The rain came down by the bucketful morning, noon, and night. The roads turned into two-foot-deep mud, causing jeeps to sink in halfway up the tires. Road depressions around the camp turned into ponds. Soldiers found it impossible to stay dry. I can candidly tell you that there’s nothing like fighting a war with soggy socks.
Sergeant McQuiston entered the tent I had the men erect for planning purposes. “How long is this torrent going to last?”
“As long as the gods of rain decree,” I said sarcastically. “Hell, I got no idea.”
“Sure eats on you,” McQuiston said. “Washes your enthusiasm right down the drain.”
I nodded. “Do I ever understand.”
“The downpour’s got to affect our overall planning.”
I nodded. “Right now, I’m going up to Command if I can get my jeep to drive through the mud. I’ll bring back some insight. Tell the men to sit tight.”
“Sit tight in a mud puddle?”
I laughed. “Try finding a little better shelter than that.”
McQuiston left and I started the jeep. My poncho helped, but my boots had been through the waterworks. Most of the way, I tried to drive on the side of the road and stay out of the tracks. I could see that if I dropped off into one of those old ruts, the trail might turn into a riverbed and I’d be stuck for hours. Made driving go slow, but eventually I got there.
Men stood at attention as I slipped into the back row. Standing in rigid posture, my toes felt like they were swimming in my combat boots. General James Bradley already stood at the podium.
“At ease,” the general said. “Please sit down.”
We sat on ramshackle field chairs someone had dragged in from heaven knows where.
“The constant rain now presents us with a field problem,” the general said. “Of course, I know that your men are faced with significant discomfort, but that’s only a minor problem. If the monsoon continues, the tanks won’t be able to move, and we will lose the critical support they give us. Without tank support, we would soon be faced with disaster.” Bradley turned to the large map behind him and pointed out the terrain to be faced.
“We must control these areas to stay on the move. The city of Shuri is not that far away as the crow flies, and the time has come for us to sprout wings. I do not believe we can wait for the skies to clear. We must strike even if it is in the rain. Is that understood?”
The officers around the room nodded their heads.
“On the twenty-first of May, I am asking you commanders to make a supreme effort to deliver a knockout blow. To start us down that road, the 382nd Infantry will assault the Oboe Hill area. We must hit them hard and fast, even in the mud.” Bradley looked over the heads of the men straight at me. “The 361st Field Artillery will soften the area first and then support their strike with heavy artillery. Major Charles Johnson’s First Battalion has just had a five-day rest and should be ready to move out and hit Oboe direct. The Second Battalion has the task of working on those little side hills Hen and Hector.”
General Bradley stopped and took a deep breath. “I know, I know. We are asking a great deal in this weather, but if we don’t succeed now, we will pay a high price later. Is that clear?”
Once again, the officers voiced their affirmation.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” the general said. “Let’s go get ’em.”
The officers quickly headed for the door. I fired up my jeep and started back the way I’d come, trying to avoid disappearing in a mud hole ten feet deep. Not far in front of me a convoy had gotten stuck in the mud. Big trucks were trying to pull the front jeep out of a quagmire so they could get moving again. A two-and-a-half-ton 6x6 truck had a chain on the jeep’s bumper and was trying to pull him backward. Another Mack NW military truck stood ready to join the effort. Obviously, I wasn’t going to get past this mess if I stayed on the same road.
I swung off the road and started a bouncing, bumpy drive over a rocky shoulder. I kept praying the tires would hold. Since I wasn’t a believing or praying man, the situation certainly had to be exasperating. Somehow, I kept going.
* * *
Sergeant McQuiston was waiting for me when I pulled into our camp. He had the usual poncho pulled over his helmet and looked relatively miserable.
“What’d you learn . . . sir?” he asked.
“The party’s about to start,” I explained. “You need to get the men lined up to fire the cannons. We’ve got to provide support for the 382nd Infantry. Even with the precipitation, we’re about to attack big-time.”
McQuiston blinked. “Really?”
“What’d I just say?”
The sergeant rubbed the rain off his face. “I guess it don’t matter none that we’re about to drown.”
“Don’t turn into a soap opera on me,” I said. “Let’s get the men hustling. The attack on Dick Left Hill is about to begin.”
McQuiston saluted and took off.
Actually, Lieutenant William Stock’s First Platoon of Company F had already started up the hill. As they got near the top, the Japanese greeted them with those inevitable grenades. The platoon quickly discovered they couldn’t shoot at what they couldn’t see. The Japanese had camouflaged themselves so well, the men weren’t able to find a target.
The men put their M-1 rifles down and started throwing grenades. The twenty men hurling the bombs at the Japanese eventually slung more than three hundred pounds of explosives over the crest. They had dropped five hundred hand grenades on the enemy, and that took its toll. The Japanese began to pull back as their men fell left and right.
We opened up with our howitzers and aimed at the top of the hill. By one o’clock we had literally blown off the crest of the hill. Our shells had made mincemeat out of anybody still up there. The First Platoon picked up their rifles and marched forward. The battle for Dick Hill was finished. The Japanese had lost again.
* * *
Meanwhile the First Battalion charged against Oboe Hill, fighting oppressive odds and waiting for us to show up. Lieutenant Colonel Ed List and his men came rolling in with bullets flying past them like angry mosquitoes.
Major Byron King thought the enemy must have fifty machine guns firing at them. They had to stay on the ground. Captain Hugh Young knew they couldn’t stop. If they stayed put, they would eventually be blown away.
They had to stay moving targets on a steep slope.
For a few moments, the men were silent. Then Major King stood up and ordered them to annihilate the goofballs. King charged straight ahead shouting for the men to hit the bastards.
The deadly bullets of terror only increased. Almost lying on the ground, the men didn’t stop creeping onward. But the torrent of death didn’t stop. Eventually, the small group of survivors got to the top of the hill. The Japanese must have been confounded trying to explain the kind of enemy they faced. They had just been overwhelmed by one of the most heroic groups of men in the war.
At dusk, fifty Japanese charged up a gap between C and L Companies. While they were turned back, A Company and part of B were knocked off the hill. Lieutenant Al Wilson wouldn’t let matters stand: he started a counterattack. The Japanese kept up their assault and endlessly rained machine-gun fire on the men. But Wilson’s men wouldn’t quit and kept pushing back. For six hours the battle raged.
Japanese artillery fire opened up on A and B Companies. Once more C Company came under assault. A few Japanese broke through and set up machine guns, firing in every direction. All through the night, the combat continued, but when morning came the doughboys had hung on. The big punch General Bradley wanted in the rain and mud had been delivered. Most of the men had become so exhausted that they were virtually asleep on their feet.
No matter what else had occurred, the Japanese had been cut to ribbons. The monsoon hadn’t stopped us.