Funny thing how war affects one’s identity. We all started out as average young guys growing up in average American towns doing average things like playing baseball or tormenting the girls before going after them. Many of us grew up milking cows on farms. Just easygoing kids trying to wiggle a dime out of someone so we could see a cowboy movie that included a serial each weekend. Most of us were a little on the mischievous side but meant no harm.
Then Uncle Sam picked us up, shaved our heads, and ran us through thirteen weeks of hell. When we came out of boot camp in uniforms, whatever had been was gone. We were loaded up on ships and sailed off into a world that we virtually didn’t even know existed. Guys we’d never seen before became our buddies and brothers. We were supposed to survive on K rations that became as monotonous as eating rubber. About all that was left of us was something called “a soldier.” We had become killing machines. Our motto was “Kill them or they will kill you.” All those easygoing good times were gone.
Take for example what occurred north of the town of Kamiyama. The Japanense felled trees across the road and laid mines in there, which knocked out two of our tanks from the 763rd Battalion. Colonel Cyril Sterner figured out how to avoid the confrontation by swinging his battalion to the right off the road. The tanks and infantry moved through an open field for over five hundred yards without encountering any opposition. When the enemy appeared, Sterner’s men let them have it big-time. By the end of the shootout, 148 Japanese had been killed. While I wasn’t there, I quickly heard all about the skirmish.
Around 5:45 p.m., the battalion rolled into the town of Ginowan. As the sun dropped to the horizon, the enemy opened up with a fierce round of fire. In front of the town was a low clay ridge that gave them an opportune position for shooting at us. The Second Battalion didn’t retreat but knew they were digging in for the night on dangerous ground. E Company grabbed their shovels and went to work.
Sergeant Charles Reber started shoveling out his foxhole, telling the men to keep their heads down because the Japanese might be aiming at us.
“Don’t worry,” PFC Bill Synder answered. “I ain’t stickin’ my head up none.”
“You don’t understand,” PFC James Bolger said. “We’re invincible. That’s what the army will get you. Absolute virility.”
“Ha ha,” Reber answered in a flat, emotionless voice.
The dirt kept flying. Sporadically a burst of gunfire cut through the trees. Sometimes the Second Battalion responded; sometimes they didn’t. The sun faded, and night was coming on. E Company was ready for dreamland.
Out of nowhere, four Japanese came rushing in, hurling grenades. The explosions sent shrapnel flying in all directions. E Company began firing at the shadows, but Charlie Reber fell over in his foxhole. Grenades kept exploding in a deafening roar. Bolger caught it in the hand and couldn’t shoot. Synder kept firing his pistol but wasn’t sure he was doing any good.
Three of the attackers fell, but the fourth one came straight for Lee Bland with his bayonet aimed at the sergeant’s heart. PFC Joe Mikula knocked the gun down before the enemy could stab Bland. Mikula grabbed the man’s arms and pinned them to his side. PFC Kenneth French leaped up and began pounding the Japanese in the face.
“Kill the bastard!” Bland screamed.
“Hit ’em again,” Mikula said, while holding the man’s arms down.
French didn’t say anything but kept pounding him in the face until he brought his rifle butt down on the man’s head several times. The Japanese man slumped.
“I think he’s dead,” Mikula said. “I heard his skull crack after that last blow.” He let go and the Japanese soldier crumbled in a heap on the ground, his face turned into a bloody mess.
“Looks like the attack is over,” Bland said. “Can’t tell you how much I appreciate you boys jumpin’ in. That imperial force would have killed us for sure with that bayonet.”
French kept rubbing his knuckles. “Musta hit him with all my strength. My hand is killing me . . . pardon the expression.”
Bland laughed. “You really whacked him.”
“Oh, my God!” Joe Mikula gasped. “I swallowed my false teeth! Can’t believe it! I actually swallowed my whole set . . . My teeth are gone.”
“What’ll you do?” French asked.
Bland laughed again. “Why, it’ll take surgery to get those back.”
I sat there and chuckled.
* * *
That’s how your identity gets altered. Never in a thousand years would you expect to get your teeth knocked down to your stomach. After you’ve been through some of those firefights and killed a few enemies, the encounters change how you see yourself. You know you can kill someone. Sometimes a man gets swallowed by guilt. Other times men recognize that now they know what it means, “kill or be killed.” Some of the guys just take it in stride.
But no one talks about the killing.
Clearing out that road that Sterner’s men had avoided became the job of Lieutenant Howard Tway’s Regimental Mine Platoon. While they were deactivating fifty-pound mines, the Japanese kept shooting at them with mortar and machine-gun fire. Tway’s men were swatting mosquitoes that could blow their heads off.
The fireworks back and forth lasted through the entire time it took to clear the road. When the debris and mines were cleared and the job done, one man had been killed and five other soldiers wounded. The men called the trail “a thousand yards of hell.” Unfortunately, the clearing process was necessary because we needed the road open to bring in rations, ammunition, and water to the men on the front line. Nasty business from top to bottom.
The Japanese kept up their attack and backed off only when pressured to the hilt. Whatever ground they gave us in our landing, they were dead sure trying to take back now. One of their worst strikes came when a sniper killed Captain James Barron, the F Company commander. We knew he had proved himself to be one of the finest officers we had. During the battle of Leyte, Barron had demonstrated exemplary courage. Some Japanese had been sitting out there in the trees and got a lucky shot. Captain Barron was gone.
I watched these events for the clues about where our artillery battery should fire. We needed to be exactly on target. I knew that the 383rd section of the Second Battalion had covered seven hundred yards without opposition. Then the firestorm broke out. The enemy hit them with everything they had. Intense mortar and machine-gun fire rained bullets down on them. All forward motion came to an abrupt halt.
The 383rd had been after a target labeled Cactus Hill. The Third Battalion came in from a different direction and was after the same objective. They too came to a complete halt. The soldiers had worked their way in to the front on the coastal flat. Obviously, they were in an exposed position. The Japanese had certainly paid attention to this fact.
No matter which way our people moved, we had a big problem. The Japanese weren’t moving. I knew what was needed. Time to get back to the battery. Our targets weren’t a mystery anymore. A little artillery working-over would turn Cactus Hill into Boot Hill.