How I fell in love with the Navy
True Story
"You’ll be sorry!" sailors yelled from the rails of the warship while their big guns blasted shells over our heads and loudspeakers played 'The Marine Corps Hymn.' We were in choppy water leading the first wave of Marines toward the beach. It was L-Day on Okinawa, April Fools Day, 1945.
We crawled onto the island without incident. The Japanese commander had decided to let us in unopposed, a very different reception from what we had experienced on our previous assault—Peleliu, arguably the bloodiest island battle in the Pacific war.
I was a 22-year-old sergeant in charge of the first platoon, 'A' company, 3rd Armored Amphibian Tractor Battalion, III Amphibian Corps attached to the First Marine Division.
For most of the campaign our amphib tanks (LVTAs) were used as artillery, firing 75 millimeter howitzers over the heads of advancing troops. We had it easy, encountering few problems beyond struggling through thick mud and dodging stray bullets from overhead dogfights. In late May we were assigned to shore patrol where Japanese forces attempted a counter landing. But in early June near Itoman on the southern tip of the island, we were given an assignment that would have blown us off the earth if it hadn't been for the navy.
Captain Wilfred S. LaFrancois, battalion executive officer (recently an advisor on the filming of the movie "Gung Ho"), was given an assignment to destroy Japanese coastal gun emplacements. This led to sending my platoon of five tanks to a small coral reef from which we were to blast away at an artillery piece that was several hundred yards from us, fifty feet or so above sea level in a cave in the face of a cliff. Apparently the captain didn’t realize that if we could fire directly into the cave, the Japanese could fire directly at us—and they had a bigger gun.
The reef was about the size of a football field, located offshore maybe three hundred feet. The toward-land half was sheltered by an eight-foot coral mound. The outer half, where we lined up our tanks, was flat and unprotected.
Before we could train our howitzers on the cliff, the Japanese turned their gun on us. The explosions frightened the few men who had stayed on the tanks to crawl and stumble to safety behind the mound where all of us huddled, looking worriedly at each other, wondering what the hell we were going to do.
When the tanks were disabled—two of them destroyed—the mound became the target. Our tiny reef shook with every blast. We watched metal and coral fly over our heads and knew that the mound would eventually be demolished and we would be annihilated. Some prayed, some just waited, some eyed the shallow water between us and the mainland, calculating how long it would take to wade to shore. A few tried. They plunged into the water, realized they were visible from the cliff, and turned back.
I can still hear the man out there whose hand was sliced off by shrapnel running toward us screaming "My head is blown off! My head is blown off!" Without realizing that his hand was missing, he had reached for his face and couldn’t find it. Men pulled him to the wall and bound his arm to stop the bleeding. We all watched him, frightened for him.
Except John Flanagan, our signalman, who was sprawled at the edge of the mound, beckoning to me. I lay beside him while he sent an SOS to what seemed to be a gray island several miles in the distance. It was a battleship.
Neither John nor I thought it would come to our aid: we were only a handful of marines.
We couldn't believe it was turning, slowly moving toward us. I yelled at the men to stay down. I watched and waited and saw fire from those 16-inch guns and felt the blast as their shells peeled off the front of that cliff, destroying the gun position and everyone manning it. I told the men what was happening. We waited through five minutes of silence, then helped our wounded cross the shallow water to marines watching us from the shore.
I will never forget the awe I felt at the majesty of that massive battleship coming to rescue a few beleaguered marines. But it did. It saved us.
And that's why I fell in love with the United States Navy.
"You’ll be sorry!" sailors yelled from the rails of the warship while their big guns blasted shells over our heads and loudspeakers played 'The Marine Corps Hymn.' We were in choppy water leading the first wave of Marines toward the beach. It was L-Day on Okinawa, April Fools Day, 1945.
We crawled onto the island without incident. The Japanese commander had decided to let us in unopposed, a very different reception from what we had experienced on our previous assault—Peleliu, arguably the bloodiest island battle in the Pacific war.
I was a 22-year-old sergeant in charge of the first platoon, 'A' company, 3rd Armored Amphibian Tractor Battalion, III Amphibian Corps attached to the First Marine Division.
For most of the campaign our amphib tanks (LVTAs) were used as artillery, firing 75 millimeter howitzers over the heads of advancing troops. We had it easy, encountering few problems beyond struggling through thick mud and dodging stray bullets from overhead dogfights. In late May we were assigned to shore patrol where Japanese forces attempted a counter landing. But in early June near Itoman on the southern tip of the island, we were given an assignment that would have blown us off the earth if it hadn't been for the navy.
Captain Wilfred S. LaFrancois, battalion executive officer (recently an advisor on the filming of the movie "Gung Ho"), was given an assignment to destroy Japanese coastal gun emplacements. This led to sending my platoon of five tanks to a small coral reef from which we were to blast away at an artillery piece that was several hundred yards from us, fifty feet or so above sea level in a cave in the face of a cliff. Apparently the captain didn’t realize that if we could fire directly into the cave, the Japanese could fire directly at us—and they had a bigger gun.
The reef was about the size of a football field, located offshore maybe three hundred feet. The toward-land half was sheltered by an eight-foot coral mound. The outer half, where we lined up our tanks, was flat and unprotected.
Before we could train our howitzers on the cliff, the Japanese turned their gun on us. The explosions frightened the few men who had stayed on the tanks to crawl and stumble to safety behind the mound where all of us huddled, looking worriedly at each other, wondering what the hell we were going to do.
When the tanks were disabled—two of them destroyed—the mound became the target. Our tiny reef shook with every blast. We watched metal and coral fly over our heads and knew that the mound would eventually be demolished and we would be annihilated. Some prayed, some just waited, some eyed the shallow water between us and the mainland, calculating how long it would take to wade to shore. A few tried. They plunged into the water, realized they were visible from the cliff, and turned back.
I can still hear the man out there whose hand was sliced off by shrapnel running toward us screaming "My head is blown off! My head is blown off!" Without realizing that his hand was missing, he had reached for his face and couldn’t find it. Men pulled him to the wall and bound his arm to stop the bleeding. We all watched him, frightened for him.
Except John Flanagan, our signalman, who was sprawled at the edge of the mound, beckoning to me. I lay beside him while he sent an SOS to what seemed to be a gray island several miles in the distance. It was a battleship.
Neither John nor I thought it would come to our aid: we were only a handful of marines.
We couldn't believe it was turning, slowly moving toward us. I yelled at the men to stay down. I watched and waited and saw fire from those 16-inch guns and felt the blast as their shells peeled off the front of that cliff, destroying the gun position and everyone manning it. I told the men what was happening. We waited through five minutes of silence, then helped our wounded cross the shallow water to marines watching us from the shore.
I will never forget the awe I felt at the majesty of that massive battleship coming to rescue a few beleaguered marines. But it did. It saved us.
And that's why I fell in love with the United States Navy.
posted by Jim | 7/25/2011
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