CHAPTER 18

Muddle at Makin

On or about 17 June, at the tail of the letter Mountbatten sent to Roosevelt, which was referred to in Chapter 15, he touched also upon the dramatic change in Allied fortunes in the Pacific:

 

As the result of the recent losses inflicted by the US Fleet on the Japanese Fleet, particularly their aircraft carriers, there was a general desire to take the offensive from Australia, using the existing US Marine forces and combat shipping.

General Marshall had suggested going for Timor and General MacArthur [C-in-C South West Pacific Area] had telegraphed on his own suggesting making for Rabaul. I said that you and General Marshall were anxious that two British aircraft carriers with their destroyer screen should join the American forces in Australia to support these operations, and that there had also been a suggestion that the amphibious force which had assaulted Madagascar should be used for operations against the Japanese.

 

This was one offspring of Rear Admiral Turner’s operational concept in April: ‘Available air, amphibious and naval forces will make minor offensive actions against enemy advanced positions and against exposed naval forces for purposes of attrition’ – a halfway approach to large-scale raiding. Known as Operation Watchtower, the landings on Tulagi and Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands marked the end of eight months’ Japanese expansion. On 25 June, a week after Churchill and Brooke arrived in Washington for renewed discussions about, among other pressing matters, a Second Front in Europe in 1942, orders for Watchtower were issued by Admiral King to Nimitz. The reaction of the latter was sceptical concerning what he referred to as ‘Operation Shoestring’. Evolving, as is usually the way with risky schemes, through a series of fits, starts and amendments, the plan was finally settled in Nimitz’s Pacific Ocean Area under Vice Admiral R. L. Ghormley’s strategic direction. The Amphibious Force would operate under the recently appointed Turner, with the British Rear Admiral V. A. C. Crutchley VC as his second-in-command. Consisting of five US cruisers and 15 destroyers, three Australian cruisers and the 1st Marine Division (under Major-General A. A. Vandegrift), this was predominantly an American expedition, the proposal to incorporate British aircraft carriers and 5 Commando having to be dropped since the capture of Madagascar was incomplete. Air power was therefore also an American responsibility. The initial assault was to be covered by 250 aircraft from three US Navy (USN) aircraft carriers under Rear Admiral L. Noyes, backed up by 261 USN, Marine and Army aircraft, plus 30 Royal New Zealand Air Force machines. But as none of the latter 291 possessed the range to operate over the Sealark Channel, the main prerequisite of Watchtower was the immediate seizure of an airfield, Henderson Field, on Guadalcanal. If that was not achieved quickly there was every likelihood that the invasion would rapidly be converted into hit-and-run, with emphasis on the latter.

Since Operation Watchtower achieved a strong lodgement ashore, it escaped becoming a hit-and-run operation and, as such, also evades description in detail here, except in so far as to say it strongly influenced the American raiding forces’ future. At Tulagi, Lieutenant-Colonel Edson’s 1st Raider Battalion and the follow-up waves provided by Major R. M. Williams’s 1st Parachute Battalion, deprived of their ordained means of arrival because no transport aircraft were available and the ground was unsuitable for dropping, acted as spearhead troops, in the manner of conventional light infantry. But the fact that they attacked with the élan expected of an elite could not disguise the defects of their techniques. Like Commandos in Europe, the 1st Raiders, suffering from inadequate intelligence of enemy and shore line, became hung-up on undetected reefs and might have been destroyed had not the Japanese been taken completely by surprise by Turner’s overall plan. As it was, the Raiders and Parachutists did well at Tulagi and later on Guadalcanal, sufficiently well to lay substantial claim to a permanent place in the Marine order of battle.

For 2nd Raider Battalion it was different. Once Watchtower obviated Admiral Nimitz’s scheme of 28 May to raid Tulagi, a new task had to be found for Carlson’s men, ostensibly as a trial for very long-range hit-and-run attacks. He plumped for the idea of using two submarines – Nautilus and Argonaut – to carry the Raiders to the Japanese-held island of Makin in the Gilbert Islands. The stated aim was five-fold – seek intelligence, destroy enemy installations, distract attention from Guadalcanal, test raider techniques and boost morale back in the States.

Under Carlson’s enthusiastic direction, they set sail on what was to prove a most uncomfortable and cramped eight-day voyage of 2,500 miles from Hawaii, arriving off Butaritari Island on 16 August in the entirely false expectations of finding the lagoon entrance covered by an enemy battery and the island garrisoned by about 250 men. That being so, Carlson planned, early on the 17th, to land 222 men in rubber inflatable boats through the surf on the seaward side of the island. But confusion when launching from the submarines, and the failure of several outboard motors, brought a change of mind and a last-minute change of plans. Now it was to be ‘follow me’ to a single landing place, instead of two as previously intended. Unfortunately one platoon leader, Lieutenant O. F. Peatross, did not hear the change of plan through the noise of the sea during launching from Nautilus, and went ashore where first intended, over a mile from Carlson and the other 15 boatloads.

The local natives, who gave immense help all along, later suggested that the 43 Japanese Marines under Chief Warrant Officer Kanemitsu, were forewarned. If this is so, their defences were ill-prepared and they were completely taken by surprise. Both Carlson’s and Peatross’ parties got ashore unseen – and might well have remained undetected until ready to attack had one Raider not accidentally loosed off his rifle while forming up to advance towards the suspected enemy main position. As a result they encountered stiff opposition, became involved in a fire-fight and lost momentum. At this point Sergeant C. Thomason took charge, winning a Congressional Medal of Honor by his example. On one occasion ‘he dauntlessly walked up to a house which concealed an enemy sniper, forced in the door and shot the man before he could resist’. Later he led the assault which cost him his life, but in so doing broke the back of Japanese resistance at the lagoon side, though in the confusion this was not realized by Carlson. Meanwhile Peatross had advanced in accordance with his original orders and arrived unopposed with 11 Raiders at a rendezvous where nobody else was waiting – and in the enemy rear. His bold attack on the lagoon sector also made progress and several enemy were killed, but at loss to himself and without making contact with Carlson. So he crossed to the sea sector and, as one account says, ‘Puzzled, Peatross and his remaining seven men (several of them wounded) repaired to their boats and returned to Nautilus.’

Meanwhile Kanemitsu had sent a radio message warning his superiors. Soon help was on the way. As Carlson’s fight for the main enemy position was rising to its climax, two small Japanese ships, later said to contain 60 reinforcements, entered the lagoon and were sunk by 65 rounds of 6-inch shells from Nautilus which picked up Carlson’s radio call for help but thereafter had to conduct an incredible unobserved shoot because Carlson’s radio broke down. Next came the Japanese bombing, successive missions by bombers and flying boats, none of which inflicted casualties because the Raiders simply took cover. But the two flying boats which landed in the lagoon did manage to put 35 men ashore before being destroyed.

Towards the end of a day which Carlson sensed had gone wrong, he decided to withdraw to the submarines, an hour or so ahead of the original schedule, in the belief that the enemy, who were counter-attacking vigorously, and who had sent a message boasting ‘We are dying in battle’, were unbroken. Once more the surf and outboard-engine failure wrecked his plan; men and boats were flung back on the beach because paddles could not match the power of the sea. Only 70 men reached the submarines; some were drowned and the remaining 100, most of their weapons lost, soaked by heavy rain and fearing the arrival of strong Japanese reinforcements, stayed ashore in despair. At midnight Carlson called a forum, not to give orders, but, according to his creed, to ask the others their opinion and let them do as they chose – surrender or try to escape. Sergeant Herrero and five men elected to try again and made it to the submarines that night, as did Major Roosevelt and 15 more at dawn. The rest opted to surrender. Carlson sent out emissaries who discovered, to their astonishment, that apart from a few stragglers, who were shot, the enemy were all dead. Moreover, no battery guarded the lagoon entrance, so it was a simple matter to bring in the submarine to pick up the survivors in calm water. Yet confusion reigned supreme to the end. Nobody really knew who was dead and who had escaped and everybody was anxious to be off. The next scheme – to raid Little Makin – was sensibly abandoned. Unhappily an inaccurate count left nine marines still ashore and they, in due course, were captured and ceremonially beheaded.

Carlson claimed a victory. At a cost of 30 men and large quantities of equipment, much heavier losses had been inflicted upon the Japanese. The press let themselves go, extolling the exploit, describing the Raiders as ‘experts in death, demolition and destruction’, and printing their battle song (sung to the tune of Ivan Skavinsky, Skavar) with generous references to Carlson and ‘Gung Ho’. The Marine hierarchy and the navy were content to let it go at that. They suspected then, what later was written in the official Marine History, that the Makin raid’s ‘military significance was negligible’ – an account which left unrecorded the fiasco of the surrender attempt and the sad story of the nine men left behind.6 

Of greater direct help in the grim, main battle of Guadalcanal was a dawn raid on 8 September by elements of 1st Parachute and 1st Raider Battalions, under Edson’s command, against the enemy supply base at Tasimboko village. Coming ashore as flank protection, the parachutists held off intruders while the Raiders rushed the village, supported by heavy fire. Staunchly the Japanese fought back, but surprise and superior firepower put them to flight. Triumphantly, and with few casualties, the Raiders set the supply dumps alight and withdrew, unmolested, at nightfall. This was text-book hit-and-run raiding in the best Marine tradition, which, for the time being, guaranteed the Raiding Forces’ future. Edson’s exploits at Tulagi and Tasimboko, added to the public acclaim for Carlson’s escapades at Makin, impressed middle-ranking Marines and, of vital significance, Rear Admiral Turner. Intent on getting at small enemy detachments scattered about the Solomons, he wrote to Ghormley on 29 August:

 

In many circumstances in the future amphibious warfare in the South Pacific it is believed that a Marine Regiment, or part of a Marine Regiment, or two Marine Regiments, will be the size of force appropriate for offensive and defensive amphibious operations. The employment of a division as a landing unit seems less likely. In some cases, night landings by small units will be useful for preparing bridgeheads for the main landing [the] next day… The previous concept that Raider and Parachute Battalions are always division or corps troops is no longer agreed to.

 

Let it be noted that Turner was not, as some critics have since asserted, demanding the abolition of amphibious operations by large formations. He was merely saying that, at that stage of the war, it was less likely to be that way and that there was a need for more raiding units which could be introduced more flexibly into battle on what came to be known as the ‘brick’ system.

Authorized in writing by the Joint Chiefs of Staff to be ‘in command of the naval, ground and air units assigned to the amphibious forces in the South Pacific area’, and never challenged at the time by Marine commanders, Turner went on to declare that, ‘unless directed to the contrary’, he would proceed with the organization of Provisional Raider Battalions in the 2nd, 7th and 8th Marines. Turner’s real offence, as picked on at the time by Nimitz, Ghormley and senior Marines, was failure to consult General Vandegrift before sending the letter, and for ordering the ‘idle’ 2nd Marines to form a Provisional Battalion at once. The order was cancelled from on high and Carlson’s established 2nd Raider Battalion sent to Guadalcanal. But despite ruffled feathers, the Marines Commandant, General Holcomb, felt bound to concede that ‘the commanders in the field seemed, however, to favor the formation of more raider units and that he would interpose no objection’.

Turner was marked black forever in the eyes of proud Marines who ‘regretted’ that he seemed to claim ‘possession’ of Marines. Ever since, they have rarely passed up an opportunity in the writing of history to warp the record by omitting mention of Turner’s legitimate reasons for acting as he did. The Rear Admiral, of course, was too clever and outspoken for some; highly respected, often feared, loved only by those who knew him well, he was the last person on earth to court popularity.

Despite the ‘possession’ row, the 3rd Raider Battalion, formed from volunteers, was activated at Samoa, and the 4th raised in California a month later and used as a cadre for the Raider Training Center in February 1943. And on Guadalcanal the Raider and Parachute battalions continued to enhance their reputation as fine go-ahead troops – but mainly for orthodox flank landings, as at Tasimboko, of the sort Admiral King, as well as Turner, envisaged. Meanwhile the Marine enemies of elite Raiders bided their time and the Japanese gave careful consideration to the lessons of Makin as a taste of what lay over the horizon.

Back in Europe, the Germans too were worrying along somewhat similar lines.