“Who’s your favorite movie star?” Sergeant McQuiston asked me.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Ingrid Bergman is a good start.” I leaned back against the howitzer cannon to see what the other men standing around smoking would say.
Lieutenant John Hayes laughed. “Make mine Veronica Lake. Man! The peek-a-boo girl! Is she ever a sultry dame!”
“Too smokin’ hot for me,” Hans Goins said. “I want ’em on the cool side. You know. Like a Donna Reed variety.” He took a big puff on his cigarette. “Now there’s a beauty for you.”
The ground shook from an explosion far enough away that we felt it only with our boots.
“You guys are wandering down dreamland road,” I said. “Come on. We’re fighting a war.”
“Yeah, but you can still dream,” Swinging Bill Arnold said. “No law against that.”
“For me, I’ll take Maureen O’Hara any day,” McQuiston said. “Now, that Irish lass has eyes and lips meant only for the likes of me. What a beauty!”
Hayes snorted. “She wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole if they carried you in wrapped in Christmas paper.”
The men laughed. We all knew we needed to stay in touch with home, and movie stars were one enjoyable way to do so. We were all just blowin’ smoke and killing time until the day’s orders came in.
The walkie-talkie rang. “Yeah,” McQuiston said.
“General Bradley’s ordered you to hit the Japanese with full force. We want the 361st Artillery Battalion to fire constantly. Hit ’em with all you got.”
“When do we start, sir?”
“Right now. Be extra cautious if you see any Japanese running out of the bushes toward you. Last night the First Battalion killed sixteen Japanese charging toward them. When the bodies were examined, they discovered that the uniforms had been soaked in a flammable substance that might ignite when they were hit. Looks like the Japanese have come up with a new, gruesome approach to the old kamikaze trick. They tried human torches as a new way to get us. Hasn’t worked, but you don’t want one of those fireballs dropping in on you.”
“God almighty!” McQuiston said. “We don’t need that one for sure.”
“Here’s your coordinates. You’re going to be firing at Conical and Dick Hills to help maintain the toehold we’ve gained.”
McQuiston scribbled the numbers down.
“It’s important for you to soften up the area. Tell your artillery personnel that they are preparing the way for the infantry. That’s it.” The phone became silent.
“Okay, men!” McQuiston shouted. “Gather around. I got the numbers.”
* * *
The various companies began moving out. The Japanese knew we were coming and started hitting us with everything they had. B Company quickly worked their way up Dick Able hill even though the day before they had been hit with everything but the garage door. C Company attacked Dick Right.
By late afternoon, C Company had been whittled down to only forty riflemen. Nevertheless, the forty proved to be the toughest guys around. With a remarkable show of strength, they made their way to the crest and dug in just below the skyline. To get to that point, they had killed twenty-five Japanese and knocked out two machine-gun emplacements.
Once they were on top, they discovered a cave about two hundred yards away. The enemy had been firing from there.
Captain Newell knew that the caves were loaded with Japanese. He told the men to throw a couple of satchel charges in and see what happened, and to have their weapons ready to fire at whatever came out.
PFC Frank Jones crawled cautiously on his belly until he was close enough to throw the satchels in. He didn’t move when the explosives shook the ground.
C Company watched the smoke roll out of the cave. Abruptly, a long stick was extended with a white flag tied on it.
The soldier standing next to Newell asked if that flag really meant anything.
Newell shook his head. He knew those boys had killed some of our men with that little tactic. They probably were wired with explosives. When they got close enough to the Americans, they’d pop the cork. Chivalry had died a long time ago out there.
The soldiers opened up on the eleven men waving white flags, dropping them where they stood.
* * *
The only hill that remained under Japanese control was Dick Left. Colonel Macey Dill and the 382nd Infantry knew they were sitting on a hot area and didn’t want to move. As the sun began to set, the fighting escalated. Grenades went back and forth. A supply line sending up hand grenades to our doughboys continued to work through the night. The First Battalion poured more than a thousand rounds of mortar fire on the enemy. This time the Japanese wouldn’t give. By morning the exhausted American soldiers were forced off the hill.
The First Battalion had been so seriously mauled in the exchange that their efficiency had been impaired. Company E moved in and quickly faced the same battle, keeping the grenade exchange continuing. Sergeant Gerald Sisk tried to move the unit forward, but in ten minutes seven men were hit.
One of the soldiers asked what they were going to do.
Try not to get killed, Sisk guessed.
The grenades kept flying.
Fire went back and forth. Machine guns raked the troops, and there didn’t appear to be any way to get at the Japanese. The men stayed in position, shooting at anything that moved in front of them. They couldn’t see that their returned fire made any difference.
Finally, Sergeant Sisk got the company commander, Lieutenant Charles C. Renick, on the walkie-talkie and reported that they were pinned down and didn’t know which way to turn.
After a long pause, Renick said he didn’t think they had much to lose by rushing over the crest of the hill. The Japanese weren’t expecting it. If the unit stayed where they were, they were going to see more and more men die.
Sisk shuddered and asked if he meant to charge right at them.
Renick saw no other way.
Sisk hung up the phone and made the sign of the cross on his chest.
He told the men what Command wanted. They should go over the crest and shove their guns down the enemy’s throats. He jumped up and charged forward. The men fell in behind him.
PFC Clayton Orr became the first man to go over the top. Sergeant Garfield Arnsdorf followed along with PFC Aida Amdahl. When PFC Clark Butler came next, he was instantly killed. Platoon leader Lieutenant Neal Bridenbaugh directed the men to settle into defensive positions. Intensive fire knocked Bridenbaugh to the ground and Sergeant Michael Schneider had to take over.
Twenty-five men fell in their attack, leaving only fifteen to defend the crest. The situation was precarious to say the least. Men in the Second Platoon suffered fourteen casualties. The survivors started digging foxholes while lying on their bellies.
On May 16, the company’s mortar section set up at the base of the hill. For three days, they fired 1,400 rounds a day. Actually, they were shooting 120 rounds a minute. Case after case of grenades and ammunition were lugged up the battle-worn hill. In turn, twelve bodies were carried back down and forty wounded men came back from the crest. As terrible as the price had been, we had gained an observation position that the Japanese had previously used against us. We could see them just as they had once watched us.
Late that afternoon, we discovered Japanese marching up the road from Shuri. As our soldiers watched, another group came swinging down the road like they were going to a Sunday-school picnic. The company called us at our station.
“Major Shaw, we want your artillery unit to zero in on a road leading to Shuri. I’ll give you the coordinates. We think you can wipe out a couple of squads of the enemy.”
“Okay,” I said. “Give ’em to me.”
As soon as the officer got off the phone, I informed the men. “You’ve wondered what difference we make. Right now, we’re going to blast a good-sized group of the enemy all to hell. Fire up, men.”
When all the cannons fired at the same time, the ground and everything else in sight shook. We kept firing until I got the last phone call of the evening.
“Your doughboys did it, Major Shaw,” the voice said. “You wiped them out.”