by Robert
A. Leader
It was dark and very quiet on the LST deck. It would be hours
before the final naval bombardment of the beaches would begin.
Through the gloom I realized our ship was off the southern tip
of the island. The first rays of sun pierced the smoky haze. And
there, by God, it was . . . the volcano! Suribachi was dangerous,
yet through the filtered light I thought it beautiful.
I recalled the recent days as the LST waddled up from the Micronesia
island of Saipan. The Landing Ship Tank, designed so men and supplies
could be unloaded without docks or cranes, was a sweltering steel
box. The troops lived topside, seeking shelter in the shade of
landing craft and equipment lashed to the deck. By night we slept
with limbs locked around cleats or stanchions so as not to tumble
overboard. We welcomed the night, with its cooling winds. When
I studied our convoy, it seemed to reach from horizon to horizon.
I was happy those days at sea.
On this night, February 18, 1945, lights danced across the sky
and thunder rolled over the water. The U.S. ships and planes of
Task Force 54 were completing the preparatory bombardment of the
island, whose three airstrips were used by the Japanese to launch
Kamikazi attacks. Watching these pyrotechnics, I marveled at the
contradiction between the beautiful and the lethal.
"That's Sulfur Island," said a sailor, pointing into the void.
"What," I asked, "is sulfur island?" "That's your island
-- Iwo Jima."
It was the proverbial eve of battle. That night I slept below
deck.
The next morning the assault swept over the island like a tsunami.
We were not being washed ashore like flotsam; we were in order
and under control. In my mind I likened it to a great calvary
charge of yore. We transferred from the large LSTs to small amphibious
tractors called alligators. Then under a rain of mortar shells,
we had to jettison ammo we were bringing ashore for following
landing waves and, if need be, a final fight on the beach. It
was an insane morning.
At the water's edge the beach seemed clear as we left our craft.
The sands of Iwo were, in fact, coarse black ash. We scampered
for the assumed protection of the terraces. The wet sand was swept
smooth by the tide. Then I saw it: a leg -- a clean, perfect limb
with a new field shoe, clean sock. It ended at the knee. There
was no blood. It appeared to have been dropped there like a loose
canteen by someone on the run. I wanted it to be Japanese, but
I knew they didn't wear boondockers.
On the terraces, each attempt to dig in was nullified by the
exposure of mines. While seeking cover in the top terrace, I was
buried by a shell that lifted the top off the terrace and deposited
it on the reverse slope where I was huddled. My mates dug me out,
and I had nothing worse than the shakes and a bleeding ear. The
beach rapidly filled with men and equipment. The destruction was
cataclysmic. Working off the beach, we began to penetrate the
cross-island defense. I was hot and quite bewildered.
We crawled on our bellies much of the day, attempting to isolate
the southern end of the island. We found remnants of enemy trenches
where we could move more or less upright. But these trenches were
deadly. Machine guns were trained at where they crossed at right
angles. Grazing fire accounted for many of our casualties.
But where were their dead? We had been overrunning them all
day, but they were practically invisible. I reasoned that the
Japanese were making a maximum effort to retrieve their dead and
wounded. This was unnerving. It was a bi-level war. I visualized
their subterranean fortifications like the ant farms we had as
children: cutaway sections of earth with a multitude of galleries
and branching tunnels with incredible hidden activity. Was it
something like that beneath us?
My fire team was intact. The squad was in contact with the platoon,
but beyond that I had no information. Somehow we had fought our
way to the far coast. Now, the southern end of the island was
separated from the northern end. After dark, orders came to dig
in for the night. That was not possible for some of us. We were
pinned down on a rocky outcropping, exposed. The enemy was already
infiltrating our positions, and we awaited the nocturnal attack.
I wondered if I could play dead all night.
The flare opened with a pop, hissing and sputtering. A great
oscillating chandelier bathed us in a chiaroscuro of light. I
dared not move. Our ships continued to pump a stream of star shells
over the island. Their timing was impeccable and maddening. The
Navy illuminated us but also blinded us. In this eerie light the
volcano assumed a particularly menacing presence. This is a truly
evil place, I told myself. Only this morning I had thought Surabachi
looked beautiful, like the woodcut prints of Hiroshige and Utamaro.
The counterattack never materialized. Dawn arrived; I had survived
my first night ashore. War correspondent Robert Sherrod, who was
on the island, wrote, "The first night on Iwo Jima can only be
described as a nightmare in hell." I wondered if he was on a rocky
ledge too.
Daybreak was cold and rainy. Easy Company was ordered back to
the battalion. This movement gave us an opportunity to see the
complex of large caves: garages with machine shops and other hidden
handiworks. The attack on the volcano continued: a frontal assault,
encirclement of the base and occupation of the mountain.
Our air support was heartening. Like angry wasps, our planes
swarmed over the volcano with the ripple of rockets and the roar
of napalm. A strafing Corsair roared low over us. Instantly I
felt a searing pain in my back. "I've been hit!" I clawed at my
back . . . and removed two spent .50-caliber cartridge cases.
The plane had spewed a hot trail of these and two had gone down
my collar. The men laughed: "Close, but no cigar! And no Purple
Heart either!"
As the day wore on, the wind and the weather worsened. The beach
was chaotic, a landscape of rubbish, both human and material.
I shared a crater with the sergeant. I thought him laconic. This
was my first experience with a classic rolling artillery barrage.
I recognized it as a work of devilish craftsmanship. It was so
well executed that the sergeant could predict the arrival and
impact point of each shell as the gunners moved the barrage back
and forth and up and down over our position.
Once he yelled: "Duck, this one's ours." We heard a great thump.
A dud shell buried itself at the edge of our hole. Dazed, I tried
to cover my astonishment with a pithy remark about the quality
of duds made in Hong Kong. The sergeant seemed disappointed in
me. "Just be grateful those buggers don't have proximity fuses,"
he said, "or we would be out of business."
We took turns watching our wires and trip flares for an expected
attack. There was an attempted suicidal Banzai attack, but one
of our destroyers caught the attackers in its searchlight on the
plateau east of the volcano and cut them down. The next morning
we passed through this terrible carnage as we worked our way toward
Tobishi Point. (We were later told that there were some 400 dead
on that killing field.)
It was a wet, gloomy day; a repeat of the previous day. The
fighting was as intense as ever, but we had a feeling that we
had broken them. I was badly shaken by a comrade's death; he was
a frightful sight after throwing himself on a charge to save a
fellow Marine.
We were now encountering increasing numbers of dead Japanese
and swarms of great green flies. We figured the Japs were no longer
able to reclaim their dead; we were thinning them out! Those men
of the 312th Independent Infantry Battalion looked like first-class
troops. We could testify how well they could fight. The remains
evidenced peasant vitality. From the scattered memorabilia that
festooned the battlefield dead, we concluded that these were veterans
with service in China and Southeast Asia.
Japanese dead were a problem for us. Booby-trapping was endemic,
and some of the dead were feinting. It became necessary to shoot
their dead to be sure they were. I found this coup de grace repulsive.
I despised these people for their cruelties and treachery, but
I respected them as brave and resourceful warriors. I would have
chosen to salute their dead, not execute them. They left us little
choice. If we had not held these people in such contempt, we might
have greatly feared them.
It became a day of satchel charges and flame-throwing. We were
cut off on a narrow ledge between the mountain and the slopes
plunging down into the sea. The enemy had unexpectedly burst out
of volcanic caves. It was a standoff. I dozed off and slept surprisingly
well. Then it was a day for consolidation and resupply. News came
up from the beach that last night there had been a great sea battle.
There were conflicting reports about carriers lost and damaged.
We also learned that our regimental command post had received
a direct hit, killing the regimental surgeon. Our regimental commander
was spared.
It rained most of the day and night. A lot of effort was expended
trying to trap rainwater. Our issued drinking water always tasted
of gasoline. Water was a serious problem on Iwo Jima. At night
the Japs would attempt to steal our canteens.
