Remembering what happened in war is hard. Not because you don’t remember, but because you can’t forget. Nobody wants to talk about what they saw. Remembering brings back images that no human being ought to see ever. The carnage erupts in your dreams or pops up before your eyes in the middle of lunch. You try to suppress the faces of dead men, lying there on the ground for two or three days, but they won’t leave no matter how long you attempt to push them out of your memories. As the decades pass, one learns not to go there. Just leave it be, but somewhere down at the bottom of your mind, the scene lingers like a movie being played over and over, day after day.
April 10 had been one of those days that hangs around forever. I watched some of what occurred; others told me their stories. Many of the encounters were reported to Command Central while I was there. The events remain graphic in all of our minds.
That same day at nine in the morning, the Third Battalion tried again to take the knolls on the northeast side of Tombstone Ridge. The results were the same. Monsoon season had begun to kick in. Rain had begun to turn the dirt into mud, roads into rivers, and that made it difficult for the tanks to move. Heavy armory couldn’t offer any significant help. As usual, the Japanese were hitting us with everything they had. Rain made visibility poor, which worked to their advantage. Because we couldn’t see where they were hiding, the downpour protected them.
By two thirty, officers could see that the advance was stymied. Fighting went back and forth with no one going anywhere. The colonel decided to pull his men back to their previous position. The big boys at Command Central needed a new strategy and it would take some time to formulate the next step. Meanwhile the Third Battalion had no other option but to sit still and take any pounding that came in. The enemy held the commanding position and all the sacrifices we made did nothing to change that advantageous posture.
The next morning, the battalion command post got smacked with everything but the kitchen door. Heavy artillery scattered the men, and the assault did not stop.
The men attempted to hide in secure positions, but the task wasn’t easy. Two mortars exploded near the camp, splattering shrapnel across the area. Another artillery blast immediately followed.
One more explosion shook the ground, followed by continuous machine-gun fire. The soldiers began returning the fire, their machine guns blasting away, but it was clear we were at a disadvantage. The enemy clearly had us dead away.
Sergeant Dick Hunter, realizing the Japanese were about to counterattack, shouted for the men to get ready. Moments later, the Japanese came pouring in. The soldiers kept shooting, but the ferocity of the attack continued to drop good men.
An explosion interrupted their conversations. Hunks of sod hurled past while the soldiers ducked, crouching down in the foxhole.
Immediately after the mortar hit, another wave of Japanese rushed out of the bushes. The men fired continuously until the enemy retreated.
Machine guns began rapid-firing again. Both men dropped back into their foxholes. Once more, the Japanese rushed forward, and the soldiers fired as rapidly as they could. The enemy fell around them, but American soldiers were also hitting the ground.
Many of the soldiers that day thought, I’m going to die out here on this godforsaken island.
By nightfall, the First Battalion took a head count to see where they were. The colonel knew they had come ashore with 770 men. Half of them were dead.
* * *
On the north side of the slope, the First Battalion had been preparing their own attack. Company A started the drive at seven o’clock with the sun barely up. They quickly got almost within yards of the crest when all hell broke loose again. The enemy began hammering the top of the hill, an easy target. A Company suddenly found themselves in a tough position to maintain. The enemy kept hurling every possible kind of artillery at them.
The soldiers wondered out loud how long they could hang on.
Sergeant Alfred Robertson answered almost automatically that they would stay there as long as necessary.
With Sioux Indian blood, Al was called “Chief.” He took it good-naturedly and answered to the title without giving it any thought.
PFC Tom White asked Chief if he was gonna do something about this little skirmish.
Chief told the boys to pay attention: he’d show them the Indian way of doing business. He adjusted a bayonet on his rifle.
To the shock of the men, Chief leaped out of the foxhole and charged the enemy. His BAR rifle spit rapid fire and Japanese fell. Chief hit the ground, rolled over, and hurled a grenade. As soon as it exploded, he leaped up and rushed the nearest Japanese, catching him in the stomach with his bayonet. The Japanese screamed and Chief hit him again before dropping back into a makeshift foxhole.
One of the enemy stood up and screamed, “Takakai! Faito!” The soldier started to run forward.
Chief calmly shot him in the head.
Another Japanese bellowed, “Kosen!”
Chief dropped him without even blinking. The Indian rolled over and slung another grenade. After the explosion, another Japanese machine-gun nest went silent. But Al didn’t stop shooting the charging enemy. One of the Japanese broke free and ran straight at him. Chief didn’t move. When the enemy swung his knife, the Indian leaned back, letting the knife sail past. In an instant, Al rammed his trench knife into the man’s throat. Then Chief stopped because none were left.
The Chief had single-handedly killed twenty-eight Japanese.
* * *
Mortar fire fell like the rain. No matter where the 383rd turned, the Japanese were on top of them. Each advance was pushed back by crucifying fire. Even through the Second Battalion got up the hill, they finally had to retreat. By the end of the day, virtually everyone in the army knew the truth: they had to rethink how to proceed.
April 11 ended in rain and mud. Every company was faced with a grim struggle. The slime and the mire seemed to be laughing at us.