The battle for Suribachi was not fought on the volcano but on
the approaches to it, a furious pounding lasting some five days.
The actual occupation of the volcano was little more than a series
of skirmishes. The capture of Suribachi with its two flag-raisings
was the emotional climax of the battle, although it took place
on the fifth day of a 10-week operation.
Late on February 22, the noncommissioned officers were summoned
to the company command post. We were told that a 40-man combat
patrol from the third platoon would climb Suribachi. That was
it! I was heartened to see our captain alive and well. I admired
his cool and thoughtful demeanor. At the time I had no idea that
he had received word that his infant son had died. He kept it
to himself. He was like that.
The weather had cleared the next day. I looked up to the summit.
The sharp contours had been reduced to earth slides. There was
no need for the grappling hooks and climbing ropes we had struggled
with in training. Our colonel raised his fist. The 40-man patrol
began the climb Indian file, five paces apart. It was hard going
and we stopped to catch our wind. In about 40 minutes we were
at the top of the world, some 550 feet above sea level. There
had been no chatter and no shots fired. It wasn't what we expected;
the Nips had their heads down that morning.
The rim of the crater was a scene of utter desolation. In my
boyish euphoria, I raised my M1 and roared "I claim this volcano
for the United States of America!" Half in jest, yet aware of
the significance of capturing a piece of Japanese homeland, I
urinated into the crater. Others followed. The dour platoon guide
snarled "Knock it off, you guys." Then he told me, "The colonel
wants to see what's up here, so draw one of your panoramic views
of the crater area and be quick about it!"
I sat on at caldera's edge and began my 360-degree drawing.
Removing pages from my message book, I strung them together with
surgical tape from the corpsman. I drew on the back side of the
paper. Shooting azimuth with my compass, I calibrated our position,
the topographical features and the remains of enemy works. A runner
took the drawing to the battalion command post. I never heard
of it again.
Patrols were sent out and mopping up began. My fire team was
one of those ordered into the crater of the volcano. Our descent
drew spasmodic exchanges of fire, but we suffered no casualties.
Topside they needed a flagpole. Length of water pipe lay at
the bottom of the caldera, where a rainwater retention system
had been scrambled by constant bombardment. With help, I passed
a long section of pipe to waiting hands at the top. This became
the flagpole. We were pulling ourselves out of the crater as the
first flag was raised. When I saw the flag snapping in the breeze,
I had some doubts . . . every Nip on the island will zero in on
it.
We were too busy to make much of the occasion. I never heard
the tumult of whistles, foghorns and bells from the fleet or the
cheers that rose across the island at the first sight of the Stars
and Stripes over Suribachi. My duties kept me from seeing either
of the flag-raisings or the pictures being taken by the news photographer.
Sometime later, a Marine photographer gathered the patrol under
the flag and took our picture. We raised our helmets and weapons
in mock imitation of Japanese news photos. It wasn't until two
months later in the hospital at the submarine base in Pearl Harbor
that I understood the importance of the event when I saw the famous
photo of the flag-raising in Time magazine. There was
no doubt, it was visual history.
Our high perch was not inviolate. Artillery spotters were the
first to arrive with war dogs for local security. (We wondered
what we were for.) They were trying to pinpoint enemy batteries
that were all but invisible. The spotters' hushed litany of telephone
counts of muzzle-flashes became an audio accompaniment during
the long nights.
It must have been noon that the Catholic chaplain arrived. An
altar was hastily erected, and Mass was first celebrated on the
volcano. Communion was distributed and a blessing was given to
all. This edifying experience left me with a deep sense of gratitude
and peace.
The afternoon trickle of visitors was mostly voyeurs. One character,
red and puffing, identified himself as a correspondent from the
Times (of London, of course). He sat among us, asked
a few questions and looked irritable. He found it singular that
no one, officers or enlisted, wore any rank markings. We had the
distinct impression that he didn't approve of the way we conducted
the battle. Finally, he made a remark I did not hear clearly,
about a very untidy battlefield. Then he nodded and went down
the mountain. We looked at each other . . . an untidy
battlefield?!
That night I discovered that my feet glowed in the dark. I recalled
that in our descent into the caldera, I had walked in some soft
mud. It must have been phosphorescent. I hid my feet under a poncho.
I shared a hole that night. The hole was foul with sulfur. During
the night we could feel muffled explosions beneath us. We knew
that our friends in caves below were disemboweling themselves
with grenades like good samurai. Time stood still on the mountain.
We had kept the Japs from returning, and the spotters were safe.
We came down from the volcano after six days to rejoin Easy
Company. We were to relieve elements of the 27th Marines in the
north. It was a heartbreaking trek northward. Easy Company went
down the center of the island, the three airfields to our right
and the western beaches on our left. We were under constant rocket
and mortar fire. The earth was eviscerated, issuing sulfurous
gas mixed with the sweet odor of putrefying flesh. Red ants scampered
everywhere. In places the ground was too hot to lie on, even for
momentary cover.
I vividly recall a sad sideshow. Below our position, low rocks
protruded a few feet above the water. Japanese swimmers set up
mortars there and lobbed rounds into our worried flank. We would
chase them off; others would replace them. Eventually, one of
our prowling destroyers brought her 40s to bear, raking the outcroppings
unmercifully. Those who tried to swim away were hosed in the water
with 20 millimeters. It was like the proverbial shooting fish
in a barrel. I felt sorry for those men. They never had a chance.
We were somewhere between Airfield Number Three and the western
beaches in the vicinity of Hill 362A. Dirty and tired, we made
plans for the night. There had been many head wounds, and morale
was slumping. I realized that there were only two of us NCOs left
in the platoon. By nightfall there would be only one.
Feeling fatherly about the new replacements, I wanted them to
get a little rest. Half of mine had been lost to artillery the
night before. I was concerned that there was movement in an adjacent
enemy bunker. I rehearsed my moves: pull the pin, pop up for a
line of sight and throw a strike into the embrasure . . . be exposed
for only a fraction of a second. I chose a phosphorus grenade.
Go! The damn ring didn't pull the pin! The spoon didn't fly! What
the hell -- a dud? The fraction of a second delay became an eternity.
The impact was heart-stopping. I felt electrocuted. I heard
the supplication within me: sweet Mother of God, no, no, oh please,
noooo. The violence pinned me to the ground on my back. I thought
my right arm was gone. . . the grenade must have prematurely detonated.
I tried to check my right hand . . . I was paralyzed.
Someone dragged me out of the line of fire. The pain was unbearable.
A disembodied voice told me, "I got that little bastard for you."
I heard the ensuing gunfire as the company deployed. Someone screamed
a warning about goddamn spider-traps here -- the underground holes,
covered with movable lids masquerading as grass or soil, that
hid Japanese shooters. (So that was it: a bullet in the ole brisket,
and the sniper was hiding in a spider-trap up behind the bunker.)
The remnants of Easy Company held, and they got me out after dark.
The trip to the aid station was interminable. The three litter
bearers were forced to wait out flares. Moving at night in Marine
lines was dangerous. Now I was concerned about friendly fire.
The pain came in waves; I slipped in and out of consciousness.
Once I was dropped when a bearer was shot in the wrist. Later,
I was loaded onto a Jeep . . .
The field hospital was a long covered trench or tunnel; it could
have been a cave. Electric lights had been strung the length of
it. The wounded were lined along one wall, allowing a walkway
down the other side. Somewhere I had acquired a large tag on the
front of me, which I sensed a doctor was trying to read. "Abdominal
gunshot, huh?" Then he wrote with a grease pencil on my forehead.
"I'll get you something for the pain, mate." He rolled me over
and exhaled; I caught the cigarette breath. "Won't have to dig
that bugger out. It's gone clean through ya." A corpsman put a
needle in me. I noticed others also had cryptic writing on their
foreheads. They dripped blood into my other arm. God, I was tired.
I passed out or fell asleep. Whatever, it didn't matter, it hurt
so. . . .
The smell of wet ash . . . the sound of the surf close by .
. . I opened my eyes . . . it was pitch dark. I sensed someone
lying next to me. . . . Someone was moving around! Fear scalded
my wounds. A dark form was over me. A voice whispered "Don't be
frightened, son. I'm a Catholic priest, I'll anoint you before
they take you out to the ship." (Was this the last rites?)
"Thank you, father," but there was no voice in me. Soon he was
gone.
I closed my eyes. My body felt buoyant -- like floating in the
warm sea at Hilo. The pounding of the surf increased.
The last thing I remembered was remembering that pacific meant
peaceful.
* * *
Robert Leader, a Notre Dame emeritus professor of art, was serving
in the Marines as a 20-year-old corporal during the invasion of
Iwo Jima.
