled
to the rear to find safe positions from which they could beat off the
counterthrust, Christian re-mained where he was to direct fire from
supporting mortars. A short burst of machine-gun fire found him as he
searched for tar-gets, and he died in a pool of blood. The hill had a
name.
C Company pulled back and dug in. An artillery forward ob-server
mouthed some frantic words into his field telephone and, after a moment,
the ridge erupted under 105mm shells. The 1st Battalion’s 81mm mortars
were hastily relaid and fired. Japanese 90mm mortars responded.
Lieutenant Colonel Joe Katsarsky or-dered C Company back to O’Brien
Hill.
*
The ordeal of the 1st Battalion, 161st, was only just the begin-ning.
Shortly after the main body of the battalion returned to O’Brien Hill, a
large American unit passed through from the north. Following was a
large group of Japanese. No one really knew what was going on, but
Katsarsky’s battalion inherited the Japanese. That was at 1430 hours.
The first contact came when several Japanese blundered into the
fire zones of several American machine guns and were dispersed. Shortly
after this rather benign first encounter, the Japanese launched several
squad-size probes to determine what they were up against. They had a
fairly good idea by 1630, when Americans on the battalion line first
heard Japanese soldiers in the forest get-ting themselves worked up for
a big fight.
There was a low saddle on the battalion’s right flank, and a gully
stretching from left to right across the immediate front. Dense growth
filled the gully. The forward slopes of O’Brien Hill were outposted near
the edge of the forest, within a wooded fringe fronting the high, open
hilltop. The battalion command post was only fifteen yards behind the
outpost line.
Yelling taunts at their adversaries and encouragement among
themselves, shrieking curses through the night, instilling passing clutches
of fear even among the veterans on the hill, the Japanese moved noisily
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over the low saddle and through the tree-choked gully. American hand
grenades rained down on them from the heights, as did American 60mm
and 81mm mortar rounds. The high-strung chirping of Nambu light
machine guns sounded through the throaty bursts of the mortars, and
streams of bright tracer reached toward O’Brien Hill through the solid,
black wall of the night.
The initial assault was launched by about one platoon. It was stopped
cold by methodical riflemen and grimy-faced gunners manning the
battalion’s air-cooled and water-cooled. 30-caliber Brownings. Two more
frontal assaults of about platoon strength collapsed as soon as they lapped
upward from the gully and sad-dle. Then the Japanese withdrew. They
knew what they had come to learn; Katsarsky’s battalion had been
probed. Joe Katsarsky knew, by 0800 hours, on July 28, that his battalion
had been cut off. Litter teams attempting to reach the regi-mental aid
station were fired on along the trail to the rear of O’Brien Hill; several
litter bearers and previously wounded sol-diers were killed. Jeeps
bringing urgently needed ammunition from the regimental supply depot
were fired on as they approached O’Brien Hill; several drivers were
killed, and four disabled jeeps blocked the vital link. All Katsarsky could
do was draw some of his troops off the line and send them back over the
trail to clear out the bushwhackers along the way.
The heavily armed combat patrol moved cautiously up the nar-row
track and the fringe of trees at its edge for two solid hours. For two solid
hours, these sleepless soldiers killed. By 1000 hours, it seemed that the
road had been cleared. The patrol filed up the re-verse slope of O’Brien
Hill and broke up to move back to the line.
While the track was being cleared, the Japanese somehow sensed
that the American battle line had been weakened, so they pre-pared an
assault. The first file of Japanese stepped out of the forest just as the
patrol was breaking up to return to the lines.
The outposts took it first. With bullets from the main line pass-ing
inches over their heads, and with Japanese bullets coming in a bit lower,
the soldiers manning the posts withdrew. Pink and white tracer stitched
the air back and forth, and Japanese explosive bul-lets popped loudly as
they plowed into earth, wood, and flesh. Shelter halves the Americans
had stretched above their fighting holes to ward off the sun were shredded
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within minutes; they had to be pulled down to prevent them from
becoming entangled with the barrels of weapons peering over the edges
of the fighting holes.
The battalion aid station, which was located on the nose of the hill,
had to be pulled back over the crest so the medics could safely move
among the wounded and pull others back to a place of rela-tive safety.
The battalion communications center was menaced by machine-gun fire
and the communicators had to abandon their ra-dios to sprint to safety.
A rifleman on the line was struck by a bullet. A pair of medics charged
through the nipping fire and lifted him, one on either side. They staggered
through the beaten zone. Another rifleman was shot and went to his
knees yelling, “I’m hit!” He pitched forward an instant later, yelling,
“I’m dead.” And he was.
Captain Ralph Phelps, the battalion executive officer, rushed through
the fire to confer with Captain Donald Downen, the A Company
commander. As the two officers conferred, a thin stream of machinegun bullets passed between them, no more than three inches from their
bodies. The two popped off the ground and ran for cover in order to
finish the discussion.
A Japanese sniper armed with an American BAR was spotted and
grenaded from his treetop perch. A corporal, second-in-command of a
rifle squad, was shot to death hauling ammunition to his men. A lieutenant
who had been nicked in the back of the neck when a bullet passed through
his helmet in the road-clearing opera-tion bled for two hours before he
found time to seek treatment.
The assault was coming through mainly on the right. The Jap-anese
had done some superb spotting, for most of the troops sent out on the
road-clearing patrol had been drawn from this sector and replaced by a
few pistol-toting mortarmen. There was one light air-cooled .30-caliber
Browning machine gun on the right, but the gunner was absent due to
illness and the assistant gunner had wandered off to a latrine moments
before the attack commenced. The only man in the gunpit was Private
James Newbrough, a green ammunition carrier.
After a weird exchange of taunts, three Nambu-carrying Japa-nese
charged Newbrough’s gun. Two died and the other with-drew.
Newbrough kept spraying bullets around, but the more he fired, the
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more attention he drew. The shelter half over the gunpit was shredded
and the underbrush nearby was mown down to ground level. Private
Newbrough finally determined that by un-fastening the machine gun’s
traversing mechanism he could aim the gun from the underside of the
barrel, which meant that his head would be that much lower. He
unfastened the mechanism and sprayed and sprayed. And sprayed.
Corporal Dick Barrett was in the rear when the fighting broke out.
As soon as he realized Private Newbrough was alone in the gunpit, he
gathered as much ammunition as he could scrape to-gether and moved
out. Barrett arrived just as Newbrough was preparing to secure. While
Corporal Barrett fed in a fresh ammu-nition belt and settled in behind
the machine gun, Private First Class Hollis Johnson, a BAR-man, moved
in closer to cover the gunners. And they all sprayed and sprayed. And
sprayed.
To the men involved, the fight seemed to go on for hours. It ended at
1045, after only forty-five minutes.
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MUSTANG ACE
Memoirs of a P-51 Fighter Pilot
By Robert J. Goebel
When Bob Goebel left home to join the Army Air Corps in 1942, he was
a 19 years old and a high-school graduate. The only previous time he
had traveled far from his native Racine, Wisconsin, was an epic trip in
the summer of 1940, when he and a pal had ridden the rails to Texas and
back to visit two of Bob’s brothers who were in the service.
Even during his weeks in Pre-flight training, young Goebel found
that he felt at home in the service, and he looked forward to the great
adventure on which he had embarked out of a sense of patriotism and
yearning to see the wide world. Easygoing and quick to learn, Cadet
Goebel worked his way steadily through the Basic, Primary, and Advanced phases of military flight training, and found in himself an aptitude for flight. However, like nearly all of his comrades, Goebel could
not learn how to hit a flying target with the guns mounted on the trainers
he flew. Nevertheless, he—and they—graduated to fighter school and,
after earning their wings and commissions, were sent on to join an operational fighter unit—in Panama.
The months of rigorous operational flying in Panama seasoned Lieutenant Goebel and his young companions, and made better aviators of
them, but it did little to advance their gunnery skills. When a new crop
of novices arrived, Goebel and his companions found themselves on
their way to Europe to join the fight. They wound up in North Africa in
the Spring of 1944 with orders to join the 31st Fighter Group in Italy.
Just as Goebel and his young companions were about to join the
leading fighter group in the Mediterranean Theater of Operations, the
31st turned in its British-made Spitfire fighters for new P-51 Mustang
fighters. Within weeks, Bob Goebel had flown his first combat missions and had lost his element leader, who was shot down in a swirling
dogfight.
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But master the job he did. A steady succession of bomber-escort
missions over southeastern Europe slowly and then more rapidly forced
Lieutenant Goebel to settle in and master aerial gunnery and the mentally taxing high-speed dogfights in which he became engaged. At last,
he shot down his first German fighter. And he advanced to positions of
leadership, in due course leading the entire 31st Fighter Group deep
into enemy territory. At length, he shot down a fifth German and thus
became an ace—a Mustang Ace. And then he shot down three Germans
in one day on a mission to Ploesti, Rumania. He flew to Russia and
back, and supported the invasion of southern France. In the end, by September 1944, he had eleven confirmed victories to his credit and was one of
the 308th Fighter Squadron’s most respected combat leaders.
When he was sent home at the end of his combat tour, Captain Bob
Goebel was not yet 22 years old.
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book MUSTANG
ACE: Memoirs of a P-51 Fighter Pilot by Robert J. Goebel. The book
is currently available in a $27.50 trade paperback edition. This book
is also available in ebook editions.
A FIGHTER ACE’S BAPTISM
by Robert J. Goebel
Copyright 1991 © by Robert J. Goebel.
My first real baptism of fire came on April 21, 1944, with the first visit
of the 31st to the Ploesti oil fields of Rumania. The milk runs were over.
During the briefing, all eyes were on that red string stretched across
the huge map on the front wall. It ran from the spur of the Italian boot
easterly across the Adriatic, across Yugoslavia to the bomber rendezvous
point, and ended finally above Bucharest—almost 600 miles. No one in
the group had ever flown that kind of mission before, particularly in a
formation of forty-eight aircraft. The German war machine had to have
gasoline and lube oil, and most of it came from the Balkans, from Ploesti.
The oil fields as well as the extensive refineries that supported them had
to be destroyed, even though they were American-owned. We dutifully
jotted down the compass headings and times. In addition, I wrote down
the engine start, or PT. PT was a term carried over from Spitfire days,
when the start and ignition booster buttons were side by side and had to
be pushed in simultaneously. PT meant Push Tits.
The intelligence briefer took the stage and talked about flak
installations and concentrations of enemy fighters in the immediate
vicinity of the target. His wording was a masterpiece of hedging worthy
of the best Philadelphia lawyer. A statement like “Sixty-three largecaliber antiaircraft guns are believed to be in the area south of the target”
always set me to wondering. Believed by whom? And did he really
believe that there were sixty-three, or was that a nice number somewhere
between fifty and a hundred? I had the feeling that someone was trying
to measure a fly speck to three decimal places with a yardstick. Granted,
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intelligence work was an inexact business, and I am sure that, if any
better information was available, we would have gotten it. Still, I
waited—in vain, as it turned out—for someone, just once, to stand up
on that stage and say, “I don’t have a damned clue on what you’re going
to run into up there.”
The forecast was for bad weather all the way to the target, but that
was nothing new either. In the absence of reliable data, I think, the
weatherman played safe and called for bad weather everywhere. That
way he was in a position to take the “I told you so” route if the weather
was stinko. Or he could take credit for surprisingly fine conditions, as if
he had had something to do with the improvement. At the end of the
briefing, we piled into the several jeeps available for the ride to the
airdrome and squadron operations.
In the operations tent, the aircraft assignments were posted. As
always, each pilot noted the location and marking of the aircraft he was
to follow out of the parking area. Thorsen went over the flight positions
again and discussed where he wanted the other three flights. The 308th
was the lead squadron today, so he would also lead the group. Each
squadron was to put up sixteen aircraft and two spares, which were to
turn back at the Yugoslavian coast if no one aborted. In the standard
formation, the sixteen Mustangs were grouped into four flights of four
aircraft each. The lead flight was called Red Flight, and its supporting
flight was Yellow; the second section consisted of Blue, and it was
supported by Green Flight. As before, I was Thorsen’s wingman, so my
call sign was Border Red Two.
Lam, the squadron intelligence officer, issued each of us two small
packets that could just fit into flight-suit pockets. One was an escape/
evasion kit, which contained some concentrated food bars, Benzedrine,
a morphine syringe, and other like bits and pieces. The other was a
package of used and rumpled money of the countries we were to fly
over. There was a little more fiddling around, and then it was time to go.
I walked out to my machine in a highly excited state, heart thumping,
but I also felt elated and full of expectation. No more milk runs. No
more silhouettes, like the aircraft recognition exercises. Now I was going
to see the real thing.
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The pre-flight check was a cursory, tire-kicking affair. Then I had to
urinate, except it was the second time in two minutes and, in spite of the
urge, I was able to manage only a few drops. The crew chief helped me
into my bulky RAF Mae West life vest and parachute harness. Then,
when I was in the cockpit, he held the shoulder straps so I could thread
the ends onto the lap belt and cam it down. I felt as if I had to go again
but I knew nothing would come of it, even if I did get down and try. So
I made my cockpit check, picked out Nightshade, and concentrated on
its propeller until it started to move. I cranked up; gave the chocks-out
signal; and, when the crew chief was safely seated on the wing, moved
out and fell in behind Thorsen as he essed his way toward the end of the
runway. The long nose of the Mustang made forward visibility very
poor, and with sixteen aircraft kicking up dust, it was absolutely essential
to keep essing and watching the mechanic on the wing for hand signals.
At last we were at the runway. The crew chief jumped down and gave
me a highball—hand salute—and I was pulling out into takeoff position.
As soon as Thorsen was halfway down the runway, I wiped my sweaty
palms on my flight-suit thighs; made a rolling mag check; and pushed
the throttle to the gate, 61 inches. I was off.
I closed rapidly on Thorsen and tucked in tightly, sneaking an
occasional glance beyond him at the rest of the squadron as each
succeeding airplane caught up and dropped into position. Finally, the
major rolled out on course. When I loosened my position so I could
look around a little, I got a real thrill: Our squadron was in perfect
formation and, on either side above us, the other two squadrons were
equally well formed. The Adriatic sparkled below and was dotted with
the white sails of the Italian fishing boats. As we gained altitude, the
Italian coast gradually fell away. Ahead to the east, a buildup of cumulus
clouds marked the Yugoslavian coastline. Soon we were at our cruising
altitude. As the weather deteriorated, the squadrons began to maneuver
around the towering buildups while trying to stay in contact. My attention
was completely devoted to keeping station on Thorsen’s wing, so I had
only a sketchy idea of what was going on. Unbeknownst to any of us,
Fifteenth Air Force Headquarters had recalled the mission because of
the weather, but the B-24s and the 31st had failed to get the word and
pressed on to the target.
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Rendezvous with the bombers came off without a hitch. Each
squadron took up position over the bomber stream, flights scissoring
back and forth, trying to stay out of the clouds but without overrunning
the slow-flying B-24s. Shortly after rendezvous, someone broke radio
silence to call out enemy fighters. I tried in vain to spot them by sneaking
quick glances away from Thorsen’s machine, but I couldn’t see anything
except clouds and more Mustangs. The next thing I knew, the traffic on
the R/T increased in volume and intensity to bedlam; everyone was
cursing and shouting at once. “Here they come! Break, break right!—
Passing under you.—Watch out, four o’clock level, Blue Leader.—A
whole bunch of the sons o’ bitches. . . .Red Leader, break right!—You
got him. You got him!—Where the hell are you, Green Four?” The shrill
cacophony in my headset made my hair stand on end, but I was totally
absorbed in staying with Thorsen as he went through some very high-g
maneuvers. My vision was blurry from the stresses. Clouds and bits of
the horizon went by in very strange places. I saw what I took to be
tracers going over my wing between Thorsen and me, and I wanted to
shout a warning. But I couldn’t think of the right words to call a break.
I just choked.
After a few minutes, which seemed like hours, it was all over, and
we were trying to reform. I was soaked with sweat and in such a keen
state of sensitivity that the first sound of a routine radio call made me
jump perceptibly. I finally got my nerves under control, but I felt
nauseated as we set course for home. I was still twitchy when we started
our descent and, after I pitched out and made my pattern, I just drove it
down on the wheels and let it roll.
All the crew chiefs were waiting in a knot at the end of the runway.
As each one’s aircraft came in, he mounted the wing for the taxi ride
back to the parking area. When I was chocked, I shut down, unbuckled,
and headed for the operations tent for debriefing. Luckily, no one was
interested in quizzing me. I really hadn’t seen much of anything except
the side of Thorsen’s Nightshade, and I would have been embarrassed
to admit it. I found out that the group had engaged two gaggles of thirty
aircraft each and had destroyed sixteen of them. We had lost four of our
own. One of the lost pilots was Jackson, a classmate from Moore Field
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who had been assigned to the 309th when we had come up from
Telergma, three weeks earlier. He was the first combat casualty of our
Panama bunch but certainly not the last.
The 308th had done well, bagging four of the attackers and getting
four probables into the bargain. Claude got one of the probables, which
bettered Doctor Tom’s claim of a damage three days earlier. I was feeling
down, having seen nothing and shot at nothing. One of our Panama
guys was going to get a confirmed victory one of these days, and I just
knew that it wasn’t going to be me.
Lying in my sack later that evening, I thought about the events of
the day and tried to sort things out. I could see one thing clearly: Flying
such close formation that I wouldn’t get lost or separated kept me from
doing my job, which was watching and keeping my leader’s tail clear. I
was going to have to loosen up and take my chances on staying with
him. I also recognized that, in the heat of battle, there was no time to
think about things. The time to do the thinking was on the ground. If I
didn’t do something instinctively, it wasn’t going to get done.
Anticipation was the thing. Be ready. I had to act without hesitation
when the time came. Get the gun and sight switch on with the first
bogey call. Get the tank jettison switch armed early so that the drop
tanks would be away a split second after the command. Be ready for a
hung tank. Be ready to go mixture auto-rich, full throttle, and RPM.
And above all, be ready to call a break instantly when bounced by enemy
aircraft, using the right call sign so I didn’t scatter every other flight in
the sky.
On the next mission—two days later—I was scheduled to fly on
Johnson’s wing as Green Four. I didn’t know whether I had been
graduated or demoted. No explanations or comments were forthcoming,
so I chose to believe that Thorsen had okayed me for general wing flying
and was taking on a new guy to fly his wing. Johnson had the reputation
for being a tiger in the air, so I knew I would not want for action. We
were going to Wiener Neustadt, a modern city near Vienna where Me109s were assembled. That probably meant that we were poking a stick
in the hornet’s nest. Vienna—or Wien, as it was known to the Austrians—
was 450 air miles from San Severo, almost due north. The direct route
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would take us across the Adriatic and over the Yugoslavian coast just
west of Split. After crossing the coastal mountains, we would pass almost
over Zagreb, in the plain of Croatia. The very large and unmistakable
Lake Balaton would lie in the distance to the east, in Hungary. Much
nearer, almost beneath our track, would be the city of Graz, Austria,
only a scant 75 miles from Wiener Neustadt.
The takeoff and join-up were routine. As the group climbed
northward over the sea, I had ample opportunity to look around. Fortyeight airplanes plus six spares made a formidable force and took up a
good part of the sky. I was glad that I was a part of it instead of having
to look at it from an Me-109 or FW-190 cockpit.
Up near the Yugoslavia-Austria border, bogies were called out at
one o’clock, slightly below. This time, I got a good look and saw about
twelve Me-109s passing from one o’clock toward three, fairly close. As
the squadron started to turn into them, Johnson let go his tanks, cut
sharply inside our lead flight, and started down after them. I just had
time to sneak a look at our lead flight on the outside as I rolled to follow
Johnson. I was horrified to see the rest of the squadron turn back to the
original heading, leaving us hung out to dry. I shot a glance back at
Johnson. He was already getting away from me, turning in a tight vertical
bank and closing rapidly on a 109. I pulled it in as hard as I could. But
if I was to stay with him, I knew I was going to have to keep reefing it
in. The 109s on the outside of us, which Johnson was expecting the lead
section of the squadron to engage, could easily drop in behind us. But I
figured that while pulling four or five g’s, I was relatively safe. Hauling
back on that stick for all I was worth and in a semicrouch, I was tightening
my stomach muscles—tightening all my muscles—trying to hold my
head up against the vicious, unrelenting force of magnified gravity. I no
longer knew if I was in the same piece of sky as Johnson; the positive
g’s were draining the blood from my head and I was sightless. After
another second or two, I eased the back pressure on the stick until I got
some vision back, hoping Johnson would still be in front of me. No joy.
That part of the sky was empty. At eight o’clock, a mile or two away, I
saw a parachute. A good bit closer, two aircraft were coming at me.
They had no deep central air scoop but two flat, shallow radiators under
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the wings and close to the fuselage, exactly like the recognition silhouette.
They were unmistakably Me-109s! I went to War Emergency—67 inches
manifold pressure—and made for a bank of clouds over on my left. I
beat them into the clouds, a stratus deck that was fairly smooth inside. I
was safe for the moment; visibility wasn’t 20 feet.
If I had chased someone into cloud cover, I would pop up on top, fly
straight ahead, and watch for him to come out. Expecting them to do the
same, I pulled the throttle back and started a turn, rolling out when I had
reversed course. After a couple of minutes I pulled up into the sunlight
and made a violent 90 left and then a 90 right to clear myself. I was
alone. I had no idea where they had got to, but I really didn’t care. Now
what? I decided I would go the short distance to the target and join on
someone rather than risk flying all the way home alone. Setting course
for the target area, I climbed back up to the group’s altitude, turning
often to look aft and constantly scanning the sky for those fast-moving
black dots. The target area could easily be spotted by the dark cloud of
flak bursts and the heavy bombers could be seen from miles away.
I moved in gingerly toward the first flight of Mustangs I came upon.
The large letters WZ on the side told me they were from a sister squadron,
the 309th. The leader gave me a short glance, raised his gloved hand to
acknowledge my presence, and went on about his business. I felt like
the lost kitten that had found its mother. But I couldn’t help wondering
what had happened to Johnson. Was that his chute or a German pilot’s.
After I had landed and parked, I walked slowly toward the ops tent
for debriefing, dreading the interrogation and my admission that I had
lost my element leader. I told my story to Lam as completely as I could
while he took notes. Johnson wasn’t back and no one had reported seeing
him. Two of the older heads who had completed their tour in Spitfires
and were waiting to go home seemed interested in the fact that I had
outrun the 109s in level flight. I asked one of them—he was the
squadron’s leading scorer, with six victories—if that had been the wrong
thing to do. He laughed and said, “I guess not.” I didn’t sense any of the
reproach from the rest of the pilots that I had expected. True, I hadn’t
deliberately left Johnson to take a shot or some such thing; still, I did
lose him, and he wasn’t back yet. Some of the older pilots questioned
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his action in dropping tanks and getting sucked into a fight before bomber
rendezvous.
I went outside, sat on a wooden bench, and watched the late afternoon
sky for one more Mustang. After a half hour, Lam came out and asked
me if I wanted a ride back to the housing area. Everyone else had already
gone, so there were just the two of us in the jeep. We rode back in
silence. I felt pretty bad.
Two other squadron pilots beside Johnson failed to return—Trafton
and Hughes. Although no one knew it then, Trafton was wounded, but
he had successfully bailed out and was to return to Italy three months
later. Hughes was dead. He had remarked to Lam before going out to
his airplane, “Isn’t it a beautiful day to get shot down?” Did he have a
premonition, or was it just an offhand remark? Who knows. But he was
right about one thing: It had been a beautiful day.
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SIX DAYS IN JUNE
How Israel Won the 1967 Arab-Israeli War
By Eric Hammel
Distinguished military historian Eric Hammel becomes the first
chronicler of the 1967 Six Day War to unite the story of development of
Israel’s bold brand of military training and planning with a detailed
narrative account of her breathtaking victories in Sinai, Jerusalem, The
West Bank, and the Golan Heights. Unlike all earlier accounts of the
1967 war, Hammel’s sweeping narrative describes how, from the early
1950s, the Israel De-fense Force—Zahal—undertook a relent-less and
often visionary campaign to prepare for the inevitable war of national
survival that, when it came, radically altered the Middle East and has
profoundly influ-enced international politics ever since.
Israel’s brilliant, innovative military think-ers developed extremely
flexible strategies, operational plans, and battlefield tactics aimed at
overcoming several large Arab forces with Zahal’s much smaller army
and air force. Zahal’s innovations proved to be so effective and fundamentally sound that they established the norms of modem military planning and performance that saw the United States and her coalition allies
through the lightning Desert Storm cam-paign of 1991.
Hammel decisively disproves the endur-ing myth that Israel’s stunning 1967 victory was a “miracle” or a “fluke.” He explains how, by
necessity and in secret, a tiny Third--World nation developed a First
World military force that has become the envy of all the nations of the
world.
Hammel is at his proven best when describing the actions of men at
war. Six Days in June seamlessly meshes classic military history with
the human drama of Israel’s finest hour.
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book SIX DAYS
IN JUNE: How Israel Won the 1967 Arab-Israeli War by Eric
Hammel. The book is currently available in a $32.50 trade paperback
edition published by Pacifica Military History. This book is also
available in ebook editions.
THE JORDANIANS ATTACK
WEST JERUSALEM
by Eric Hammel
Copyright © 1992 by Eric Hammel
King Hussein of Jordan ordered his armed forces to open a war they did
not have to fight on the morning of June 5, 1967, as soon as he had
completed his 0930 radio address to the nation. Jordanian 155mm field
pieces located in western Samaria, opposite Israel’s narrow waist, and
in northern Samaria, opposite the Jezreel Valley and Beit Shean, opened
fire at carefully preselected targets as far away as Israel’s principal city,
Tel Aviv. The bulk of the slow, methodi-cal fire fell on Israeli military
installations.
While Israeli attention was riveted on the fall of the artillery shells,
tiny Egyptian commando raiding parties began working their way from
Latrun toward Israel’s international airport at Lod. It appears that the
commandos were acting on orders from General Riadh, in Amman, and
without the direct knowledge or approval of King Hussein or any senior
Jordanian officers.
For the time being, the Israelis knew nothing about the Egyptian
infil-trators and they were willing to forebear the Jordanian shelling in
the belief that it was Hussein’s way of showing other Arab leaders that
he was a brother in “the struggle against Zionism.” No Israeli leader
expected Hussein to plunge his nation into a war. Unfortunately, when
the Israeli guns remained silent, the Jordanians became bolder. At 1000,
a volley of 155mm shells reached north into the Jezreel Valley and fell
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on and around the runway of the Ramat David air base, the IAF’s largest
installation north of Tel Aviv. Even if Zahal had no plans to go to war
with Jordan, it did intend to push the Syrian Army back from the Golan
Heights, and the air support that was to be provided out of Ramat David
was vital to that attack and, indeed, to the defense of northern Israel.
The Israelis will not say what event or events caused them to decide
to go to war against Jordan, but the worst thing the Jordanians did to
Israel on the morning of June 5 was the shelling of Ramat David.
Certainly, the Israelis had been thinking long and hard about a war with
Jordan, but they did not issue their orders nor even complete final troop
commitments until after Ramat David was struck, between 1000 and
1015. It was only then that the 10th “Harel” Armored-Infantry Brigade
was transferred to Central Command from the GHQ Reserve, and
responsibility for northern Samaria was transferred from Central
Command to Northern Command.
The Harel Armored-Infantry Brigade was the only Israeli unit that
even approximated a strategic reserve in central Israel. Its only purpose
up until about 1030 on June 5 was to stand ready to cut off a thrust
toward the Mediterranean by whatever force the Arabs launched out of
northwestern Samaria or the Golan Heights. Until Zahal GHQ confirmed
its attachment to Central Command at 1030, the Harel Armored-Infantry
Brigade had no place in Zahal’s or Central Command’s contingency
plans regarding an Israeli invasion of the West Bank And, realistically,
there could have been no invasion of the West Bank without the Harel
Brigade tanks and halftracks.
Likewise, the Northern Command armored ugdah commanded by
Brig-adier General Elad Peled was oriented entirely toward Syria until
it was alerted at around 1030 on June 5 for a possible thrust to shut off
the Jordanian artillery fire that was being directed at Ramat David It is
unclear if General Peled even had tactical maps of northern Samaria
when the alert was issued.
*
The Jordanians acted first. From all appearances, the Jordanian plan
was improvised, but it did stem from a sort of wish-fulfillment on the
part of the Jordanian monarch. Though Hussein had done little to prepare
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his army for an offensive war against Israel, it is virtually certain that he
did expect to emerge from the war in possession of at least West
Jerusalem. Thus, while little was done elsewhere beyond harassing the
Israelis north and west of Samaria, a real offensive plan was set in motion
inside Jerusalem.
Following several hours of odd outbreaks of small-arms fire along
and around the Green Line—the truce line between Jordanian East
Jerusalem and Israeli West Jerusalem—Jordanian light 2-inch mortars
suddenly came into play at 1115 against several Israeli border outposts
manned by second-line troops from the Jerusalem Infantry Brigade.
When the light mortars opened fire, the Israelis ratcheted up the violence
by firing bazookas (2.76-inch rocket launchers) at Jordanian positions
that had previously answered only with small arms. These escalating
exchanges were typical; they had been flaring up with nauseating
regularity ever since the truce lines had been drawn in 1949. For a change,
however, there were no Israeli citizens to be mown down on the streets;
everyone was indoors or, at least, well back from the truce line.
The mortar, bazooka, and small-arms duels along the Green Line
gained in intensity. Then, at 1130, Jordanian 25-pounder light field guns
opened fire on Kibbutz Ramat Rachel, the Israeli settlement that screened
West Jerusalem from the south. At the same time, a mixed volley of
mortar and artillery rounds fell on Mount Scopus, an Israeli enclave in
the northern part of East Jerusalem. The Israelis responded to the
Jordanian artillery fire with their own artillery, but the fire from the
Jordanian 25-pounder batteries never abated.
*
While the artillery duels opened in and around Jerusalem, news arrived
at Central Command Headquarters that the Royal Jordanian Air Force
was attacking Israeli towns and several Israeli air bases in central Israel
and that retaliatory flights of IAF fighter-bombers were being launched
to take out the two-dozen jet warplanes under King Hussein’s command.
In all, sixteen Jordanian Hawker Hunters attacked Israeli air bases and
villages around Netanya, Kfar Sirkin, and Kfar Saba. The Jordanians
claimed to have de-stroyed four Israeli planes on the ground, but the
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Israelis admit to the loss of only one Noratlas transport. There were no
lives lost.
What really was lost was the Royal Jordanian Air Force. Fourteen
of the sixteen Hunters that took part in the attack returned safely at one
time to either of Jordan’s two air bases, and there the ground crews
began the tedious task of refueling and rearming them. It would be two
hours before the first Hunters could take to the air again, but the Israelis
needed only about ten minutes to deny them the ability to do so.
Two flights of IAF Mirages—just eight planes in all—were pulled
from the rotation against Egypt and their pilots were hurriedly briefed
for strikes against the Jordanian air bases at Amman and Mafraq, the
latter in northeast-ern Jordan. The Mirages arrived over their targets at
1215 and commenced low-level strafing runs against individual aircraft
with their 30mm cannon. In the course of destroying the partially refueled
Hunters, the Mirages also released a number of 1,200-pound concretebusting bombs and thus disabled both runways. The only challenge was
issued by a pair of Hunters that was late in returning from a mission
over Israel. The two brave Jordanian pilots pitched into the Mirages
over Mafraq, and one was shot down immediately. The second Hunter
pilot was extremely good; he survived three firing passes at the
dogfighting Mirages, which were a bit sluggish at low altitude, but then
he and his airplane were blown to bits by a burst of 30mm cannon shells
in the cockpit.
Eighteen of the Royal Jordanian Air Force’s twenty-four Hawkers
Hunt-ers were destroyed in the one raid, and the remaining six were
extensively damaged The only pilot fatalities were the two shot down
over Mafraq. The Mirages over Amman Airport also accounted for two
parked helicopters and three parked light transports, of which one
unfortunately belonged to the British air attaché. In simultaneous action,
a flight of four Mysteres bombed the Royal Jordanian Air Force radar
station at Mount Ajlun and caused extensive damage.
*
At 1330, after two hours of sporadic and inconclusive duels along
Jerusalem’s Green Line, the little war in Jerusalem finally boiled over
The event that finally forced Israel to act on a much grander scale began
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at noon with an order from King Hussein to Brigadier Ata Ali Haza’a,
the commander of the Jerusalem-based King Talal Infantry Brigade The
monarch directed Haza’a to occupy the long, broad ridge in southern
Jerusalem that incorporated Government House, formerly the residence
of the British High Commis-sioner for the League of Nations Mandate
in Palestine and lately the head-quarters of the United Nations Truce
Supervision Organization (UNTSO). The sprawling U.N compound and
the entire ridge upon which it sat presented a commanding view of the
entire southern half of the city. Israelis, who had had little use for the
British and now had little more than contempt for what they saw as
being a pro-Arab United Nations, took great pleasure in calling the hill
by its Biblical name, Jebel Mukaber—the Hill of Evil Counsel
Interestingly, Radio Amman had announced the seizure of Jebel
Mu-kaber at 1030, fully three hours before the Jordanian operation
actually began. The Israelis had taken notice of the announcement, but
the govern-ment had been unwilling to do anything to deflect the
presumed blow in advance. In any case, for Jordanian troops to seize
Jebel Mukaber was really throwing down the gauntlet; it was an act that
would certainly evoke a hostile response from the Israelis. It was also
an act that immediately confused and alarmed the Israeli military
authorities, for the hill was in the south of the city, in the exact opposite
direction of Mount Scopus, which is where the Israelis expected any
Jordanian blow to fall. There were 120 lightly armed Israelis on Mount
Scopus, and many more as close to it as they could get. But there were
only five Israeli soldiers in proximity to Government House. They were
guarding Kibbutz Ramat Rachel, which had been evacuated days earlier.
*
The unit that Hussein specifically ordered Brigadier Haza’a to employ
in the seizure of Government House was a battalion of the Iman Ali
Infantry Brigade that had been brought into East Jerusalem on June 2.
In fact, during his June 3 inspection tour of Jerusalem, the king had
given Haza’a and the battalion commander, Major Badi Awad, direct
orders to reconnoiter Jebel Mukaber and Government House from the
Jordanian side of the truce line. This Major Awad had done, so, when
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the moment of truth was upon him, he was fully prepared to send two of
his three small infantry companies up the hill.
The 150 Jordanian infantrymen climbed the hill by way of a motor
road. They encountered most of the U.N. staff and a number of their
dependents—about 100 souls in all—in a small wooded area just to the
north of the main U.N. headquarters building. The civilians had taken
shelter in the woods because several Jordanian artillery rounds that had
been meant to pass over the hill toward targets in West Jerusalem had
clipped several structures atop the hill.
While a handful of U.N. military officers and civilian officials
com-plained bitterly to Major Awad and other officers about the incursion
into the neutral zone, the Jordanian infantrymen set to digging in along
the western and southern crests of the ridge. Several jeep-mounted
106mm recoilless rifles were driven up from East Jerusalem, and an
artillery forward-observer team began spotting fire against targets that
had hitherto been visible only on maps. The U.N. officials could do
little to stop the Jordanians from occupying the woods and outlying
buildings, but several of them manhandled a Jordanian machine gun out
of Government House itself when the crew tried to set the weapon up in
a second-floor window. The U.N. commander, Norwegian Air Force
General Odd Bull, argued vehemently but to no avail with Major Awad.
In short order, the Jordanian artillery forward observer was directing
fire from a 25-pounder battery against Kibbutz Ramat Rachel, to the
south, and Zahal’s Allenby Barracks, to the west. At the barracks, one
of the Jerusalem Infantry Brigade’s four second-line infantry battalions
was just then mobilizing. The five-man squad at Ramat Rachel was
forced to take cover, and the second-line infantry battalion had to
evacuate the barracks after the battalion commander, a company
commander, and several soldiers were wounded.
As soon as Jebel Mukaber was firmly under his control, Major Awad
ordered his reserve company to advance against Ramat Rachel, and a
platoon was sent forward to occupy the Israeli Ministry of Agriculture
experimental farm in the neutral zone west of Government House. The
five Israeli infan-trymen holding the little kibbutz were allowed by higher
authority to flee, but the Jordanian troops on their way to the experimental
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farm were stopped cold when the farm director’s wife and an elderly
auxiliary policemen fired an ancient Czech light machine gun at them.
The Jordanian troops back-tracked into a treelike bordering the farm
and, before they could muster another attempt, two reinforced companies
from the Jerusalem Infantry Bri-gade’s Infantry Battalion 161 rushed
up the hill to occupy the experimental farm in force The remainder of
Infantry Battalion 161 beat the Jordanian company into Ramat Rachel.
*
All along the truce line, Jordanian soldiers were firming up their positions
while waiting to see what the Israelis were going to do about increasingly
strident provocation’s, particularly the seizure of Jebel Mukaber. Most
of the Jordanian troops and officers did not know very much about what
was going on beyond their little nodes of hostility, but all the news that
was reaching them was good. Radio Amman was reporting the death of
the Israeli Air Force and uncontested penetrations by several Egyptian
divisions into southern and south-central Israel. Across the way, where
Israeli Reservists from the Jerusalem Infantry Brigade were trying to
cope, there was not much more news to be had. Kol Yisrael, the Israeli
national radio station, wasn’t saying anything. However, Jordanians and
Israelis alike were thinking, “Now is the time; now is the time to strike.
Now is the time to correct the mistakes of 1948.”
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THE FIRST HELLCAT ACE
By Cdr Hamilton McWhorter, III, USN (Ret) with Jay A. Stout
Though he would have objected to being called such, Hamilton
McWhorter III’s service to family and country make him a standout
among America’s Greatest Generation. A Georgia native whose family
roots date from that region’s settlement during the 1700s, Mac
McWhorter was a naval aviation cadet undergoing training when Pearl
Harbor was attacked on December 7, 1941.
After earning his Wings of Gold in early 1942, Ensign McWhorter
was trained as a fighter pilot in the robust but technologically outmoded
F4F Wildcat. Initially assigned to VF-9—a fiercely spirited and hardplaying fighter squadron—he saw first combat in November 1942 against
Vichy French forces in North Africa.
After returning to the United States, VF-9 became the first unit to
convert to the new Grumman F6F Hellcat fighter—the fighter the U.S.
Navy would use to crush Japanese air power during the long offensive
from the Southwest Pacific to the shores of Japan.
From mid 1943, Hamilton McWhorter was constantly engaged in
the unforgiving and deadly aerial warfare that characterized the battles
against Imperial Japan. His fifth aerial victory, in November 1943 off
Tarawa Atoll, made him the first ace in the Hellcat, and seven subsequent victories ensured his place in the annals of air-to-air combat.
McWhorter’s combat service, from the beginning of the war to the last
campaign off the shores of Okinawa, makes his story a must-read for
the serious student of the Pacific air war.
Hamilton McWhorter III retired from the Navy as a commander in
1969. He passed away in 2008.
A Marine F/A-18 pilot from 1981 to early 2000, Lieutenant Colonel
Jay A. Stout is a combat veteran with over 4,600 flight hours. He has
also authored Hornets over Kuwait, which recounts his own experiences
during the Gulf War.
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What the experts are saying about The First Hellcat Ace
“Mac McWhorter not only survived three carrier deployments in World
War II, he earned a reputation as one of the Navy’s deadliest fighter
pilots. His memoir captures the attitude of his generation—the heroism
and the sacrifice, and the return to a loving famiy. It was an era never to
return again.” ——Barrett Tillman, author of Hellcat: The F6F in World
War II
“Mac McWhorter became a noted Navy fighter ace during World War
II, his three carrier deployments characterized by intense combat, the
loss of numerous squadron mates, and the pain of separation from his
wife and family. His memoir is not the stuff of legends or glamour so
often associated with fighter pilots, but a sensitive look at the realities
faced by carrier aviators who go in harm’s way.” ——Bruce Gamble,
author of Black Sheep One: The Life of Gregory “Pappy” Boyington
“Not only a thrilling account of some of the great air battles of the Pacific
war, Hamilton McWhorter’s book provides a window through which
we can view a generation of young men at war, impressed by their
camaraderie and spirit and humbled by the hardships and fears they
overcame.” ——M. Hill Goodspeed, historian at the U.S. Navy Aviation
Museum
“Today the U.S. Navy’s World War II fighter pilots remain less well
known than their Army Air Forces counterparts. One reason is that they
have left far fewer memoirs, a great loss, because nothing can replace
authentic descriptions of fighter combat by those who actually did it.
Fighter ace Hamilton “One Slug” McWhorter, a member of elite Fighting
Squadron 9, flew nearly the whole war, first over Northwest Africa,
then in the 1943–44 Central Pacific offensives, and finally in the grim
assaults against Iwo Jima and Okinawa, and in the skies over the Japanese
homeland. Vividly written, The First Hellcat Ace is an important
contribution not only for the Pacific but the air war in general.” ——
John Lundstrom, author of The First Team: Pacific Naval Air Combat
from Pearl Harbor to Midway
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book The First
Hellcat Ace by Cdr Hamilton McWhorter III with Jay A. Stout. The
book is currently available in a $24.95 trade paperback edition
published by Pacifica Military History. It is also available in ebook
editions.
NAVY FIGHTERS OVER
NORTH AFRICA
By Hamilton McWhorter III with Jay A. Stout
Copyright 1997 © by Hamilton McWhorter III and Jay A. Stout
Flight quarters was scheduled for 0500, November 8, 1942, so I got up
at 0330 in order to have time to shower, shave, and get breakfast. The
ship’s doctor had suggested that all hands take a good shower that
morning to cut down the chances of infection if we were wounded. I
really scrubbed down—as much as I could in a shipboard shower. We
weren’t allowed the luxury of standing in a hot shower because fresh
water was always in short supply. The drill was to wet down, turn the
shower off, lather up, then turn the shower back on only long enough to
rinse off.
After putting on a clean khaki uniform and black necktie (we had to
wear neckties at this point in the war—even in combat!), I went down
to the wardroom and found that the galley staff had prepared a superb
breakfast of ham, eggs, sausage, waffles, pancakes, and more. This was
much more extravagant than our usual fare. Just about the time I sat
down to eat, some smart-ass came in and remarked that the scene
reminded him of the last meal for the condemned.
After breakfast I went to our ready room, just about amidships on
the gallery deck, right beneath the flight deck. I wanted to get there
before general quarters was sounded; otherwise all the hatches would
be battened down, making movement around the ship rather difficult.
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Although we had done most of our briefings the day before, Mac
Wordell, one of VF-41’s senior pilots, went over all the details once
again. Our mission was not complicated—a combat air patrol (CAP)
over the invasion forces at Fedala. We were to keep Vichy airplanes
away. During the briefing I reviewed my chartboard to make sure that I
had all the information I needed—ship’s position, patrol position, radio
frequencies, and so on.
Information on the current situation ashore was very sketchy. There
was much confusion about the progress of the landings, which had begun
a few hours before, and, unbelievably, it was still not known whether or
not the French would oppose the invasion.
After the briefing we all sat in the ready room putting on a brave
front and making inane small talk. Nevertheless, nearly every one of us
sneaked away to the head more than once to take a nervous pee.
As scheduled, VF-9 launched at 0610, and VF-41 shortly thereafter.
I listened as they rumbled down the flight deck just above our heads,
envious that they were getting airborne first. It was much better to be
flying than sitting around and sweating it out. It wasn’t until they were
en route to their targets, at about 0640, that VF-9 and VF-41 were given
the signal “Play Ball.” This meant that the French had not laid down
their arms and that the invasion force was being opposed. Hearing this,
the knots in our stomachs cinched a little tighter.
After the first two launches were complete, the deck was respotted
with new airplanes, and we were given our airplane assignments. The
planes were assigned to the pilots in each division in the same order in
which they were spotted, or parked, on the flight deck. This kept the
divisions together and helped make the rendezvous after takeoff much
easier.
At about 0700 we were ordered to man our planes. I strapped on my
heavy .45-caliber pistol, put on my cloth helmet (with earphones
incorporated into the sides), and donned my Mae West life jacket. Last,
I grabbed my chartboard and filed out of the ready room with the rest of
the pilots.
*
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Up on the flight deck I scanned the pack of parked airplanes as I
tried to find the one assigned to me. They were painted a specular gray
color. The red dots in the center of the star in the national insignia had
been removed months earlier; it was feared that they might be confused
with the red “meatball” of the Japanese national insignia.
I spotted my airplane near the rear of the pack and walked across the
wooden flight deck, around and under other airplanes, to get to it. After
greeting my plane captain and making a walk-around inspection of the
plane with him, I climbed onto the left wing and stepped down into the
cockpit. I settled into the seat, and the plane captain helped me with my
parachute harness and seat belt; then he climbed back down to check
the aircraft one more time. Almost without conscious effort—even after
two weeks without flying—my practiced hands moved around the
cockpit preparing the Wildcat for engine start. Prestart checks complete,
I signaled the plane captain that I was ready. Other fighters in front of
me had started their engines already, and I had my goggles down against
their propwash. The heavy thrum on the flight deck became louder and
louder as engines on more airplanes came to life. Checking as best I
could that my propeller arc was clear, I reached down, primed the engine,
turned the ignition switch on, and hit the starter switch.
Once the engine started I gave the cockpit instrumentation a quick
look to ensure that everything was hot, cool, lubricated, and pressurized
in all the right places. Looking forward, I could see the first airplanes of
the launch taxiing forward for takeoff. It was to be an all-fighter launch;
the SBD Dauntless dive-bombers had launched with the first strike. Our
mission was combat air patrol. We were to ensure that no enemy aircraft
harassed any portion of the invasion fleet or the landing itself.
Finally, at about thirty-second intervals, each of the airplanes in front
of me taxied into position, ran up their engines, released their brakes,
and rolled down the flight deck into the wind. Even without a catapultassisted launch—the Ranger had only one catapult anyway—the fighters
were airborne well before running out of deck space.
At last it was my turn. I moved the throttle forward and let my aircraft
slowly roll ahead while I followed the plane captain’s hand signals.
Finally I reached the take-off point. Here I shifted my attention to the
flight deck officer. On his signal—the rapid rotation of a small flag in
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his upraised right hand—I stood on the brakes and pushed the throttle
all the way forward with my left hand. At full power, the airplane vibrated
madly and strained to break free and race down the deck. I checked the
cockpit instrumentation again, double-checked my flap and propeller
pitch settings, and saluted the waiting flight deck officer. With a flourish
he lowered his right arm and pointed down the deck. Immediately I
released the brakes and worked the rudder to keep the fighter pointed
down the deck. A few seconds later I felt the airplane grow lighter as it
reached flying speed. I eased the stick back with my right hand and was
airborne before the last of the flight deck disappeared beneath me.
Once aloft, I scanned the sky around me while I cranked the landing
gear up by hand. This was a tiresome effort that required twenty-seven
revolutions. It could be dangerous too. If a pilot lost his grip, the handle
would spin wildly in the opposite direction with bone-breaking force as
gravity pulled the landing gear back to the down position. There were
plenty of Wildcat pilots with broken wrists.
Of course there was much to do besides retract the landing gear. I
readjusted the prop pitch and fine-tuned the fuel mixture; at the same
time I monitored my engine and flight instruments and closed formation
with the rest of the flight. Sixteen aircraft had gotten airborne and were
joining as two flights of eight, one a couple hundred feet behind and
slightly offset from the other.
*
The division, four airplanes, was the standard Navy unit for aerial
combat; it was composed of two sections of two aircraft each. The two
sections flew together in a formation called the “Finger Four.” It was a
formation that was adopted by the British earlier in the war and closely
resembled the extended fingertips of a hand. The middle fingertip was
the division leader, or the number-one airplane, whereas the division
leader’s wingman, the number-two airplane, was represented by the
forefinger. The ring fingertip was the second section leader, or numberthree airplane, and the little fingertip was his wingman, the numberfour airplane. This formation was flexible and allowed the division leader
to maneuver fairly aggressively without worrying about the other pilots
in the formation flying into him or each other.
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*
With everyone in sight, I joined Danny O’Neil’s division as section
leader of the last section of a flight of eight led by Jake Onstott. A short
time later, Jim Feasley slid into position on my right wing. Our division
flew just a bit behind and offset from Jake’s, in order to give him room
to maneuver his own division. In turn, Onstott kept our two combined
divisions behind and offset from Mac Wordell’s eight-ship flight.
On my wing, Feasley was flying the last airplane in the formation.
We were still junior ensigns and had been for a while. As such, we had
gotten used to being “tail-end-charlies.”
Once joined, our two flights of eight proceeded southeast to take
position over the invasion beachhead just northeast of Casablanca, near
the town of Fedala. Along the way we charged and test-fired our guns.
Charging the guns in the Wildcat was tedious and time-consuming. Each
of the six guns had to be charged by pulling a handle that was attached
to a cable that ran out to the gun. Six separate, hard yanks in all.
When we arrived on station, we set up a loose, left-hand orbit at
about 10,000 feet, maintaining the same formation that we had used en
route. Each pilot divided his attention between flying in position and
scanning the sky for enemy aircraft.
Nothing happened. By this time, most of the first strike had made its
way back to the fleet. Occasionally we spotted them straggling back in
small groups or pairs or sometimes singly. It was obvious from their
broken formations and the occasional excited radio call that they had
encountered stiff resistance.
Below us, we watched small ships and landing craft shuttling back
and forth between the beach and larger ships offshore. They reminded
me of water bugs; they busily scuttled here and there with no purpose
that was obvious from my high perch. Further away, on the beach, I
could see none of the fighting that I presumed was taking place. Still,
our CAP encountered none of the enemy.
Finally, after about forty-five minutes on station above the beachhead,
at 0825, the radio crackled with new information. There were warships
underway out of the harbor at Casablanca. Without hesitating, Wordell
made a call over the radio and spun us around toward the harbor.
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Casablanca was only about twelve miles to the southeast, and so, just a
short time later, we were able to pick out the wakes of three French
destroyers racing out of the harbor and running north along the coastline
toward the invasion force at Fedala. They were steaming in a single-file
formation.
As we approached the three enemy ships head-on, Wordell took a
cut to starboard and set us up for an attack against the lead destroyer’s
port side. Just before he started his dive, he rocked his wings—the signal
for an attack—and pushed over for a strafing run on the lead destroyer.
At the same time he called out over the radio, “Okay, gang, this is it!”
The destroyer crews had seen us by this time and started to put up a
heavy hail of antiaircraft fire. Accurate antiaircraft fire. About halfway
down in its dive, Wordell’s aircraft was hit and began to smoke.
“I’m hit, I’m hit—I’m going down,” he called out excitedly.
I remember thinking that this wasn’t a very good start. Our lead
airplane on our first combat attack had just been badly hit and was trailing
a stream of smoke and fire. To say that I was frightened might not be
entirely accurate, but the pucker factor was certainly up there. I watched
Mac guide his aircraft toward the beach as the rest of our flight continued
the attack. His aircraft was smoking badly—the fire seemed to have
gone out—and he was still making excited calls over the radio. Out of
reflex or fear or whatever, he squeezed his trigger, and the smoke from
his six machine guns added to the smoke coming out of his plane. The
last I saw of him before I started my own dive, he was just beginning to
belly into a field behind the beach.
After fourteen planes dove to attack, it was finally my turn. I put my
wits in place, took a quick look over my shoulder at Jim Feasley, pushed
the throttle up, and rolled left, over into a dive. I was diving on the port
beam of the lead ship at about a forty-five-degree angle. The noise of
the airstream rushing over my airplane increased dramatically as my
airspeed accelerated. Hunched behind my gun sight—a glass reflector
with an illuminated center pipper surrounded by concentric rings—and
flying through the torrent of antiaircraft fire, I watched the enemy ship
grow larger as I waited to come into range. At the same time I could see
other Wildcats in various phases of attack—diving, firing, pulling out.
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Hurtling ever closer, I could see the upturned faces of the French sailors
from where they crouched in the ship’s gun tubs, blasting salvos of
antiaircraft fire up at me.
I waited forever for the range to close. Finally, at about three thousand
feet, I took a tiny bit of lead and opened fire on the ship’s bridge. The
roar of the six guns, added to the already deafening racket from the
engine and the airstream, was almost mind-numbing. Fascinated, I
watched the tracers from my guns arc toward the ship, seemingly in
slow motion. Then, in an explosion of sparkling flashes, my bullets found
their mark on the bridge of the destroyer. At the same time I could see
glass from the windows in the bridge rain on the deck and the sparkling,
explosive flashes of my incendiary rounds. In total, each Wildcat carried
1,440 rounds in the ratio of five armor-piercing to three incendiary to
two tracer rounds. That meant that for every flash I saw—too many to
count—four other rounds of ammunition smashed into the target. The
effect of our gunfire was dramatic. Already the lead ship was smoking.
As I pulled out of the dive, my face sagged under the increased gravity
forces of the pullout. Leveling out at high speed just over the top of the
bridge, I could see sailors dashing around, doing whatever sailors do
when their ship is under attack.
Under fire from the opposite side of the ship, I double-checked the
throttle against the stop. I looked back over my shoulder, where I could
see the muzzle flashes from the antiaircraft guns, and I consciously willed
my aircraft to climb faster. Unscathed and back at altitude again, I
wheeled around to my left and set up for another attack. By now our
flight had more or less separated into a bunch of single airplanes pressing
attacks against the French ships and being careful to avoid colliding
with each other.
Altogether, we made several more runs apiece against all three of
the destroyers. On each run, I was amazed at the effects of my guns
against the thin-skinned ships. And the other pilots experienced the same
success. The decks and superstructures of the French ships were riddled
with holes, and soon no one was moving about topside. The antiaircraft
fire dropped off dramatically as well. By the time we ran low on fuel
and ammunition and began to reform our flight for the trip back to the
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Ranger, the enemy ships were smoking—flames visible in places—and
were turning toward the beach. It was with a good deal of satisfaction
later in the day that we learned that they had not reached the invasion
beach.
After regrouping and heading back toward the Ranger, we found
that Mac Wordell was our flight’s only loss. With a little reshuffling,
Jake Onstott took the lead and brought the group overhead the fleet. A
few minutes later we began our approaches and landed aboard ship
without incident.
Once I was clear of the arresting wires the deck crew folded my
Wildcat’s wings and I was directed to a parking spot, where a plane
captain put chocks beneath the wheels while I shut the engine down.
The propeller had barely stopped turning before I scrambled out of the
cockpit with my flight gear and went below decks with the rest of the
flight. There was nonstop chatter as everyone tried to tell his story to
everyone else, who, of course, was only interested in his own story.
Hands became airplanes that swept arcs through the ready room—right
hands chasing left, or making strafing runs against the duty desk or
whatever other object was nearby. We were excited and a bit proud that
we had turned the French ships away from the beachhead.
*
We didn’t have much time to relive the events as we were soon
corralled and briefed for another mission. As soon as our fighters were
refueled and rearmed we were back upstairs manning them.
At 1145, we repeated the launch sequence from the early morning.
With Jack Raby in the lead of a flight of twelve Wildcats, we were
airborne again heading toward the invasion area. Somehow, in the
confusion of the day, I had ended up back with VF-9.
It wasn’t long before the skipper spotted a target. Raising a plume
of dust as it raced along one of the coastal roads was a small fuel truck.
Raby was on it in an instant. From a fast, shallow dive he opened up
with all six guns and sprayed the speeding truck. Almost instantaneously
it caught fire and ground to a halt.
What I saw next was one of those images—so vivid and horrible—
that etched a permanent place in my memory: The driver had been
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transformed into a human torch. I cringed when I saw him fall out of the
truck cab and roll on the ground, waving and slapping at himself as he
tried to put out the flames. Even had he extinguished the flames, there
was no way he could have survived the burns.
We flew on. A short time later we were given coordinates for a target
described as a Vichy command post. It was housed in a big, white,
cement-block building set up on a hill. As we dove in to attack, guns
that were dug in around the building put up torrents of antiaircraft fire.
It was intense, but not nearly so thick as what the destroyers had put up
earlier that day.
From our end, the attack was somewhat frustrating. We could see
flashes from our .50-caliber rounds hitting the building, but they had
little effect on the masonry structure. We certainly couldn’t make it burn.
It wasn’t long before I came to the conclusion that our return on this
investment wasn’t worth it. I saw rounds coming up at me during one of
my strafing runs, then heard a loud crack, and felt a gush of air pour into
the cockpit.
A small-caliber antiaircraft round had hit the left front quarter-panel
of my windscreen, come through the cockpit, missed my face by only
inches, and gone right through the rear of the canopy. I could see bits of
Plexiglas on the outside of my goggles, trapped there by the hurricaneforce wind that was rushing through the cockpit. I really wasn’t much
interested in strafing that building anymore.
Finally, like a pack of blooded and panting dogs that have lost interest
in a treed animal, we rejoined and circled the command post from a
distance. It didn’t look much different than it had before we made our
attack. We were low on ammunition; it was time to head home. We
climbed to altitude and started back, a bit disappointed that our efforts
hadn’t yielded more spectacular results,
There was trouble waiting for us when we reached the Ranger at
1425, more than two and a half hours after we had launched. Our lack of
carrier landing practice during the last few weeks finally caught up with
us. The nature of combat being what it is, the launch and recovery cycles
had gone askew. Our landing skills had atrophied, and recovering pilots
were being given more wave-offs than normal. Consequently, the
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recovery cycle was running behind and I was sent, along with three
others, to the nearby escort carrier Suwannee. Though the Ranger was
small relative to the other fleet carriers, the Suwannee seemed absolutely
tiny. Fortunately, with the pressure on and despite the lack of practice,
our flight recovered aboard the small ship without incident.
Of course, one of the many disadvantages associated with operating
aboard a carrier is that there is only one place to take off and land.
Unlike a land base, a carrier gives you no option to take off on a different
runway or in a different direction. Until the Ranger’s deck was cleared
and ready to recover us, we weren’t going to be able to get back aboard
to refit and rearm. The Suwannee, meanwhile, was busy with her own
airplanes. Finally, by the time our Wildcats were refueled, the Ranger’s
deck was clear and able to recover us.
Back aboard the Ranger and still charged with excitement, I was
ready to go out again, but the last missions had already been sent; I was
done flying for the day. I made my way down to the squadron spaces,
hung my flying gear on a peg, and stepped into the ready room, where
most of the pilots who weren’t flying had already gathered. The mood
was mixed. There was a great deal of excitement, as we had scored
some good successes, most notably against targets on the ground. Jack
Raby had scored the squadron’s first aerial victory that morning over an
aircraft he identified as a twin-engine French LeO 451. Later, after the
French said that none of their planes had been in that area, it was believed
that this airplane had most likely been one of a few British Hudson
aircraft lost on antisubmarine patrol. The two airplanes looked similar,
and the roundel markings of the French and British were quite alike.
The confusion of first combat and the split-second nature of air combat
contributed to this tragic mistake. Raby wasn’t the first to make this
kind of error, nor would he be the last.
*
If there was a sense of excitement over our successes, there was
also the realization that we had lost some dear friends. For good. Tom
“Willy” Wilhoite was one who was gone. Willy was from Kentucky and
was one of my good friends. He looked like he had just come off the
farm, and he always had a smile for everyone. Just a happy, friendly
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young man. I had known him since the early days of my enlistment in
Atlanta. Born only four days apart, we had gone almost lockstep through
training together, had reported to VF-9 at the same time, and become
roommates. On his second mission that day he had been flying on Hugh
Winters’s wing on a strike against the airdrome at Port Lyautey. After
strafing and destroying a Dewoitine fighter, Willy got caught by French
antiaircraft gunners. He called out over the radio, “They got me, Pedro”
(Winters’s nickname), and a moment later he crashed about a mile from
the airdrome.
Willy was posthumously awarded the Silver Star. The citation noted
his “conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity” during the strikes that day,
as well as his “superb airmanship and tenacious devotion to duty” for
the manner in which he pressed his attacks.
Mac Wordell was still missing as well, from our earlier attack on the
Vichy destroyers. Someone had seen his airplane belly-land, so there
was hope that he had survived.
Everyone dealt with these losses in his own way. For many of us,
myself included, I don’t think it quite hit home that our friends were
really gone forever. Consciously we knew that they were dead, but it
would be a while before we would get used to not seeing them up on the
flight deck, or lounging in the wardroom or the ready room. Outwardly,
few of us showed any emotion, but inwardly all of us grieved in our
own fashion. I’m certain that there were quite a few melancholy pilots
that night—thinking and staring wide-eyed into the dark. Like most of
the other pilots, I put the deaths of my squadronmates aside during the
day. They were something to be dealt with later, when there was time.
This wasn’t a cold or heartless reaction. It was necessary. Letting
grief take the focus of our attention would have been dangerous. I
mourned our lost friends. All of us did, and we still do.
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THE JOLLY ROGERS
The Story of Tom Blackburn and Navy Fighting Squadron VF-17
By Tom Blackburn with Eric Hammel
Introduction by Vice Admiral James Stockdale, USN (Ret.)
The Jolly Rogers is the true story of one of the U.S. Navy’s foremost
World War II fighter squadrons, VF-17, and its charismatic commander,
fighter ace Tom Blackburn. In his action-packed war memoir and unit
history, Blackburn describes VF-17’s intense, winning campaign against
the Japanese over the northern Solomon Islands and Rabaul in late 1943
and early 1944.
Beginning with his own experiences as a trainer of fighter pilots
early in World War II and his leadership of a small carrier-based fighter
squadron supporting the invasion of North Africa, Blackburn goes on to
provide a rich, detailed account of how he shaped a crew of over-eager
hotshots into one of the highest scoring fighter squadrons of World War
II. In only seventy-six days of combat, Tom Blackburn’s Jolly Rogers
knocked down a record 154 enemy warplanes, and Blackburn himself
emerged as one of VF-17’s leading aces with eleven kills to his credit.
Boisterous at times, and sober at others, Blackburn explains the
methods he used and example he set to shape and wield VF-17 before
and during its South Pacific combat tour. Not least of the challenges
facing Blackburn and VF-17 was taming the hot new Vought F4U Corsair fighter. Originally slated to serve aboard a fleet aircraft carrier, VF17 was ultimately transferred to land-based duty when the Corsair proved
too hot to handle during carrier-deck landings. Though the Corsair’s
teething problems were worked out by others—it eventually became a
superb carrier-based fighter-bomber—it was Blackburn and his Jolly
Rogers who proved the full potential of the Corsair as a killer of enemy
airplanes.
Both a war memoir and a caring tribute to the aggressive, holdnothing-back young men he trained and led in combat, Blackburn’s story
is an epic in World War II history annals.
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Critical Acclaim for The Jolly Rogers
Publishers Weekly says: “Blackburn was an exceptionally talented,
resourceful, inspiring leader who imparted to his men a fierce warrior
ethic . . . especially noteworthy is the author’s straightforward description
of the methods he used organizing, training, leading his pilots in combat
and developing air tactics.”
The Shipmate says: “Tom Blackburn [was] exceptional, and so is his
book.”
The Hook says: “Tom Blackburn [was] one of the most successful fighter
squadron commanders the U.S. Navy ever produced . . . not only a
cracking good story, but a valuable primer on dealing with the rugged
individualists who populate naval aviation, Highly recommended.”
The San Diego Union says: “[This] thrilling saga focuses on unsung
heroes.”
Stars and Stripes says: “In a book generously laced with tales of air
combat, Blackburn talks of the days spent building VF-17 into an outfit
with its own identity and then leading his men into combat . . . “
The Naval Institute Proceedings says: “Excellent . . . a well-rounded,
coherent story that focuses on intense combat . . . As a professional’s
account of his squadron’s . . . war, Blackburn’s has no peer.”
Kirkus Reviews says: “A macho, like-it-was memoir . . . a gritty, actionpacked slice of WWII life.”
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book The Jolly
Rogers: The Story of Tom Blackburn and Navy Fighting Squadron
VF-17 by Tom Blackburn with Eric Hammel. The book is currently
available in a $27.50 trade paperback edition published by Pacifica
Military History. It is also available in ebook editions.
COMMAND
by Tom Blackburn with Eric Hammel
Copyright 1997 © by James Blackburn and Eric Hammel
John Thomas Blackburn, the son and brother of professional Navy
officers, graduated from Annapolis in 1933, grudgingly served his
obligatory two years in the surface fleet, and, at the first
opportunity,volunteered for flight training. He was a fighter pilot all
the way—by choice and temperament.
When war broke out, Lieutenant Blackburn was teaching tactics to
novice fighter pilots at the Navy’s new fighter-training center at OpaLocka, Florida. He asked to be returned to a carrier squadron, was
refused, but eventually wangled orders to form and command Carrier
Escort Fighter Squadron (VGF) 29, and he led it during the first day of
the invasion of North Africa (during which he was forced to ditch after
a radio failure left him far from the fleet without fuel). On returning to
the United States, Lieutenant Commander Blackburn was ordered to
form and command VF-17, the Navy’s first Vought F4U Corsair
squadron, for duty aboard the new fleet carrier Bunker Hill. The Corsair
needed to be tamed for carrier duty, and Blackburn and his crew of
youngsters did that, but the Hellcat was coming on strong and it
was decided to put VF-17 ashore in the Solomons to avoid the hassle
of keeping the Corsairs maintained from a supply line otherwise
dedicated to Grumman F6F Hellcats.
VF-17’s first tour was in mid and late 1944, out of one of Munda’s
satellite fields. In covering the Torokina landings and associated
operations, Tommy Blackburn destroyed four Japanese aircraft,
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including three fighters. Even more important, his command hit the
victory columns in a big way. After a break in Australia, VF-17 was
reassigned to one of the new Bougainville fighter strips to cover Rabaulbound bombers. Thereafter, VF-17 racked up kills with chilling
regularity, and the innovative
Blackburn oversaw the development of quite brilliant new fighter
tactics. By January 31, his own score stood at seven, all fighters but
one. VF-17 and Tommy Blackburn were riding high with nearly 150
aerial victories at the expense of just nine of its number lost.
*
I led off twenty of our Corsairs on February 4. Once again, our charges
were B-24s, this time bound for Tobera. I had a newly arrived lieutenant
on my wing, a solid-seeming senior pilot I wanted to check out before
moving him up to lead a section, or even a division.
Only twenty Zeros and ten Tonys appeared to challenge us. On the
approach, however, Ens Perce Divenny, who had joined us in Espiritu
but who already had two kills under his belt, made a really dumb mistake.
Instead of opening the valve that released C02 into the Corsair’s wingpurging system, he opened the adjacent valve, which actuated his
emergency landing-gear system. Once down by this means, there was
no way to get the wheels back up while in flight. We were by then too
close to the target to allow Perce to abort, so, as soon as I saw the reason
why he was dropping back, I radioed to tell him to tuck in beneath the
heavy bombers. If Perce understood and did exactly what he was told—
and stayed put—he would have it made; the Zekes would never be able
to get at him.
We were retiring from the bomb-drop point when, to my utter horror,
I saw Divenny’s Corsair slowly dropping behind the B-24s. We could
never figure out what happened; Perce was a cool hand, so the only
theory that held was that his Hog suffered some sort of engine-power
loss. In any case, by this time, the Zeros were nip-ping at our flanks,
looking for an opening so they could get at the Liberators or bounce
exposed fighters. Our job was to protect the B-24s, and we all had our
hands full doing that, so I made the brutal decision to withhold cover
for Divenny. Naturally, the Zeros—at least eight of them—pounce on
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Perce. As they started in, Earl May broke from his position in the bomber
cover and led his wingman, Beads Popp, to the rescue. The two got to
Divenny’s lagging fighter, and they did get their talons into one of the
Zekes. Earl got credit for an assist and Beads got full credit for the kill.
However, the rest of the Zeros bore down on them and May and Popp
had to dive to safety. A Zeke came down on Perce’s tail and hammered
him into a fatal dive.
As the retiring bombers were clearing the coast, six Zekes hit the
formation from 500 feet above the low-cover flight. Attacking from the
rear, these Zekes put in a series of aggressive high-side runs. The rear
division, under Lt(jg) Paul Cordray, turned back to take on the Zekes,
and the Zekes broke contact. However, when Paul turned again to rejoin
the bombers, two Zekes slipped in and set up a firing pass at the rear
element, Lt(jg) Hal Jackson followed by Lt(jg) Don Malone. Jackson
was well behind Cordray and his wingman, and Malone was lagging
even farther behind Jackson.
Cordray gave a frantic “Close up” zooming signal, and Jackson
promptly moved in. Malone, who had a long history of lagging in
formation, did not respond to the unmistakable series of short dives and
zooms, nor even to “Don! Don! Close up! Close up,” which Paul
frantically broadcast by radio. When the Zekes pulled up at the conclusion
of their single firing run, Malone’s Corsair was burning and falling away.
Attracted by Cordray’s vain warning, several of us saw Don’s chute
blossom. We hoped he would get down safely, but we had to leave. No
one ever saw Don again.
*
As soon as we landed, I confronted Earl May at the ready room and let
him have it with my fury. I had been literally sick to my stomach when
I saw Divenny going down, but I had made the painful decision to carry
out our responsibility to defend the bomb-ers. I had determined that we
could not do that and cover Divenny, too. It was, in my mind, a tough
fact of life that Perce had been lost because he had been unable to stay
under the heavy bombers. The only thing that kept me from grounding
Earl was the lucky fact that no enemy fighters had attacked through the
hole his departure had left in our formation.
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“Get this straight, Earl. Nobody has ever questioned your cour-age.
You don’t have to prove yourself like some show-off school-boy. You
had no goddamn business breaking out of your cover position with Beads
to take on all those Japs. For what? Sure, you and Beads flamed one, but
you damn sure didn’t help Divenny. You were lucky as hell you and
Beads didn’t get it, too. You know that if the enemy hadn’t muffed their
chance they’d have had three easy kills instead of just one. Worse than
that, you exposed the rest of us and the bombers. Our job is to get those
klunkers in and out in one piece. I’m proud that we haven’t lost one yet.
They depend on us. This is a team operation. There’s no place for some
wild-ass who shoves off to be the heroic White Knight riding to the
rescue. I will not tolerate this kind of shit. Is that clear?”
Earl was angry with me—his body language said as much—but he
was wrong and I was right, and he knew it. I got a sheepish, “I understand,
Skipper.”
“If you weren’t such a good man who’s always done a top job before,
I’d throw your ass out. As it is, you’re no longer a division leader. You’ll
fly wing, where I can keep my eye on you.”
I was so obviously angry for the rest of the day that no one got
within 10 feet of me if he could help it.
My overall reaction and anger over the two losses might seem
unreasonable, but both were firmly grounded in my lifelong per-ception
of how duty must come before my personal feelings for my subordinates,
strong as they were. All hands—even late arrivals like Perce Divenny—
knew that our responsibility was to guard the bombers at all costs.
In part, however, the display of anger was a mask for my pro-found
grief. The two unnecessary losses were almost more than I could bear. I
privately judged myself at least a little culpable in both cases.
With respect to Perce’s fatal lapse, I allowed the wing-purging and
emergency landing-gear CO2 bottles to remain side by side even though
I easily could have gotten Vought or even our own mechanics to relocate
one safely away from the other. The potential for error was so obvious!
Amazingly, Divenny’s gaffe had been the first of its sort in hundreds of
combat sorties.
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Malone’s loss was a little different, and I bore more direct
re-sponsibility. All hands knew that Don had a marked propensity to
lag. Maybe I should have ridden him harder, or moved him forward
from the definitely vulnerable tail-end slot. We knew that the Imperial
pilots, like us, were quick to spot and nail a laggard.
Worst of all was my conviction that I had seen both situations
developing. I had certainly seen Divenny fall behind, and I am sure I
had seen Malone do so earlier in the mission. In Divenny’s case, I could
have taken the chance and gone back or sent help, but I deliberately
chose not to. In Malone’s, Cordray could have gone to help, but Paul
knew—and accepted—my thinking, so he did not dangerously expose
his division and put others at risk, as May had done.
These were two more painful examples of the loneliness of
com-mand. I found, after a long search through my soul, that I would
not have acted differently in either case. But I had contributed to Malone’s
death by being too lenient; I should have grounded him because of his
inability to correct a long-apparent problem. It was a bomb that had
ticked away—that I had heard ticking—until it blew up in Don’s face.
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THE ROAD TO BIG WEEK
The Struggle for Daylight Air Supremacy Over Western Europe
July 1942–February 1944
By Eric Hammel
The Road to Big Week begins with a thorough examination of American
development of a strategic bombing doctrine from its earliest conception
in the years after World War I. Balancing the demands of the ground
army’s desire and need for air support and the visionary outlook of such
early Air Corps leaders as General Billy Mitchell with the cash-strapped
circumtances of the Great Depression and the limitations imposed by
the Congressional peace lobbies, the Air Corps was able to deliver a
fully formed doctrine that could not at first be supported by adequate
aircraft nor even a public acknowlegenent that the drive to perfect
strategic bombing was even on. Before the doctrine or a fully funtional
heavy strategic bomber were quite perfected, the United States was drawn
into World War II. Facing numerous obstacles unperceived during
peacetime, not the least being simple bad weather, the early American
efforts to mount a strategic bombing campaign in northern Europe nearly
failed in the face of unsustainable casualties and ineffective strategic
direction. Only the belated modernization of escort-fighter policy saved
the strategic bombing force from failure and, indeed, formed the
foundation upon which the strategic bombing campaign ultimately
reached maturity and achieved success.
In this exciting and complete accounting of the transition from idea
to near failure to ultimate success, distinguished military historian Eric
Hammel sets out all the dots, then connects them in a conversational
style approachable by all readers.
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What the Experts Are Saying About The Road to Big Week
Eric Hammel convincingly demonstrates that the road to “Big Week” in
February 1944 occupied more than twenty years. With a passion for
objectivity and an eye for telling detail, he describes the U.S. Army Air
Forces’ evolution of the self-defending bomber as well as Nazi
Germany’s efforts to preserve and patch “the roof” over the Third Reich.
Though the European war lasted another fifteen months, Hammel shows
that by the end of Big Week there was no reversing the traffic on that
sanguinary path. ——Barrett Tillman, author of Clash of the Carriers
Eric Hammel has done it again, with a lucid portrayal of the growth of
American bomber theory from the 1918 Armistice to the crucial days
over Germany when the Eighth Air Force broke the Luftwaffe’s back.
Some books have told what happened during Big Week—Hammel tells
you why, driving home points that are as vital today as they were in
1944. ——Col. Walter J. Boyne, National Aviation Hall of Fame Honoree
In The Road to Big Week, Eric Hammel cleverly connects a widely
disparate collection of dots that are the development of America as the
world’s preeminent air power. These connections describe how the U.S.
Army Air Forces—just barely in time—evolved in size and capability
such that America’s airmen prevailed in the iconic air battle that
ultimately ensured the defeat of Nazi Germany. Hammel’s meticulous
research and eminently readable style make this definitive work a
compelling read. ——Lt.Col. Jay A. Stout, author of Fortress Ploesti
Eric Hammel has a special gift for combining musty war records and
intimate personal accounts into a gripping history . . . If you think there’s
nothing new to learn about World War II, if you think there was never a
possibility the Allies might lose, if you think one side was smarter than
the other, The Road to Big Week will unnerve you and change forever
your perception of what happened in those high, embattled skies.
——Robert F. Dorr, co-author of Hell Hawks!
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book THE ROAD
TO BIG WEEK: The Struggle for Daylight Air Supremacy Over
Western Europe, July 1942–February 1944 by Eric Hammel. The
book is currently available in a $34.50 trade paperback edition
published by Pacifica Military History. It is also available in ebook
editions.
BORN ON THE
FOURTH OF JULY
by Eric Hammel
Copyright 2009 © by Eric Hammel
The 15th Light Bombardment Squadron was turned out of its nightfighter school when the RAF precipitously shut down the course on
June 29, 1942. As a quick fix, the American A-20 crews were assigned
to the RAF’s 226 Squadron and ordered to undergo daylight bombardment familiarization training. That very day, June 29, the squadron commander, Captain Charles Kegelman, flew with 226 Squadron on a mission
against Hazebrouk, a manufacturing center in northern France.
Eaker and his staff were itching to make their presence in England
felt, and Captain Kegelman’s combat flight showed them the way. There
were enough well-trained 15th Light Bombardment Squadron airmen
on hand to take part in a mission. It was decided that six three-man
crews—pilot, bombardier, and radioman/gunner per airplane—should
accompany 226 Squadron on a series of raids assigned for July 4. The
participation of the Americans was considered deeply symbolic.
There were no USAAF A-20s in England; the 15th Light
Bombardment Squadron had been training in the export variant the
British had dubbed Boston. In fact, these were airplanes originally
purchased by the French; they ended up in British hands after the fall of
France. As such, they lacked many modern conveniences built into
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American A-20s—superchargers for example—because Hap Arnold had
won his argument in 1940 to hold back such goodies.
Eaker and Ike trekked to 226 Squadron’s base on July 2 to speak
with the six American pilots who had volunteered for the July 4 mission.
The youngsters were enthusiastic and confident, so the generals gave
their blessing.
The mission plan called for fighter-escorted flights of three
Bostons each—twelve light bombers in all—to attack four Luftwaffe
airdromes in the Netherlands and Norway at very low level. The fighter
escort appears to have accomplished nothing at all. The various flights
crossed the North Sea at low level to avoid German radar.
At De Kooy Airdrome, in the northern Netherlands, one Americanmanned Boston was shot down by extremely and unexpectedly heavy
flak (antiaircraft fire). Captain Kegelman’s Boston, also over De Kooy,
had its starboard propeller shot away, and the damaged starboard engine
needed to be shut down. The Boston was so low when it lurched from
the flak hits that its starboard wingtip and rear fuselage scraped the
ground, but the airplane remained in the air. Kegelman passed his target
while getting his airplane back into trim, and he jettisoned his bombs.
When he spotted a flak tower whose gunners were tracking him, he
veered off course and doused the German position with four fixed .303caliber machine guns deployed in two two-gun blisters, one on either
side of the airplane’s nose. This survivor flew all the way home at low
level on its one good engine.
Another American-manned Boston was shot down by flak over
Bergen/Alkamaar Airdrome in Norway, and an RAF Boston was shot
down by a German fighter after it was hit by flak. In all, only two
American-manned Bostons even released their bombs.
The Americans had unknowingly been treated to unprecedented
flak concentrations, so losses and mishaps were not charged to their
inexperience in war. The RAF chalked the heavy opposition up to a
possible advance sighting by a German ship in the North Sea. These
Americans were in fact treated to a first-hand experience in the most
difficult and dangerous use of offensive aircraft to come out of World
War II. Airfields are always huge, flat open spaces defended by numerous
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antiaircraft weapons with broad fields of fire designed to hit low-flying
aircraft from numerous angles at once.
Captain Kegelman was awarded a Distinguished Service Cross,
the army’s second highest valor medal, and promoted to major. All six
American crewmen downed on July 4 were taken prisoner.
The Fourth of July mission was laced with irony. At that point,
America’s only strategic air force was led by fighter pilots. Its only
means of delivery was the long-neglected attack arm. Airplanes used on
the mission were borrowed from the RAF. The Bostons were secondrate A-20s built for the dead French air force. It was flown in broad
daylight by crews trained to undertake night missions. It ran into the
heaviest flak concentrations 226 Squadron had faced in months of similar
missions. It was supposed to herald America’s entry into the air war
over Europe, but only RAF markings showed on each airplane; the
Germans had no idea they had been attacked by Americans until they
had six live American airmen in their hands. And the mission itself was
an utter dud that caused little if any damage to the four airdromes.
The 15th Squadron got a chance to even the score on July 12.
Once again in borrowed Bostons, six volunteer crews took part in 226
Squadron’s attack on Abbeville/Drucat Airdrome. The mission was flown
at a respectful 8,500 feet. Two American-manned Bostons were lightly
damaged by flak, but there were no casualties, and all bombs were
dropped without mishap. After the mission, which turned out to be a
graduation exercise, the 15th Squadron was separated from 226 Squadron
and, in due course, equipped with its own airplanes, which initially were
more re-borrowed Bostons.
*
Help was on the way. On June 23, fifteen B-17s assigned to the 97th
Heavy Bombardment Group left Presque Isle, Maine, on the first leg of
the USAAF’s new northern ferry route to the British Isles. All fifteen
had reached Goose Bay, Labrador, without incident. A flight of P-38s
also completed this leg of the type’s first flight outside the United States.
The B-17s were held over at Goose Bay until June 26, when they took
off for the two airfields in Greenland—Bluie West 1 at Narsarssuak on
the southern tip and Blue West 8 at Sondre Stromfjord on the west coast.
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The flight was something of a shambles; six B-17s returned to Goose
Bay and three others crash-landed on the Greenland ice cap, albeit
without casualties. As weather permitted, the B-17s next flew on to
Reykjavik, then Scotland, and down into southern England. The first
American-manned B-17 to reach the BOLERO terminus, Prestwick
Airdrome in Scotland, was a 97th Bomb Group airplane that arrived
safely on July 1. Behind it, in the near term, were more than forty other
B-17s, eighty P-38s, and fifty-two C-47 transports. And behind them
were the tens of thousands of bombers, fighters, and transports that would
be assigned over three years to the American air forces in northwestern
Europe.
For all that July 1 was a red-letter day at the far end of the northern
ferry route, USAAF headquarters in Washington refined downward its
estimate of sixty-six operational groups in England by March 1943.
The estimate foresaw only fifty-four groups in place by the target date,
because the needs of other theaters had to be met, at least in part, out of
Eighth Air Force’s future allotments. By July 10, however, the estimate
for air groups based in England by the end of 1943 was set at a rather
stunning 137.
Seven 1st Fighter Group P-38s reached Prestwick on July 9, and
other aircraft emerged from the ferrying pipeline over the next few days.
But on July 15, owing to severe weather, six P-38s and two B-17s acting
as navigation guides for the fighters were forced down on the Greenland
ice cap. Thanks to bad weather and heightened caution, it took until
July 25 for the last airplanes of the first allotment of Eighth Air Force
fighters, bombers, and transports to actually reach Prestwick. The last
flight of the allotment was composed of 60th Troop Carrier Group C47s. On their way by sea were the ground echelons of the 14th Fighter
Group, a P-38 unit; the 92d and 301st Heavy Bomb groups, both B-17
units; and the 64th Troop Carrier Group, a C-47 unit. The airplanes
from these units were being concentrated at the same time at Presque
Isle, then sent off in batches as weather permitted. Between August 15
and August 27, the 92d Heavy Bomb Group flew in batches direct,
without stops, from Gander, Newfoundland, to Prestwick. Thus, by the
end of August, the early stages of Operation BOLERO saw the build-up
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in England of a force of 119 B-17s, 164 P-38s, and 103 C-47s via the
northern ferry route. Thirty-eight airplanes went down along the way,
an unsustainable 10-percent loss ratio, but in due course the loss rate
fell to a fairly constant 5.2 percent. Looking ahead, all northern ferry
operations would have to be suspended with the onset of winter weather.
The new southern ferry route was operationally tested beginning
on July 14, when B-25 medium bombers bound for Egypt departed
Florida for a journey that would be made in stages via South America,
west Africa, and central Africa. In due course, year-round ferry routes
would be open between west Africa and Britain.
*
The arrival of combat aircraft in England triggered the establishment
of a huge growth in headquarters in Britain. Advance headquarters
echelons of the 1st and 2d Heavy Bombardment wings were established
in mid-August, each to oversee three heavy bomb groups. VIII Ground
Air Support Command was set up in July even though there would be
no ground-support aircraft sent to the British Isles for nearly a year; for
the time being, this headquarters, which was redesignated VIII Air
Support Command in September, oversaw some training and acted
administratively in behalf of a collection of reconnaissance and troop
carrier units. Operational unit training was to have been placed under
VIII Air Force Composite Command, which was set up in September,
but early-arriving combat units trained themselves at their own bases,
so the composite command was left merely to plan for the future. Key
to operations by the burgeoning Eighth Air Force was VIII Air Force
Service Command, which oversaw supply and maintenance all across
the British Isles and eventually took charge of all unassigned troops—
replacement crewmen, for example.
Eighth Air Force itself was directly subordinate to ETOUSA and
Tooey Spaatz reported directly to Ike, whom he also served as theater
air officer. The only point of overlap, and therefore contention, between
Eighth Air Force and ETOUSA was where duties of VIII Air Force
Service Command coincided with those of ETOUSA’s Service of Supply
(SOS). The senior echelon was in charge of all construction for American
units in the British Isles—ground and air—as well as the supply of items
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used by both ground and air organizations. SOS also set priorities for
goods shipped from the United States. Ike and Spaatz were themselves
disinclined to squabble over pieces of the supply puzzle, and the SOS
and service command chiefs settled differences in their viewpoints early
and amicably, though there were occasional flareups. The service
command manned the main air depot at Burtonwood, established several
smaller regional depots, and activated several mobile depots.
To help get the Americans as close to Germany as possible, the
British initially assigned Eighth Air Force forty-five base sites in five
clusters in southern England, west to east from Huntingdonshire to East
Anglia. The Americans decided which combat group went to which base.
As combat units arrived, the British assigned antiaircraft units and
communications teams plus such other services that units far from their
homeland needed, either on a temporary basis, as logistics and
headquarters elements caught up, or on a permanent basis. Some British
paraphernalia—rubber life rafts, for example—were better than similar
American items, so the British provided these goods in whatever
quantities the Yanks required. They also provided and initially installed
VHF radios for use by ground controllers in all of the American-built
airplanes that arrived in the British Isles in 1942, which insured a uniform
system for both air forces. The level of cooperation was stunning. The
British people treated the Yanks as literal saviors and opened their homes
and their hearts, as well as their warehouses, to their Anglophone cousins
from across the sea. Fully aware of the burdens they placed on the British
supply and personnel systems, the Yanks did what they could to
reciprocate. For example, the USAAF volunteered to provide all the
troop combat airlift both armies would need for training and the eventual
invasion of France.
*
There was an implicit political commitment the United States had
to make to so completely earn the cooperation of the hard-pressed British,
and that was the assurance that all the brutal effort was in service of a
proposed spring 1943 invasion of France. The Americans were expected
to have shipped to England by then a million-man ground force and an
air force operating nearly three thousand combat aircraft. There was a
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second plan in play too, Operation SLEDGEHAMMER, which
contemplated an early, partial, and shallow penetration into France in
the event the Soviet Union appeared on the brink of collapse.
SLEDGEHAMMER was designed to draw off German ground and air
forces to help the Soviets recover. But the 1942 and 1943 invasion plans,
and the commitments behind them, were literally shot down when Prime
Minister Churchill inveighed President Roosevelt in July meetings to
take part in an invasion of French Northwest Africa. It was Churchill’s
hope in the nearer term to relieve Axis pressure against the Suez Canal
by drawing Axis forces from Egypt and Libya to Algeria and Tunisia.
But the Prime Minister had been, as early as World War I, fixated on
striking Germany via what he called Europe’s “soft underbelly.” To reach
that belly, the Allies would have to kick Axis forces out of the entirety
of Africa. Roosevelt supported Churchill’s plan because domestic
pressure, especially upcoming congressional elections, required that he
get American ground forces into battle against the Germans. Northwest
Africa seemed like a place in which the untested American air and ground
forces could prevail.
An invasion of French Northwest Africa in late 1942 guaranteed that
any invasion of France would be delayed until the spring of 1944 and that
Eighth Air Force’s strategic bombing offensive over Germany would be
hollowed out before it even began. Churchill assured Roosevelt that he was
willing to make the inevitable sacrifices, and the deal was set.
The first planning conference for the Northwest Africa invasion
took place in England on July 18, 1942. Heading the planning session
was Ike, who had been named to head the invasion force while retaining
his command of ETOUSA. In very short order, Ike tapped Spaatz to be
his air chief in Northwest Africa. The two had developed a deep and
trusting relationship after only a few weeks working together, and both
were loath to split up so soon. Eaker was put on notice that Eighth Air
Force would become his when the time came for Spaatz to devote his
full energies and attention to what became Operation TORCH. Any
headiness that Eaker achieved by his prospective elevation was tempered
with the certainty that his air force was going to lose the bulk of its
strength—some temporarily but a lot permanently—to the new Twelfth
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Air Force (which would be activated in August). In a way, the Eighth
had been relegated to the status of training command for the Twelfth at
the precise moment it was struggling to get into the fight. On top of that,
the nascent air force in Egypt—eventually to become the Ninth—was
being strengthened with combat units from the States that might
otherwise have been shipped to England for service with the Eighth.
If there was any doubt that Churchill would temper his plan, the
Prime Minister dashed it on July 23. A massive German breakthrough
between the Don and Volga rivers in the Soviet Union brought a plea
from Premier Stalin that the western Allies open a second front posthaste.
Operation SLEDGEHAMMER was impossible on its face at this
juncture—there were no troops—and Churchill’s attention was riveted
on North Africa. He snuffed any remaining notion Stalin clung to that
the cross-Channel invasion would take place in 1942, and he more or
less privately thought an invasion of France in 1943 had become fanciful.
The only concession the British and Americans were able to make to
Soviet woes was scheduling TORCH for earlier than December 1, 1942.
*
Eaker and to a lesser degree Spaatz faced an immense dilemma as
planning for Operation TORCH got underway. There were too few
combat units in England at that moment to open a strategic bombing
offensive against Germany, and the B-17 groups that had arrived were
not completely trained. Their presence in England was just that, a
presence—a show of future intent. But Spaatz and Eaker—both of them
career-long fighter pilots with no personal or even professional stake in
the concept of strategic bombing—felt they owed it to their service to at
least mount newsworthy demonstration missions against targets near at
hand while they still had a force in hand.
The Army Air Forces bomber doctrine did allow as air superiority
was a precondition for a successful bombing campaign. There were
German-manned airfields in France that could do with a little clearing.
Moreover, the airmen were raring to get started on the work of war. A
few bombing missions against targets near at hand would certainly serve
as graduation exercises for hard-training groups in England. And
bombing missions against nearby targets would certainly be a means to
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put two decades of strategic thought and preparation to the test as well
as study tactical flourishes and provide the first entries in the lessonslearned book.
*
The first mission involving aircraft with USAAF markings took place
on July 26, 1942. Six 31st Fighter Group Spitfires joined a Royal
Canadian Air Force (RCAF) Spitfire squadron on a routine cross-Channel
sweep in the vicinity of Gravelines, St. Omer, and Abbeville. The six
American pilots were senior officers on their first familiarization hop
over enemy territory.
The fighter sweep was the means by which the short-legged
British-built fighters kept their fingers on the pulse of German air
operations in the region on and backing the French, Belgian, and Dutch
coasts facing the English Channel and North Sea. The Germans rarely
responded; they were too war savvy to risk damage to their airplanes—
much less their lives—in combat in service of nothing. Spitfires could
do little damage to the German war effort, so why bother with challenging
them?
On July 26, German fighters did rise to the challenge. In a duel
that ended in seconds, one of the German pilots shot down one of the
white-starred Spitfires. The pilot, Lieutenant Colonel Albert Clark, was
the 31st Fighter Group’s air executive officer. He lived through the ordeal
and was taken prisoner. (Far from being cheated of an opportunity to
make war against the Germans, Clark became an important operator in
the March 1944 prisoner-of-war venture known as the Great Escape.)
The 31st flew again on August 5 and 6. In both cases, eleven
Spitfires were launched to undertake practice sweeps under a program
dubbed RODEO. The 31st ran into zero opposition on both practice
RODEO missions, but a few of its rank-and-file pilots learned to function
smartly with their hearts in their throats.
The RODEO missions were modeled precisely on British fighter
sweeps, which concept VIII Fighter Command chief Monk Hunter, a
World War I ace brought up in the “Dawn Patrol” era, had embraced
straight out of the package. Hunter, whose headquarters was located
quite close to the RAF Fighter Command headquarters and who visited
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with his opposite number frequently, had come to be enthralled by all
things British; he never once thought outside his hosts’ box.
The first American airman flying an American fighter to put bullets
into a German warplane was Major Harrison Thyng, a 31st Fighter Group
squadron commander who accompanied an RAF coastal patrol near
Shoreham, England, on August 9. The contact was made at about 2000
hours and resulted in Thyng’s being credited with damaging a FockeWulf 190 (Fw 190) fighter taking part in a sweep along the English
coast.
The 31st mounted RODEOs—about a dozen planes per mission—
on August 11, 12, and 15, and the Germans ignored them. Two 31st
Group Spitfires made a familiarization flight with a routine RAF convoy
patrol over the English Channel on August 15, but nothing happened.
The first full victory credit awarded to the USAAF in the war
against Germany was for an Fw 200 maritime bomber downed on August
14 over the Iceland coast by 2d Lieutenant Elza Shahan, flying a 1st
Fighter Group P-38, and 2d Lieutenant Joseph Shaffer, flying a 33d
Fighter Squadron P-40. (The 1st Fighter Group’s 27th Fighter Squadron
had been temporarily assigned to Iceland to bolster the independent 33d
Squadron, the only air-defense unit permanently assigned to the island.)
*
The first American heavy bomber mission over northwestern Europe
took place on August 17, 1942.
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THE ROOT
The Marines in Beirut
August 1982-–February 1984
By Eric Hammel
Facing northward out of a second-deck window, the lance corporal was
hurled through the window and out into mid-air. He fell thirty feet to the
ground and landed on his feet. He was not harmed until falling debris
struck him on the head and shoulders. Nearly every other member of
the recon platoon in his compartment was killed in the inferno.
At 6:22 A.M. on October 23, 1983, a yellow Mercedes truck raced
across the parking lot of the Beirut International Airport in Lebanon.
Crashing through a chain-link gate into the 24th Marine Amphibious
Unit’s headquarters compound, it raced on careening through a shack
and into the open atrium lobby of a terminal building where the men
were housed, many still asleep.
The truck lurched to a stop. Seconds later, 12,000 pounds of high
explosives piled in the bed of the truck exploded. The four-story steel
and concrete building shuddered, then collapsed. Two hundred fortyone Americans were killed and many more were injured in the disaster.
Soon after the 24th MAU returned to the United States in November 1983, the Marine Corps granted Eric Hammel an unprecedented
opportunity to interview survivors of the bombing and those who came
to their rescue. The Root is the result of these interviews. It is a narrative
account of the Marines’ mission in Lebanon, describing their escalating
involvement in the largely unreported battles fought in and around the
shattered city of Beirut. And it presents in detail the terrorist attack on
the unit headquarters.
The focus of The Root is on the nearly 200 people interviewed by
the author—enlisted men and officers—for whom the shock and horror
at the bombing were still fresh. Their reactions to the danger, what they
survived and how they survived it, their concerns and insights, make
The Root a timeless chronicle of the human spirit—and as timely as
today’s headlines.
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Praise for The Root
“Illustrates Washington’s exceptional resistance to accepting the facts
that contradict its preconceived views. . . . It’s time that we learn from
our mistakes and never again put our people in situations we do not
understand. A first step is to read how our effort in Beirut turned from a
noble cause into having our troops pinned down in an escalating civil
war we did not understand.” —Colonel Thomas X Hammes, USMC
(Ret.), author of The Sling and the Stone
It’s a fine book . . . a fascinating record of the life of a military unit . . .”
—New York Times
“Hammel has grippingly reconstructed a story that was often obscured
as it unfolded.” —Los Angeles Times
“Hammel’s detailed account of individual rescue efforts is intensely
graphic. . . . It is first-hand and realistic. It is not sensationalized or
trivialized.” —New York Tribune
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“Eric Hammel’s well-written book . . . strikes a deep emotional chord
. . .” —Naval Institute Proceedings
“(The Root is) a book about the violence of combat, a first-hand account
of death and danger, fear, pain and survival. . . . ” —Baltimore Sun
“A disturbingly accurate portrait…well-researched (and) well-crafted.
. . .” —Kirkus Reviews
“This is a moving book which tells a story that needs to be told.” —San
Diego Union
Note: The following article is excerpted from the book THE ROOT:
The Marines in Beirut, August 1982 - February 1984 by Eric Hammel.
The book is currently available in a $24.95 trade paperback edition
published by Zenith Press. It is also available in ebook editions.
A DEATH IN BEIRUT
by Eric Hammel
Copyright 1994 © by Eric Hammel
The 24th Marine Amphibious Unit (MAU) and Battalion Landing Team
(BLT) 1/8 arrived in a quiescent Beirut in May 1983 as part of the
Multinational Force of Western peacekeepers. On August 29, 1983, at
the sudden renewal of the Lebanese Civil War, the Marine battalion lost
two killed and fourteen wounded and began a series of fire fights that
went largely unreported in the American media. On September 6, two
more Marines were killed and fighting involving Marines seriously
intensified. Throughout September, Marines were engaged in daily
warfare with Moslem militiamen belonging to various factions of the
Shiite Amal (Hope) coalition. In addition to the four Marines who were
killed, nearly seventy were wounded, many seriously. Hampered by rules
of engagement that seriously curtailed their retaliatory options, Marines
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nevertheless killed dozens and perhaps scores of the Moslem militiamen
who daily fired on their positions.
*
The part 2d Lieutenant Bill Harris liked best about Charlie Company, 1/
8’s rotation to the northern end of the Beirut International Airport (BIA)
on October 3, 1983, was the opportunity it afforded him to exercise
some independent command. Harris’s 1st Platoon was strung out in a
line of sandbagged posts across the northern end of the BIA and for
several hundred meters down along the eastern edge of the 24th Marine
Amphibious Unit’s compound. The 3d Platoon line began more than a
kilometer away, and the 2d Platoon was holding Combat Post 11 and
isolated Combat Post 76. More important, from Lieutenant Harris’s
standpoint, the Charlie Company command post was more than a
kilometer away.
The hotbed of militia activity in Charlie Company’s new sector was
Cafe Daniel, just across from Harris’s platoon, at the northeastern corner
of the BIA compound. This Amal meeting place was under the control
of a local warlord known to Marines as Castro, a nickname derived
from his martial bearing and heavy beard. Castro was something of a
renegade, a man dedi-cated to achieving his own program of social reform
in Hooter-ville even if that meant going against the policies of Nabieh
Berri, the Shiite lawyer who was emerging as the leader of the Amal
coalition. Thus, though peace talks were getting under way and the Shiite
Amal would be a party to them, Castro exer-cised his independence by
applying almost constant pressure upon the Marines within his reach—
Bill Harris’s platoon of Charlie Company. The closest Amal bunkers
were only 100 meters north of Harris’s sector, an easy shot, and Cafe
Daniel was about 400 meters from the nearest Marine position, as was a
red-and-white-striped concrete structure known as the Ar-mory, after
its apparent chief function. Behind Harris was an LAF training camp,
the perfect excuse for the Amal gunfire “through” 1st Platoon.
The sniper fire was intermittent during Harris’s first week in the
new position, not worth a response that might upset the uneasy peace
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that had descended upon most of the rest of the BIA. It became ugly one
night when a sentry heard a pop! and realized that a hand grenade had
detonated in an unmanned bunker just beneath his post. Next, three militia
riflemen opened fire. The Marine popped a flare and saw several dark
forms heading across an adjacent field. Next morning, Capt Chris
Cowdrey joined Lieutenant Harris for a walk across the road that divided
the MAU from Castro’s militia. The two Charlie Company officers found
the spoon from a Soviet-manufactured hand grenade in the open field
east of the road, but they could find no shell casings left by the riflemen.
As Cowdrey and Harris turned to leave, a small boy ran up and showed
them a handful of shell casings he had collected at first light. Three
different kinds of weapons had been fired during the night, a sure sign
that the incident had been perpetrated by the ragtag militia.
The tempo of shooting incidents picked up. Two nights after the
grenade incident, four rocket-propelled grenades (RPGs) flew over 1st
Platoon outposts, then machine-gun fire cut through the night air. The
Marines responded by bringing up two Surveillance and Target
Acquisition (STA) Platoon snipers, who located favorite militia firing
positions and prepared to make a few examples. Then, with great
ostentation, the Marines moved up four Dragon launchers and a tank to
positions just behind 1st Platoon. The new weapons were dug in, but
they were withheld in the hope that Castro and his subordinates would
see the light.
*
All of a sudden, during the latter part of the week of Octoer 10, some
new players appeared in Hooterville. Many of these were hard-bitten,
professional-looking soldiers wearing Russian battledress uniforms
(BDUs), similar to Marine cam-mies but colored rust and brown. It was
assumed that Castro had made a deal with the Syrian army. In addition,
another ragtag group, distinctly different from Amal fighting units, took
up residence around Cafe Daniel. The thing that set this group apart was
the white headband with red Arabic letters sported by each fighter. It
was presumed that these were mem-bers of Islamic Amal, Iranians from
the Syrian-sponsored training camp at Baalbek in the Beqa’a Valley.
Immediately, the number and quality of bunkers that could be observed
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by Marines increased, as did the accuracy of incoming small-arms sniper
fire.
Adding to the growing sense of discomfort and isolation along the
northern BIA perimeter was news that large numbers of Hooterville
residents were leaving town. Soon, Charlie Com-pany Marines could
see flag-festooned buses picking up whole families from nearby
neighborhoods. It was axiomatic that the sudden departure of
noncombatants presaged a big fight.
*
SSgt Dennis Allston had been in Beirut longer than any other Marine—
nearly 400 days since he accompanied the first explo-sive ordnance
disposal (EOD) detachment sent to the BIA to clear unexploded ordnance
for Battalion Landing Team (BLT) 2/8 in October 1982. The twentyfive-year-old Philadelphian had seen it all and had come to have mixed
feelings about the city in which he had spent two birthdays—loved the
city and its diverse peoples, hated what those people did to one another
in the name of religion and politics.
On October 15, 1983, a Friday, Allston was temporary NCO in charge
of the EOD detachment. He and his good friend, SSgt Allen Soifert, a
twenty-five-year-old Canadian-born professional Marine, had decided
to respond personally to a routine call by a Lebanese Armed Forces
(LAF) unit in Hooterville that had discovered what appeared to be an
unexploded RPG round. The two left MAU Service and Support Group
(MSSG) 24 head-quarters and drove out along the perimeter road to
Hooterville, where they found the casing of a defective RPG that had
appar-ently detonated without actually blowing up. The reasonably intact
steel casing was thrown into the back of the EOD jeep and the two staff
sergeants climbed aboard for the ride home.
Between the time Allston and Soifert passed 2dLt Bill Harris’s
platoon on the way to the RPG and the time they approached the corner
on the way home, the BDU-clad Syrian snipers sta-tioned around Cafe
Daniel had begun taking potshots at passing American vehicles. The
first such shooting occurred as a MSSG-24 dump truck lumbered past
the corner. A few rounds spanged off the heavy-gauge steel frame of the
truck before the driver realized that he was in danger. As he pushed the
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truck into high gear and ran from the area, the shaken youngster mouthed
a hurried warning into the handset of the vehicle’s radio. Several other
vehicles that happened to be passing at that time were also the objects
of sniper fire from the vicinity of Cafe Daniel. One of them, a jeep, was
under the control of LCpl Bill Riddle, of Weapons Company, who was
taking his military driving test. Riddle was shot through both legs as he
passed Cafe Daniel. Other vehicles on the outer perimeter road highballed
out of the area as the radio waves crackled with blunt warnings. A Marine
backhoe operator was forced to pull over and hide behind the rear tire of
his vehicle as Charlie Company Marines engaged the Moslem riflemen—
Syrians and, by then, Iranians. MAU head-quarters ordered the outer
perimeter road closed to all traffic. Bill Harris’s platoon was placed on
full alert, ready to battle the snipers if they could be pinpointed.
The EOD jeep, with Staff Sergeant Allston driving, was nei-ther
halted nor apprised of the closure of the road. Allston and Soifert were
bantering to pass the time until they got back to the MSSG, just a few
minutes away. Moments before the jeep ar-rived in the vicinity of Cafe
Daniel, the Charlie Company sen-tries assigned to block the road to
vehicular traffic had been forced by heavy Moslem gunfire to seek cover.
It was about 1000 hours. As the jeep headed south toward the corner
opposite Cafe Daniel, both staff sergeants involuntarily leaned back,
then exclaimed their surprise when they simultane-ously realized that
several rounds had passed in front of them, between their faces and the
windshield. It dawned on Allston that the gunfire was coming from a
treeline about 100 meters to his right. As Allston turned his head to
pinpoint the source of the fire, other weapons along the route opened on
the jeep. He instinctively thumped his booted foot hard upon the
accelerator, hoping to run the gauntlet.
“I’ve been hit,” said Staff Sergeant Soifert in a calm voice. “In the
chest.” Allston then felt his passenger slump down beside him.
The jeep was rapidly approaching an intersection where Lebanese
workers had been building a culvert. This was the path to safety, so
Allston started the jeep into a tight right turn. At that instant, Allston
sensed that Soifert was slipping out of the right side of the jeep. Without
thinking, the driver took his right hand from the steering wheel and
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grabbed his tottering partner. This action prevented Allston from
completing the turn. The jeep turned wide and both left tires bounced
across a low berm shielding the newly emplaced culvert. The jeep turned
over and Allston was thrown clear over a distance of about ten feet.
There was just time to duck and roll, then Allston came up running,
under continuous fire, back to the jeep, which had turned over, driver’s
side up. The only good fortune was that the jeep now formed a substantial
barrier between the two Marines and the direct fire.
Allen Soifert’s right foot was beneath the side of the jeep, and the
laces of his left boot were entangled in the framework of the passenger
seat. He had landed on his buttocks, his head was scraped or cut by the
lip of his helmet. Or perhaps he had been grazed by a passing bullet
when the snipers—most likely Irani-ans now—first opened fire.
Soifert was fully conscious. He spoke to Allston in a very calm voice.
Allston had the feeling that the wounded man was more in control of
himself than he, Allston, was in control of himself. Soifert reaffirmed
that he had been shot in the chest, but when Allston probed beneath
Soifert’s flak jacket, he could find nei-ther an entry wound nor any blood.
In fact, Soifert had been shot just beneath his right nipple. The round
had penetrated his sternum, cut through his trachea and lungs, rearranged
vital organs, and lodged near his left kidney.
Allston reached into the jeep’s cargo compartment for their squad
radio. It was not there. As he cast about for the missing radio, he spotted
a lone gunman in the treeline. Allston drew and cocked his .45-caliber
automatic pistol and fired several rounds without hitting the man. As he
ducked back behind the jeep, however, he saw the radio, which had
been thrown clear when the jeep rolled over. It was now in the open,
about where he had earlier landed. Allston screwed up his courage and
darted into the open. He was lucky, for no one fired directly at him,
though he had heard rounds passing overhead since landing on the
ground. Allston pulled the radio back to the lee side of the jeep and
keyed the handset. Nothing.
As Allston thought about his next move, he saw some move-ment
about 300 meters away, on the BIA side of the road. Marines were pouring
M-16 and M-60 fire at the Moslem posi-tions and nearby rooftops in
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Hooterville. Staff Sergeant Allston shouted at them in the hope they
would send help, but he knew that their doing so would likely result in
additional casualties. Allen Soifert, who was fully cognizant and who
had a very keen sense of the severity of his injuries, verbalized Allston’s
feelings of desperation, actually announcing that he did not want other
Marines risking their lives on his behalf. There was no need to worry.
Lieutenant Harris’s heart went out to the two men trapped in the open,
but he knew he would take dead and wounded if he sent any of his
riflemen to help them. His decision to keep his troops under cover was
confirmed within minutes in a message from Captain Cowdrey, Charlie
Company’s comman-der.
Soifert next chided Allston for his failure to get through on the radio,
suggesting in a bantering voice that his nominal supe-rior had forgotten
to turn it on or failed to key the handset or improperly set the antenna.
This was typical of Soifert’s well-honed sense of humor. Allston was
not feeling the wounded man’s mirthful energy, so he responded in less
than charitable manner, which caused Soifert to respond in a humorous
fashion.
Continued efforts by Allston to work the radio were unsuc-cessful.
At length, Soifert said that he would try to get through. Allston obliged
him, but it was by then apparent that the radio had been damaged in the
accident or, indeed, had not been working at all that morning.
As the two sat tight, Allston thought he heard a tank moving nearby.
In fact, SSgt Richard Smith was attempting to maneuver his heavy tank
to the roadway, to either provide direct fire sup-port or, if the opportunity
arose, to dash out and snatch the two EOD noncoms. The racket from
the tank drew the attention of militia fighters on the opposite flank, and
several of their RPGs passed close enough to the tank to force Smith to
reconsider his boldness. He well knew that an RPG could destroy a
tank.
Next, a jeep bearing 1stLt Nick Nanna, of Charlie Battery, and two
enlisted Marines pulled up right beside the overturned jeep. Nanna
stepped out behind the damaged vehicle just as heavy fire from the
Moslem-held tree line whipped by overhead. He grabbed a small radio,
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ordered the jeep to get clear, and hunk-ered down next to Soifert to see
if he could help.
Lieutenant Nanna took charge, forcing his way onto the bat-talion
tac net with a report on his arrival and Soifert’s injuries. The radioman
on the other end of the conversation was infuriat-ingly dense, getting
the message completely fouled up three or four times. Dennis Allston’s
simmering frustration grew to overt ire, and he yelled at Nanna to “stop
playing word games” with the idiot radioman and order up some help.
Nanna requested that corpsmen be dispatched with an ambulance jeep.
Second Lieutenant Mike Murphy, the MSSG-24 communica-tor, was
incensed by the events unfolding on his tactical net. An extremely
motivated young officer who had, perhaps, grown frustrated with his
indoor duties while fellow Marines had been engaged in combat for a
month, Murphy volunteered to lead the rescue. He was turned down,
but he could not be kept down.
HMC B. C. Miller and HM3 Ken Boyer were on duty at the MSSG
aid station when a runner arrived to announce that a member of the
MSSG had been shot on the outer perimeter road. Miller and Boyer
grabbed their Unit-1 medical kits and headed upstairs to get the platoon
ambulance. They discovered that it was on a run elsewhere. The two
corpsmen next headed for the BLT motor pool, intent upon borrowing
the battalion aid station ambulance jeep. Their request was turned down.
Boyer and Miller cursed up a storm, applied a liberal dose of guilt, and
won the day. As Boyer started the engine, he and Miller were joined by
HN Gary Cooper and 2dLt Mike Murphy.
The roadway was blocked at a Marine checkpoint by a dump truck,
perhaps the one that had earlier been hit by militia gunfire. As the
corpsmen and Lieutenant Murphy fretted, the driver and the sentry
chattered away. Murphy yelled “Hey, Ma-rine!” several times before
the truck driver looked up. When Murphy identified himself, the dump
truck pulled out of the way, but the sentry moved to bar the road. “Hey!
We got sniper fire down there.”
“Yeah,” Boyer called as he passed, “we’re going to pick up the guy
who got shot.”
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As Boyer pulled up behind a dirt berm, Murphy, Cooper, and Miller
jumped out, grabbed a backboard, and headed for the roadway. Boyer
was out of the vehicle but decided to turn off the jeep’s engine. He was
just about to lean back in when the wind-shield on the driver’s side was
blown out by a high-velocity bullet. He left the engine running.
Sgt Foster Hill, one of Lieutenant Harris’s squad leaders, was
watching the corpsmen tear across the open ground to the over-turned
jeep when he was asked for an up-to-the-minute report by LtCol Larry
Gerlach, who had arrived at his elbow without warning or entourage.
Hill gave his report, then turned back to watch the unfolding drama.
By the time Murphy, Miller, Cooper, and Boyer reached Soif-ert’s
side, the EOD staff sergeant was sinking. He had remained in a jocular
mood until then, realistic about his condition, but very much in control
of his emotions. As potshots continued to fly overhead, Soifert got into
an argument with the corpsmen over his condition. He knew he had
been hit in the lungs, and he said so, but the docs initially thought he
had not, for he was not coughing blood. He also felt himself becoming
shocky and offered advice on how the corpsmen might treat him. Doc
Boyer ran his hands down Soifert’s torso to feel for wounds. When he
reached back to the wounded man’s kidneys, a 7.62mm round fell into
his hand. This he handed to Staff Sergeant Allston, then he applied a
battle dressing.
As Chief Miller continued to treat the wounded Marine, who was
by now drooling blood from between bluish lips, Boyer and Cooper
went to work getting Soifert’s foot untangled from the seat. It was clear
that the ankle had been broken by the twisting fall, so it was decided to
keep Soifert’s boot on if possible; at least it was providing some support.
The laces were so badly entangled that Boyer decided to disassemble
the seat. He twisted nuts and bolts and worked a set of oversized wire
cutters where they could do their job. At length, as Soifert’s eyes began
rolling back and a pink froth appeared on his lips, the seat was pulled
from the jeep and the wounded man was stretched out on the roadway.
A little shove on the jeep itself by all hands freed the trapped right foot.
Doc Boyer knelt over the declining wounded man to administer mouthto-mouth resuscitation.
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SSgt Richard Smith briefly returned with his tank to traverse his
main gun in the direction of the Moslem-held buildings, but he was
again threatened by RPGs and ordered to withdraw. This time, at least,
the Marines and corpsmen behind the overturned jeep could see the
attempt, and that was mildly heartening. An amtrac rolled up behind a
nearby berm and everyone grabbed the backboard on which Soifert had
been placed and ran up the ramp into the lighted interior.
Charlie Company’s 1st Platoon opened on Moslem fighters, forcing
many of them to seek cover in the Armory. Then Lieu-tenant Harris
unleashed his grenadiers, who volleyed their M-203 high-explosive (HE)
rounds into the building’s thick con-crete walls. It is doubtful that any
Moslems died, but they were certainly bounced around.
Allen Soifert finally lost consciousness as the amtrac driver pivoted
the huge vehicle and headed directly up the roadway to the battalion aid
station, where a litter team was standing by. Dennis Allston stood by the
door of the BLT for a moment, then heard himself called to the MSSG
building. He reluctantly tore himself away, knowing that he would be
put to work to get his mind off the morning’s trauma.
Maj Doug Redlich, the MSSG-24 commander, had been at Green
Beach when he heard of the shooting. He arrived just as the amtrac
pulled up at the main entrance. Redlich had been exec of the MSSG on
its previous deployment in Beirut, and Soifert had been attached to EOD
then. In fact, Redlich had submitted Soifert’s application to the warrant
officer program the last time out. He knew Soifert well and liked him.
Soifert seemed to be groggy, but nothing Doug Redlich saw was
partic-ularly alarming. He touched Soifert on the arm and said, “Now
you’re an official Beirut vet.” Soifert was carried off and Redlich turned
to get the details from the BLT S-3, Maj Andy Davis.
First Lieutenant Chuck Dallachie had been on duty in the combat
operations center (COC) during the rescue. He was at the bottom of the
stairway on his way outside for a breather, when the litter team thundered
into the BLT lobby. Dallachie tried to move aside, then saw that he
would have to back down the stairway, which he did as quickly as
possible. The crush of bodies swept him right into the operating room,
where an unconscious Allen Soifert was placed on the table. Unable to
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press through to the door, Dallachie squeezed into a corner and stared
wide-eyed at the drama unfolding before him.
Dr. John Hudson was in the Navy for just one reason: he had run out
of tuition money midway through medical school, and the Navy had
paid his way. He was a good, caring doctor, but he either had no sense
of military discipline or superbly resisted the growth of an officerlike
veneer. Tales of his military inepti-tude were legend in the battalion,
and he went out of his way to put on weight, his way of bearding the
slim-trim Marines with whom he served. This day, the games were left
at the operating-room door. John Hudson simply wanted to save a life.
Grim-faced Danny Wheeler, the battalion chaplain, stripped off Allen
Soifert’s flak jacket and cammie blouse. The surgeon probed the
bloodless wound beneath the right nipple. At first, Hudson was certain
that Soifert’s heart had been nicked, and he was ready to open the staff
sergeant’s chest, but he decided within seconds that the heart was not
involved. He also determined that Soifert was as good as dead. But as
good as isn’t the same as already, so the overweight Georgia country
doctor worked to stabilize his patient, who would not survive surgery of
any sort if his shock could not be controlled.
The wisdom and curse of a battalion aid station is that complex and
sophisticated equipment is reserved for medical facilities farther up the
line. All a battalion surgeon is supposed to do is patch the wounded who
might live and pass them along to better-manned and better-equipped
surgical teams. Most often, the system works. Large numbers of surgeons
are not risked in the close combat that is the fare of rifle battalions but
are avail-able in safe places, where they can better serve the majority.
Marine battalions facing the hardest combat in Vietnam each drew just
one surgeon, a team of under twenty aid-station corps-men, and limited
equipment. This is hard-nosed wisdom, but where John Hudson and
Allen Soifert were concerned this October noon hour, it was a curse.
Treating Soifert was simply beyond the capabilities of the battalion aid
station, and Soifert was in no condition to be moved. Hudson did what
he could, but it was not enough. Within minutes of his arrival, Allen
Soifert slipped into a coma and then stopped breathing. John Hudson
got Soifert’s heart pumping, but it failed again. And again. Then there
was no bringing him back.
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Chaplain Danny Wheeler, a Lutheran, administered last rites, a
Catholic ritual, to the dead Marine, who was Jewish.
Dennis Allston was told an hour after he arrived at the aid station.
Allen Soifert, who had become a U.S. citizen in 1968 at age ten,
was buried a week after his death in Beirut at age twenty-five in the
Jewish cemetery in Nashua, New Hampshire.
*
When news that Allen Soifert had died reached Charlie Com-pany on
the afternoon of October 15, some members of 2dLt Bill Harris’s 1st
Platoon decided to “get some.”
M-203 rounds were accurately placed just behind many of the walls
the Moslem snipers were using for cover. Some of the grenadiers became
so adept at this sort of fire that they were soon bouncing their HE rounds
off buildings to get them into hard-to-hit Moslem emplacements. The
platoon’s M-60 ma-chine guns were used to suppress the militia
automatic weapons.
Word arrived that night through the news reporters who daily traveled
between Hooterville and the BIA that women and chil-dren had been
hurt by the Marines, so Harris was obliged to order his men to withhold
their general fire.
Though MAU headquarters was loath to allow Harris’s pla-toon to
undertake a general firefight, it sanctioned the use of STA snipers to
begin a routine of careful, aimed target suppres-sion the next day. When
Lieutenant Colonel Gerlach heard the news, he sent four additional
snipers to Harris’s sector, bringing the total to six. In addition to their
own specialized equipment, the STA snipers were to make use of the
optical range-finding equipment aboard SSgt Richard Smith’s heavy
tank, a terrific plus for pinpointing targets in the built-up areas opposite
Har-ris’s positions.
Fearful that his platoon’s teeth had been unfairly drawn, Sgt Foster
Hill put forth a plan aimed at achieving a balance more favorable to the
Marines without endangering the lives of non-combatants. In Hill’s
opinion, it was not worth the expenditure of a great deal of ammunition
to go after five or six militia fighters here and five or six there. Instead,
grenadiers could force the small groups toward the alley fronting Cafe
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Daniel and the Armory, and the STA snipers could pick them off, almost
at their leisure. Harris felt it was worth a try.
When militia warriors opened fire on Harris’s platoon on the morning
of October 16, Harris had his grenadiers draw extra ammunition, and
then he put them to work.
Sergeant Hill did the honors. His M-203 gunner dropped several
rounds right on top of the Armory. The smallish rounds could not
penetrate the concrete roof, but the deafening noise forced the gunmen
hiding inside to run into the alley.
Aided by spotters, the STA snipers had a field day. With the full
concurrence of higher headquarters, Lieutenant Harris sim-ply reread
the Rules of Engagement and decided that, as long as there was shooting
going on, anyone caught with a weapon in his hands was fair game.
This slight shift in the rules caught many hitherto untouchable militiamen
off guard. Militia cowboys exiting the Armory with weapons were
dropped without warning in the alley between it and Cafe Daniel.
Five Amal warriors were definitely killed this day, and at least ten
others were severely wounded by high-velocity bullets.
At length, news arrived that the Amal leadership had asked for a
ceasefire. Harris’s Marines immediately complied. They knew that the
Moslems would not have asked for a ceasefire if Charlie Company’s
fire had not been effective.
*
Only eight days after Staff Sergeant Allen Soifert was slain—on October
23, 1983—the Marine Battalion Landing Team headquarters was blown
up and 241 more Marines were killed. Among the dead that morning
was Dr. John Hudson. Chaplain Danny Wheeler and Lieutenant Colonel
Larry Gerlach were injured in the blast. Captain Chris Cowdry,
Lieutenant Mike Murphy, Staff Sergeant Dennis Allston, and the MSSG24 corpsman who brought Allen Soifert in were among the rescuers. It
is virtually certain that Lieutenant Bill Harris’s Shiite adversary,
Castro—whose real name was Imad Mughniyeh—was the chief
implementer of the plan that placed the truck bomb inside the Marine
headquarters building. He eventually became a leading military
commander in the Iranian-backed fundamentalist Shiite faction,
Hezbollah. He was blown up by Israelis in Damascus on February 12,
2008.
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THE THREE DAY PROMISE
A Korean Soldier’s Memoir
By Donald K. Chung, M.D.
The Three Day Promise is an inspiring saga that traces the author’s life
from his humble birth in Korea to his medical pre-eminence in the United
States. Dr. Chung documents this half-century passage with powerful
insights into Korea’s culture and vivid images of its people.
Dr. Chung affords an intimate understanding of the Korean War from
his perspective as a soldier. The book deftly transcends a strict study of
war by making it the context for examining human values. Out of love,
the youthful Chung promises his mother to return from the war in three
days. The war that separated his family and his country kept the vow
from being realized for more than three decades.
Dr. Chung’s desire for reunion with his mother, reunification for Korea,
and recognition for all veterans of this “forgotten war” is eloquently
expressed in the book and its goal: He donated all profits to the Korean
War Veteran’s Memorial in Washington, D.C. With a generous
endorsement by Abigail Van Buren in her Dear Abby column and his
own tireless promotion, Dr. Chung has given over $400,000 to the fund,
its largest individual donation.
Donald K. Chung was born in 1932 in rural northeastern Korea. The
author’s early medical training was interrupted by his involvement in
the Korean War. Chung was one of the very few in his front-line combat
unit to survive. Unable to rejoin his family in the north following the
war, he stayed in Seoul to complete his medical degree magna cum
laude. He then came to the United States for training in cardiology. He
has authored a number of medical texts and articles.
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book THE THREE
DAY PROMISE: A Korean Soldier’s Memoir by Donald K. Chung,
M.D. The book is currently available in ebook editions.
LEAVING NORTH KOREA
by Donald K. Chung
Copyright © 1989 by Donald K. Chung
The night I fled Chu-ul it was ominously dark. Snow crunched underfoot
and covered the surrounding terrain, made visible by headlights of the
motorized division. The longest trek I had ever made was the threehour homeward journey on foot from the racetrack in Harbin, the day
Father bet and lost our bus fare. It didn’t take a statistical genius to
calculate that that earlier record stood no chance of survival at the ordeal
stretching out before me.
Limping along on sore or frozen feet were people of all ages,
both male and female. Their number grew as hour after hour of the
fearful night passed by. Many older men and women hobbled along
using canes and occasionally even on crutches. Not unexpectedly, they
fell farther and farther behind, unable to match the pace of the forward
moving throng. Occasionally younger family members would slow to
assist their elders, but many younger refugees tried desperately at all
costs to keep up with the line of soldiers and trucks of the retreating
army.
The farther south the march penetrated, the greater grew the
throng. Many ox-drawn carts, heavily overburdened with household
goods and human cargo, slipped off the treacherous icy roads into ditches
filled with ice and slush. If the oxen could not regain their footing on
the road, the soldiers, no doubt following orders, shot them as they
hopelessly struggled.
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As was to be expected, more and more of those fleeing southward
fell farther and farther behind. I, being young and in good health and
driven by my relentless fear, managed to keep pace with the main body
of death’s-head troops I had followed out of Chu-ul.
We arrived at Myungchon as the sun was coming up on December
3. At that moment, the soldiers stopped at the local school and trudged
into the yard to light fires and cook their breakfasts. I walked on to a
farmhouse on the far otskirts of the town and begged for food and a
place to take a brief rest. The farmer was most gracious considering the
circumstances. He welcomed me into his home and placed before me a
warm breakfast consisting of a baked potato, a small dollop of rice and
some hot soybean soup with cabbage.
As I was eating, I noticed that one of the farmer’s young sons had
an infected wound on his right thigh. “Why hasn’t this wound been
treated?” I asked. “The war has driven away our local medical
practitioner,” the farmer replied. As soon as I had wolfed down the last
of the hot breakfast, I cleansed the wound and gave the farmer several
packets of sulfa from my emergency medical kit. I was happy to be able
to do something to repay this man for his extraordinary kindness. I settled
down for a short, sound nap then rushed off amidst mutual good wishes
to rejoin the military column.
The next day, December 4, came and went as I followed alongside
the ROK Army motorized column. The third day, December 5, was the
day I had promised Mother I would return home. Why I had made such
a rash and impossible promise I do not know. The words had merely
issued from my mouth, conceived not with any conscious though of
mine, but with a heedless rush as though by prerecorded rote. Aware of
my unfulfilled promise, I kept my direction headed south though my
spirit fled my body and must have hovered over the little house in Chuul where dwelled my mother.
By now I felt as though I, too, were motorized, being driven by
the pressing rush of events outside my control. I was lost in time,
oblivious to everything except the fact of moving forward. I ate the last
of the rice and cuttlefish Mother had packed into my knapsack. I put on
the last of the three pairs of socks she had supplied. I was weary, confused,
and frightened.
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We arrived at the large town of Kilchu on the afternoon of
December 6. As I wandered through the streets in search of food or a
warm or simply sheltered place to rest, I saw a dozen young men sitting
in a group in the town schoolyard. All of the men wore armbands that
read “Local Volunteer Youth Group.” I assumed, correctly, that the group
had been formed to somehow assist the ROK Army. I sneaked into the
yard and plopped myself down behind the resting group. When the young
men rose sometime later, I went with them.
We all wound up at the nearby home of the group leader. The
man did not seem to have a firm idea of how things were going, but he
announced, “The ROK Army is retreating back to South Korea.” We
were then fed a substantial dinner of steaming hot rice, hot soup and
kimchee, Korean pickled cabbage. During the meal, I ventured to
introduce myself to as many of the others as I could. This very mixed
bag included men of all ages, up to the age of fifty. I found that, as
usual, I was one of the youngest. There were brothers and fathers and
sons, professors and students. Most of the men were well educated
college students or graduates. I gathered that many, perhaps most, of
the men harbored strong anti- Communist sentiments. However, most
claimed to have fallen in with the slowly-growing group more out of a
sense that there was safety in numbers than out of political conviction.
I was not sure what we were supposed to be doing for the ROK Army,
nor what the rewards were supposed to be. As happened so often in my
life, I was content to pull the distinctive armband up the sleeve of my
topcoat and follow along. I certainly did not question why I was so
readily taken in.
At noon on the following day, December 7, our group marched
back to the school at which I had first found it. The word was passed
around that we would be receiving instructions from ROK Army soldiers.
It was a clear day and much warmer than it had been since before I left
Chu-ul. Marching was made difficult through streets slushy with melting
snow.
Kilchu was filled with ROK soldiers, army vehicles, and countless
thousands of refugees seeking shelter from the wind on the sidewalks or
under the eaves of houses.
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As I marched along, grateful for the warmer air which lessened
the earlier biting sting, I was stunned to see Father sitting in front of a
house, soaking his feet in a basin of water. With him was my third uncle,
the one whose wife had been so brutally murdered at the Chu-ul hot
springs and whose body I had identified. Uncle was leaning on a cane,
his feet bound in bandages.
Breaking free from the Volunteer Youth Group I rushed toward
them. “Father,” I shouted, “I knew you would be coming with me.”
At the moment all the years of emotional deprivation I had suffered
because of this cold and distant figure fell away as I instinctively reached
out my arms to hug him. He returned my embrace with vigor, something
he had never before done. All the animosities built up over the years
seemed suddenly and swiftly washed away. It felt like the beginning of
something new and wonderful.
Father looked totally wasted. Besides the blisters on his soaking
feet, his lips were a mass of fever blisters. Gone, too, was his erstwhile
meticulous clothing, replaced by ragged clothing such as my own.
Despite their utter exhaustion, Father and Uncle seemed to brighten at
the sight of me, Dong-kyu, standing before them.
Instantly, Father opened his pack and pulled out two pieces of
rice cake which he gave to me. Hesitating briefly, I took one small bite.
Then, as though the present rushed in over me like a tidal wave, I hastily
mumbled, “Good-bye. Soon we shall meet again in the South,” and
rushed off to rejoin the Volunteer Youth Group.
Whether it was a resurgence of lifelong loyalty to Mother and the
imbedded memories of Father’s denial of any fatherly affection, I
disregarded the momentary filial reaction I felt upon seeing Father in
his piteous condition.
Now it was I who directed my steps as I saw my real future
beckoning, knowing that the past, like a long-held umbilical cord, was
finally and irrevocably cut from my body.
The Volunteer Youth Group was not assigned any duties by the
ROK Army that day—or ever, really—but we did receive definite orders
to get to Songjin as soon as possible.
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Much later, I learned that large units of the North Korean People’s
Army, backed by even larger units of the Chinese People’s Liberation
Army, had been moving steadily south from the Chongjin area and had
arrived on the north side o Myungchon on December 7. On the same
day, a regiment of the ROK 3rd Division had been in contact with North
Korean soldiers before retreating through Kilchu and on to Songjin to
be evacuated by ship with the main body of the division.
A light snow began to fall late in the night of December 8. The
column of the Volunteer Youth Group had reached the top of another
seemingly endless series of mountain passes. Gone was the warm air of
the previous day. The road we stumbled along was slippery with slush.
A bitter north wind drove the falling snow against our backs. One thought
alone got us all over that pass. We knew that at the bottom of the long
slope that rolled away to the south was the port of Songjin.
At the top of the pass, a checkpoint had been set up by the ROK
military police. Every refugee was given a thorough inspection before
being allowed to decend into the city.
As if the progress of this human phalanx had not already been
mercilessly impeded by its own hunger, fatigue, sickness, and the cruelty
of the weather, it was now forced in its thousands upon thousands, to
huddle standing up in the bitter onslaught of the elements, snared in a
bureaucratic Catch-22.
Eventually my group reached the checkpoint. Our Volunteer Youth
Group armbands were prominently displayed as the MPs flashed their
torches over our bodies and into our faces. At length, the light, searing
in the stygian dark, found my face. I heard a disembodied voice admonish
me to move on. With that, our group, now numbering over 200, reformed
and marched quickly down the mountain toward the city. The landscape
before us lay in near-total darkness. Only a few gleams of dim, widely
dispersed light shone from an occasional house here and there.
Long after midnight, we were guided to an empty factory
warehouse and told to get some sleep. This was one of the easiest orders
I have ever had to obey. I simply blacked out as soon as my head touched
my knapsack, so profound was the accumulated physical and emotional
strain I had experienced throughout the previous week.
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“Get up and meet outside immediately.”
Thus was I awakened on the morning of December 9, 1950. It
was still dark. A cold wind blew as we shuffled sleepily into line outside
the warehouse. I could see masses of ROK Army vehicles, soldiers and
refugees in the dark gloom, and all seemed to be moving toward the
port. After a brief wait, we filed into the endless column, following the
cone of light from the group leader’s flashlight.
To my surprise and relief, the docks were only a few blocks from
the warehouse. After waiting for most of the army vehicles, equipment
and troops to be loaded on the huge, grey-painted ship tied up at the
pier, my group was guided up the gangway by a military policeman—as
though we were somehow especially privileged beings.
A guide met us at the top of the ramp and led us to the very bottom
of an open hold that held army vehicles and equipment. I thought of the
tens of thousands of refugees from all over northeastern Korea stranded
outside the port area. Each one was desperately hoping to securea spot
aboard one of the few overcrowded vessels. All around me in the hold I
noticed that men, mostly young, comprised the majority of refugees.
What agonies they must have endured in deciding to follow the ROK
Army singly aboard ship, rather than waiting to see if they might all be
rescued with their families intact.
I was lost in such dark thoughts when, at about one o’clock in the
afternoon, the gangway was raised and our ship—the United States Navy
transport St. Wind— got underway. I was later told by men who were
standing outside on the main deck that hundreds of refugees had plunged
into the icy waters and drowned as the entire mass of waiting humanity
surged forward in a final convulsion of hope and fear. The sea was stained
by blotches of blood, and the faces of many of the men on deck were
rimed with their frozen tears.
As soon as we cleared the harbor, I set out in search of Father and
Uncle. Though I searched through as much of the ship as I could, I was
unable to find either of them.
This was the first time I had ever been aboard a large ship sailing
on the open sea. It was quite different from the Saturday night steamboat
cruises on the Sungari River my family had enjoyed in Harbin before
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the end of World War II. Then, we had been feted with good food,
comfortable seating and good music, and the sailing had been so smooth
that the wine in Father’s glass had never moved. Now, here I was, on a
vast grey whale of a ship proceeding slowly out to sea. The ride was
neither as smooth nor as comfortable, but I felt happier to be making it
than I ever had on those long-ago cruises on the Sungari. I stood on
deck and watched until the dock I had crossed in the dark of the morning
finally passed from sight. In time, I could no longer see land.
The ship came to a bumpy stop late in the night, but I could not
see enough to figure out where. Someone in my group later reported
that we were docked at Hungnam, and I learned years later that the
105,000 Americans comprising the United States X Corps were embarked
from this great port over a ten-day period along with 91,000 North Korean
civilian refugees, 17,500 vehicles and 350,000 tons of supplies and
equipment. In all, some one hundred nine oceangoing vessels undertook
a total of one hundred ninety-three round trips between South Korean
ports and Hungnam and other North Korean eastern ports.
When we left Hungnam on the night of December 10, the wind
was blowing fiercely and the sea was rough. I felt as though my stomach
had turned upside down, and I vomited copiously until only a yellow
bile came up. I knew that I had become dehydrated, so I tried to crawl
out onto the main deck to get some fresh air and find some water to roll
around in my foul-tasting mouth. I got to a hatchway and felt more
movement than I had below. I could see that waves were breaking across
the rails.
There were no lights showing on the main deck or from the high
bridge, nor in any direction away from the ship. I had eaten nothing
since the ship left Songjin on December 9; there was no food aboard for
refugees. Besides, I was too sick to hold any food down. My dehydrated
and weakened state made me confused, perhaps a bit delirious. In the
pitch blackness, I managed to climb aboard an ROK Army truck that
had been lashed to the deck and covered with a canvas tarpaulin. I reached
into the rear compartment and grabbed a handful of something from a
large container. Clutching my find to my chest, I weaved to the nearest
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bathroom without looking at what I had stolen, for I was afraid of being
waylaid by the ROK military policemen who patrolled the ship.
When I reached light, I opened my hand and discovered that I
had stolen dried, salted anchovies destined for the ROK mess hall. I
was so hungry that I fought all the anchovies down my gullet without
thinking about the consequences. I licked my hand clean and started
back to rejoin the Volunteer Youth Group. I was overcome with a
powerful thirst within a minute, but my frantic search through that part
of the ship turned up no drinking water. I finally fell into an exhausted
heap on the deck between the trucks stored in the hold.
I was awakened on the morning of December 12 by the sound of
many people walking out on the main deck. I tried to get up, but I found
that I was weak and dizzy, which I vaguely recognized as the results of
severe dehydration and malnutrition. At length, I managed to pull myself
out to the deck and breathed in fresh air, which made me feel a little
better.
A round, red sun was rising in the east, far out to sea. To the west
was my first sight of land since boarding the ship. I noticed that the
storm winds had abated and the sea was calm. As the ship neared shore,
I saw that the land was brown, not white with snow. As we came closer
to shore, I was amazed to see women walking along the mountain paths
overlooking the sea with heavy loads atop their heads, not wearing
overcoats, though it was the middle of winter. Then I noticed for the
first time that the air was balmy, and not a single cloud flecked the sky.
The St. Wind docked at the tiny southern port of Kuryongpo-ri at
about eight o’clock in the morning of December 12, 1950. It had been
ten days since I had left Chu-ul, and I was seven days overdue making
good my last promise to Mother.
It took a long time to unload the military vehicles, equipment and
soldiers. I stood in a corner of the deck to watch, but I could not control
the thoughts racing through my mind as I looked out over the village
and upon the mountain behind it.
I kept telling myself, “Kuryongpo-ri is a part of the motherland.
Its people are my people. They speak my language.” I knew that, before
World War II, every country boy’s dream had been to go to Seoul to
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study at the Imperial University. Now, I thought, Seoul is the capital of
half the Korean nation, the half to which I have been denied access
since my years back from Manchuria. Here I am, looking across a tiny
Korean port in a part of the land that calls itself the Republic of Korea.
I come from a part of the land that calls itself the Democratic People’s
Republic of Korea. Both are home. But they have become different
because of the policies of two alien powers, the United States and the
Soviet Union, and because of the clashing political convictions of the
rabid Communists and rabid anti-Communists who have won the support
of one or the other of those alien powers.
I could not keep my thoughts untangled, for I had had the precepts
of Marxist-Leninist doctrine hammered into my mind for five long years.
I was alienated from my southern cousins for five years because, my
leaders told me, they had been seduced by the impure doctrines of
capitalist-imperialist avarice. I had been led to believe that on June 25,
just six months ago, these mad-dog cousins I am about to face had been
induced to mount, suddenly and without any excuse, a military adventure
against my—and their—peaceloving kinsmen. I stood ready to take my
first step onto South Korean soil, not because I really wanted to, and
certainly not out of any conviction that one half of the Korean nation’s
people were any more right than the other half.
I was here because I had opted to be saved from peremptory
execution by placing myself in the care of the army of my southern
cousins, and that army had—almost as an afterthought—allowed me to
tag along in its wake as it returned to its part of the motherland.
It occurred to me that I should start trying to find my third and
fourth cousins, who had come south from Chu-ul in 1947. Then I got
sidetracked thinking about all the cars and luxurious possessions these
southerners surely owned.
As I waded through my confused emotions andoutlandish
daydreams, the hour approached noon, and the Volunteer Youth Group
was ordered from the ship.
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THREE-WAR MARINE
The Pacific - Korea - Vietnam
By Colonel Francis Fox Parry, USMC (Ret)
Introduction by General Leonard F. Chapman, Jr., USMC (Ret)
Upon graduating from Annapolis in February 1941, Francis Fox Parry
and his classmates were sent directly to a makeshift artillery course.
Following the crudest training imaginable — they never fired a gun —
and without even attending The Basic School, at which Marine officers
usually receive their indoctrination, Parry found himself serving with a
hastily activated Reserve artillery battalion. Little more than a year out
of the Naval Academy, and having learned all he could “on the job,”
Parry was in the Pacific, an ill-prepared defender of an isolated island
bastion. In September 1942, Parry’s artillery battalion was landed at
Guadalcanal and immediately sent into action.
The early chapters of Three-War Marine are a chronicle of America’s
makeshift early-war effort. That Fox Parry’s generation rose so quickly
to command artillery batteries in combat after receiving such shoddy
training addresses the underlying issue of the level of preparedness at
which America faced two of Parry’s three wars. By the end of the
Okinawa Campaign, where he served as an artillery battalion executive
officer, Parry still did not feel that he knew very much about the
artilleryman’s “black art.”
Parry’s account of peacetime duty after World War II is capped with
his schooling at Fort Sill, the Army’s artillery graduate school. Only
then, Parry admits, did he feel he had a grasp of his profession. And
none too soon, for only months after graduation, Parry commanded an
artillery battalion in Korea — at Inchon, Seoul, and the Chosin Reservoir. Once again, Parry faced the problems of taking a makeshift unit
into combat at the outset of a war for which his nation was unprepared.
The story of Parry’s battalion in Korea is simply uplifting. Few Marine
field-artillery units have performed as competently and gallantly as Fox
Parry’s 3rd Battalion, 11th Marines, at the Chosin Reservoir.
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In his later years in the Marine Corps, Parry helped plan the aborted
invasion of Cuba and was one of the key players in the establishment of
General William Westmoreland’s combat operations center in Saigon in
1966. By then a seasoned, respected senior planner, Fox Parry was able
to recognize the symptoms of the many things that began going awry in
Vietnam at the very start of Westmoreland’s tenure there. His thoughtful analysis must be read by any serious student of the Vietnam War.
Three-War Marine covers thirty action-packed years. In it, we see
the maturing Marine combat officer: the unseasoned battery commander;
the confident battalion commander; and the thoroughly competent colonel overseeing day-to-day operations throughout a vast war zone. ThreeWar Marine is an insiders view of the Marine Corps during its most
thrilling decades.
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Note: The following article is excerpted from the book THREE-WAR
MARINE: The Pacific - Korea - Vietnam by Col Francis Fox Parry.
The book is currently available in a $24.95 quality paperback edition
published by Pacifica Military History. It is also available in ebook
editions.
INCHON TO NORTH KOREA
By Col Francis Fox Parry
Copyright © 1989 by Francis Fox Pary
Crossing the Han
Early on the evening of September 1, 1950, we slipped majestically out
of San Diego’s magnificent harbor and headed into the setting sun. It
was an unforgettable experience. As a Marine band played “Goodnight,
Irene,” a favorite of the moment, the thousands of troops crowding the
deck of the USS Bayfield broke into song. The families and loved ones
swarming on the dock soon joined in. As we eased past Point Loma into
the darkening Pacific, the harbor reverberated with that haunting refrain.
Although 3/11 [3d Battalion, 11th Marine Regiment] was spread
over seven ships, I directed that each battery commander and key staff
officer do his best to conduct whatever training was feasible. On the
Bayfield the FDC [fire direction center] and communications section,
among others, were able to get in urgently needed drills. In fact, the
FDC had to be organized and trained almost from scratch since we had
brought only four trained men from Camp Lejeune, or about one third
of the needed complement. That the FDC was rendered functional at all
in the less than three weeks available and under the crowded conditions
aboard ship was commendable. That it was managed with such success
was in equal measure due to Major [Jimmy] Callender’s knowledge
and dedication and the quality of the Reserves we received at the last
minute at Camp Pendleton. About 170 men, or about 25 percent of our
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strength, joined the night before we embarked. The Reserves were mostly
from the state of Oregon and Houston, Texas. Many were college students
or recent graduates of the University of Oregon or Oregon State. Their
intellectual capacity was such that they needed to be told the details of
their jobs only once. Jimmy’s FDC was filled with men who had scored
over 140 on the General Classification Test (GCT), high scores even for
officers.
The FDC, the three firing-battery executives, the eighteen gunsection chiefs and their gunners, and the communicators that tie them
all together make up the gunnery team. The gunnery team is is the heart
of the field artillery battalion. It is a heart that must beat powerfully and
with precision, promptly converting observer calls for fire into battery
fire commands. The fire commands are then quickly translated into range
and deflection settings for each howitzer. The speed and accuracy of
this operation is the real measure of an artillery battalion. Of course, the
battalion must be positioned and repositioned tactically so that it can do
its gunnery job most effectively. The battalion must also be protected
from interfering forces and supplied with ammunition. The FOs [forward
observers], the communicators, and the service elements are also a vital
part of the battalion, but it is the gunnery team that must deliver the
battalion’s firepower in appropriate quantity where and when needed.
This takes knowledge, training, teamwork, and dedication to the fine
points of gunnery at every level. That proficiency in this critical area
was attained despite the handicaps (not the least of which was the cold
fact that the FDC had not controlled a single round of the battalion’s fire
in training) speaks volumes about the caliber of 3/11 personnel.
After a calm crossing we steamed into Kobe harbor the afternoon of
September 16 only to learn that our stay in Japan would be hours, not
months. I was able to assemble the battery commanders and staff from
their several ships and formulate a landing plan. This consisted primarily
of every unit commander using his initiative to gather his people and
equipment as rapidly as possible and move to the assembly area. We
were scheduled to get under way for Inchon at first light, so there was
no troop liberty. A few officers did go ashore for dinner and visited a
geisha house, but our hearts were not in it.
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On September 21 we landed at Inchon, which was by then a rear
area. The front lines were well inland, near Kimpo Airfield. For almost
three days near the beach and in an assembly area inland, we strove
manfully to recover all our equipment, much of which was still crated
or in boxes that we had never seen. The most critical shortage was
communications gear—radios and field telephones. Some were never
found. (We fired our first fire mission with the FDC manning a field
telephone borrowed from Item Battery.)
With the 7th Marines across the Han River sweeping almost
unopposed toward an investment of Seoul from the north, I requested
permission to cross the river so that we could provide more effective
support. Regiment concurred, and we made ready to cross at first light.
3/11 Headquarters crossed the tidal Han, at that point about 100 yards
wide, in a DUKW. We watched as pontoon barges pushed by LCVPs
ferried the eighteen truck-drawn 105mm howitzers across. Then, to my
annoyance, tanks began to cross. Much of the FDC and communications
section, as well as the ammunition trucks, were left stranded as the tanks
monopolized the barges. I DUKWed back across the river to discover
why my units had been delayed.
The river crossing was controlled by the 1st Shore Party Battalion,
commanded by a colorful, tough hero of the Pacific island campaigns,
Colonel Henry P. “Jim” Crowe. I sought him out and pleaded my case.
He was unmoved. After agreeing that 3/11 had priority for the river
crossing, he explained, “Your battalion has eighteen howitzers, right?”
“That’s right, Sir,” I replied.
“Well, Major, I ferried eighteen howitzers across the river, so what’s
your problem?”
“My howitzers are practically useless without our fire-direction
center, communications section, and ammunition trucks.”
The gnarled old colonel turned away, dismissing me with a wave of
the hand. “I took your battalion across as ordered.”
Locating the nearest field telephone, I called the division G-3,
Colonel Al Bowser, who years before had been my equitation instructor
at Quantico. An artilleryman himself, Bowser instantly grasped my
dilemma. “Get Colonel Crowe on the line for me, Fox,” he directed.
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Crowe took the phone, listened briefly, fixed me with a withering glare,
and issued the necessary orders to complete the delivery of 3/11 to the
north bank of the Han on a priority basis.
By the time the last vehicle was across, the day was half over but we
were able to move up along the Han about 10 miles and occupy a firing
position behind some hills to the west of Seoul. We fired the batteries in
before dark.
That 1st Marine Division was capable of creditable action in a matter
of weeks after being assembled from two division shells and filled out
by Reserve units from around the country is remarkable; that it could
successfully execute an assault landing as difficult as that at Inchon in
September 1950 was a near miracle. Dedicated Marine Regulars and
Reservists with Pacific War experience still fresh had bailed out the
nation’s political leadership, which did not deserve so kind a fate.
Fire Mission
The 7th RCT’s sweep to invest Seoul and the advance on up the valley
to Uijongbu was not strongly opposed. The 1st and 5th Marines had
broken the back of North Korean resistance; the 7th faced only rearguard action. It was, nonetheless, a most useful shakedown for the 7th
RCT [regimental combat team], which was far more heavily weighted
with Reserves than the rest of the division. We were aware of the desperate need to hone military skills and round the RCT into top physical
condition.
After an active firing period devoted mostly to support of Dog
Company, 2/7 [2d Battalion, 7th Marines] (which had strayed into the
5th Marines’ sector and encountered a North Korean battalion), 3/11
displaced to the north of Seoul preparatory to the push to Uijongbu.
While we were awaiting the arrival of the firing batteries at the selected
position, 1/7 came up the road and began to bivouac in “our” field. I
found the redoubtable Lieutenant Colonel Raymond G. Davis and advised
him that the field was already staked out for our firing batteries.
I had seen little of Ray, who was three years my senior, since we had
first met with Colonel [Homer] Litzenberg at Camp Pendleton. (Both of
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us had complained to Litz about our battalions being split among so
many ships.) But I knew something of his background. A Georgian, he
had started out as an artilleryman and had been Bob Luckey’s executive
officer in the 1st Special Weapons Battalion on the Canal. Later, at Cape
Gloucester, Davis took over 1/1 and launched his brilliant career as an
infantry commander. He had a cool demeanor, bright blue eyes, and a
reputation as a tough, dynamic leader. He had won the Navy Cross as a
major commanding 1/1 on Peleliu. He was not a man with whom one
sought a confrontation.
I declared respectfully, “Colonel, I’m putting the battalion in position
in this field; they’ll be coming up the road shortly.”
“We’ve marched 18 miles and the men are exhausted.” Ray rejoined,
“This is as far as we go.”
So 1/7 bivouacked on the edge of the field and in the adjacent woods.
As the batteries arrived minutes later, I emplaced them as planned
in the field. An hour or two later when the firing batteries began to
register, Ray apparently thought better of his stand and pushed his tired
troops on to a quieter rest area. There are better places to relax than
cheek-to-jowl with cannonading artillery.
This minor confrontation illuminates what from then on became
standard practice in the 7th RCT—3/11 had priority in the selection of
firing positions. Although priority was not critical around Seoul, it
became so in the more confining mountains of North Korea.
For the drive north, which was supposed to be a 10-mile tank-infantry dash to Uijongbu, a battery of Marine 155mm howitzers and a battery of Army antiaircraft artillery-automatic weapons (AAA-AW) were
attached to 3/11. According to accepted tactics, the tracked vehicles
that carried the dual-40mm AAA guns and quadruple .50-caliber machine guns, were distributed throughout the motor column. The 155s
and my own Item Battery were left in position to support the advance,
their fire controlled by Item Battery’s battery fire chart beefed up by
battalion FDC personnel and communicators. Several tanks, however,
were immobilized by mines, thus forming effective roadblocks. Anxious to deploy George and How batteries in a forward position from
which we could reach beyond Uijongbu, we were frustrated not only by
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the tanks but also the tracked AAA. It was necessary to order the AAA
to take position on the edge of the road so that we could maneuver the
firing batteries through them and on up the road into position. We learned,
in fact, that attaching an AAA battery to a field artillery battalion is not
a good idea. It is well nigh impossible to site the tracked vehicles so that
they do not interfere with artillery displacements, communications, and
ammunition resupply; their desire to reposition themselves is frequently
disruptive; control of their often indiscriminate fire is difficult; and they
attract attention. In short, a field artillery battalion is better off without
whatever contribution AAA makes to local security. My recommendations to Colonel Litzenberg on the subject were forthright, and the 7th
RCT had no AAA attached thereafter.
That night we fired from both forward and rear positions. As long as
we had enemy targets under fire from the rear, it was inadvisable to
move Item Battery forward. This was our first experience with a split
FDC, a practice that was to become commonplace up north. During this
period Captain Ben Read and I visited the front lines atop a hill a few
miles north of Seoul. While Ben checked in with his liaison officer and
the infantry battalion commander, I went on to see the FO in that sector.
Second Lieutenant Donald H. Campbell was a Reserve from Aptos,
California, who had never conducted a fire mission. I instructed him in
the simplest terms I knew for fifteen minutes. That night, he called in a
fire mission and was able, with a little patience and assistance from the
FDC, to bring fire to bear on an enemy target.
Don was not unique. Eight of my nine FOs were Reservists, and I
suspect that most were at least rusty in firing technique if indeed they
had ever fired a live mission at all. These largely untried observers,
important keys to 3/11 success, were our major weakness—our only
serious one. The light action around Seoul and to Uijongbu was an
opportunity to give these officers some urgently needed training. It was
not much but, they learned their trade. By the time they were called
upon to produce in the Korean northland, they were ready.
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Night Displacement
Historians and other commentators have already challenged the
advisability of General MacArthur’s sudden command to halt 1st Marine
Division north of Uijongbu. The division withdrew to Inchon and
eventually performed an amphibious end-around to Wonsan. That it
removed ground pressure from the retreating North Koreans is
indisputable. That it gave the Chinese a few more days to prepare to
intervene also seems incontestable. But it is doubtful that MacArthur’s
sudden command made much difference to the ultimate outcome. At
the time some of us at Uijongbu jumped to the parochial and, in
retrospect, silly conclusion that General MacArthur wanted a U.S. Army
division to be the first to cross the 38th parallel into North Korea. Our
cynicism was not without some foundation, however. For example, we
had learned that despite the fact that supplies of all kinds were needed
by front-line troops, the first pontoon bridge across the Han had remained
unused for many hours until MacArthur arrived to cut the ribbon to
inaugurate its use.
At Inchon we boarded the USS Aiken Victory and the USS Titania
and ships of the Supreme Command, Allied Powers, Japan (SCAJAP)—
LST QO44 and LST Q092. We voyaged down the Yellow Sea, through
the Korea Strait, and up the Sea of Japan to cruise off Wonsan while the
Navy painstakingly swept the harbor of mines. It was an eerie experience,
sharing the LST with a Japanese crew who only five years earlier had
been our mortal enemies. For each of the three meals every day, the
Japanese would eat first. The crew cleaned up the kitchen, mess hall,
and wardroom swiftly and efficiently and then turned them over to our
cooks and messmen. We ate entirely different meals. One afternoon we
even had pizzas—a morale booster even though only a modest culinary
success. We languished from October 15 to October 26 on the LST,
most of the time boring holes in the water off Wonsan. There were no
unpleasant incidents between Marines and Japanese.
About a week before we landed at Wonsan, we suffered our first
officer casualty. Captain Robert A. Thompson, our logistics officer and
CO of Service Battery, had developed an eye infection so serious that
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he had to be transferred in open sea by breeches buoy to a destroyer for
further delivery to a hospital ship. Bob had done a superior job under
the most adverse conditions from rounding up ammunition at Camp
Pendleton to outfitting the battalion with vehicles and equipment, to
providing logistic support from Inchon to Uijongbu, to embarkation
aboard ship at Inchon. To say that he was not missed would be untrue.
But we had such a wealth of talented officers—the like of which I have
never seen before or since in a single battalion—that his replacement
did not represent a serious problem.
This was not altogether accidental, for the 3/11 command philosophy
stressed the accumulation of talent. Three of my most valuable officers—
Major Callender and Captains Read and McLaurin—had been sought
and acquired at Camp Lejeune. At Camp Pendleton we had scoured the
base for competent officers, artillerymen, and otherwise. At Inchon I
discovered Captain Robert T. Patterson languishing in an inconsequential
job in 4/11 and talked Major Bill McReynolds into giving him to me on
the promise that I would find him a good billet. (As a first lieutenant in
Okinawa, Bob had commanded K/4/15, and I knew his worth.) Of course,
there are situations when an overabundance of talent will cause you
problems, but combat is not likely to be one of them. Officers are killed,
wounded, become sick or are transferred to other units, and having a
capable replacement on hand may be the difference between giving
superior or mediocre support to the infantry.
Once ashore at Wonsan we were somewhat annoyed that Bob Hope
and his touring troupe were already entertaining the servicemen in the
area. We were soon apprised, however, that there was serious business
ahead. On October 27, 3/11 was again attached to the 7th Marines. I
reported to Colonel Litzenberg at his CP, a schoolhouse just north of
Wonsan, and learned that the 7th RCT would spearhead 1st Marine
Division’s dash northward to the Yalu River—the border with China.
Inasmuch as little resistance was expected, we were to make all haste,
with the infantry leapfrogging battalions by truck whenever possible.
As soon as new winter clothing could be drawn from Division, we were
to get under way. A long winter campaign in the mountains of North
Korea was not anticipated, and the skimpy cold-weather gear available
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was a far cry from the clothing and equipment with which Korean
veterans of future winters would be outfitted. Our shoe-pacs presented
particular problems. I wore the same paratrooper boots that I had worn
on Okinawa because the liners of the shoe-pac tended to freeze to the
foot when they became sweaty and then cooled off.
Major Dave Mell, the 7th Marines logistics officer (S-4), was urged
to think in terms of “plus 700” for all supplies needed for the trek north.
Although surprised at our requirements for gas, communications
replacements, and ammunition, he took on this additional burden without
complaint.
Stripped down so that all gear and ammunition could be carried in
organic transport in one trip, 3/11 covered the 65 miles to Hamhung
over steep mountain roads. The roads were well suited to ambush, but
we arrived without incident. After a situation briefing at I Republic of
Korea (ROK) Army Corps Headquarters, I positioned the battalion facing
west in a field about a mile south of the bridge into Hamhung. While
awaiting the arrival of the infantry battalions by train, we reconnoitered
the broad valley stretching west from Hamhung up to where the ROK
lines were drawn. It was a pleasant 30-mile drive up the narrowing valley
in the autumn coolness. We drove alongside a clear, swift-running stream.
Our 1:250,000 map told us that the stream would accompany us up the
mountains to the Chosin Reservoir, which was less than halfway to our
objective on the Yalu.
At Majon-dong, a hamlet a mile from the head of the valley, I came
upon a U.S. Army major and captain, military advisors to the Republic
of Korea (ROK) Army’s 26th Infantry Regiment, who informed me that
“Chinese volunteers” had met the ROKs head-on and had driven them
back from Sudong. They were now trying to regain suitable ground to
facilitate the passage of lines by the 7th Marines. Returning to Hamhung,
I reported to Colonel Litzenberg and was directed to lead the regimental
column to Majon-dong in the morning. Just after Reds Miller, Jimmy
Callender, and I had turned in at about 11:00 P.M., there was a rapping
at the window of the school building we were using as a CP. There were
two Marines with a jack-o’-lantern—a real pumpkin they had scrounged
to let Halloween slip by without notice.
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About midnight Colonel Litzenberg telephoned to order 3/11 to move
across the river into Hamhung immediately—reportedly, a Chinese
Communist division was moving on us from the southwest. With the
7th Marines north of the river, we were in an untenable position; he
wanted us to move within the city and to be prepared to shoot to the
southwest. An unplanned night displacement is one thing. Add to this
the imponderables of a strange Asian city and a moonless night, and
you have the ingredients of a disaster.
My small reconnaissance party, made up chiefly of the three firingbattery commanders, plunged determinedly into the inky night in search
of an appropriate battalion position. Reds was to form up the battalion,
lead it to a designated site, and wait for us. We probed cautiously through
the city in almost total darkness, casting about for a suitable park or
open area. After poking down one street after another, careful to maintain
our bearings, we came upon a sizable schoolyard. By the time we made
our way back to the rendezvous area, Reds was getting a little nervous.
He had kept the battalion moving around in a circle several blocks on a
side, preferring some movement to sitting in suspenseful waiting. We
reached the schoolyard at about 3:00 A.M., put the batteries in position,
and did a little digging in. Since our orders for the morning still stood,
we moved out again at first light.
As we proceeded slowly up the peaceful valley along a route that
was to become famous before the month was out, I had ample opportunity
to ponder the lesson of the unpleasant night. The message seemed clear:
Reconnoiter positions in all directions, no matter how seemingly
improbable the chance of occupation. At 9:00 A.M., we went into position
at Majon-dong to await the arrival of the 7th Marines. That night we
went to sleep without having fired a round.
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