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LEATHERNECKS on BLOODY
IWO JIMA
Lt. Harry E. Richter, 24, squinted uneasily across the sparkling
Pacific waters toward the hazy island that loomed ahead. He watched
his men, their faces smeared with white anti-flash cream, and
wondered how many would return alive.
Charles Ray Barnes, 19, considered himself a lucky man. When Uncle
Sam called, Barnes had requested the Navy. He never wanted in the
Marines, but that’s where he went. And he had never backed away from
duty.
Jesse Earl Long, Jr., 19, joined the Marines June 16, 1943. After
his cousin, Macon Lamon, 3rd Marine Division, was killed by Japanese
on Nov. 29, 1943, on Bougainville, he had one burning mission in
life: to fight the Japanese.
IWO JIMA
Feb. 19, 1945, Harry Richter, with the 5th Marine Division, had
sailed from Pearl Harbor in late January. Their mission: Take Iwo
Jima and save 20,000 airmen from ditching at sea on return bombing
missions from Japan. They made it sound important.
The 4th and 5th Marine Divisions, 50,000 Leathernecks, watched the
island take shape. The Navy had been bombarding the volcanic island
for three days, keeping up a drumbeat of fire. Big guns on the
battleships North Carolina, Washington, New York, Texas, Arkansas,
and Nevada belched sheets of fire, making a moonscape of the
Japanese stronghold. "Nothing could survive there," someone said.
"It'll be a walk-on."
Richter "Second Louie" of the 3rd Platoon, Company D, 27th Regiment,
slung his M-1 over his shoulder and ordered his men to check out
their gear one final time. He watched them, their faces smeared with
white anti-flash cream, and wondered how many of them would return
alive. The sky was clear and the weather a warm 68 degrees. From
ship deck, he watched as the first wave of Marines streamed toward
the beach. Four minutes later, Richter's vessel lurched forward and
the second wave headed for the island. The noise was deafening as
six-inch naval guns thundered away, hurling tons of steel onto the
island. Overhead, planes dropped napalm and strafed the beach.
Richter studied the approaching landscape as his men sat quietly,
some with heads bowed.
To his front, looming 554 feet over the small end of the island was
extinct volcano, Mt. Suribachi, honeycombed with gun emplacements
and pillboxes. The 28th Regiment was to take Suribachi and Richter's
27th was to cross in front and isolate it from the rest of the
island. Then they were to move northeast and take Motoyama Airfield
No. 1.
A 90-millimeter shell fired from Mt. Suribachi barely missing
Richter's vessel, creating a water geyser. The Amtrak (amphibious
tractor) jerked to a stop, the ramp lowered and Richter and his men
splashed through knee-deep surf onto the volcanic ash beach. The
first wave had just reached a high terrace created by a tropical
storm. The third wave was about to land. Still no Japanese
resistance. Richter remembered what an officer had said: "You might
just be able to walk in and that's it."
Burrowed into volcanic caves, pillboxes and bunkers, were 20,700
Japanese soldiers with barely a headache after three days of
bombardment. They were patiently waiting for the third wave to get
ashore. General Kuribayaski's strategy was simple: Permit the
Marines to land, then annihilate them.
Iwo Jima would become the site of the Marines most heroic and
bloodiest battle of the Pacific War. Twenty-two of the 80 medals of
Honor awarded Marines during WWII were earned here.
The third wave landed and mortars and machine gun fire rained down
on the exposed Marines.
"They were killing those people... we knew them... it was terrible,"
Richter says.
Richter and his men crawled inland about 200 yards. "I kept hearing
bullets whizzing over my head - phewm, phewm, phewm.” From their
position on Mt. Suribachi, the Japanese were slaughtering the
luckless Marines like flies. Richter and his men slithered across
the hot sand on their bellies, digging a hole under them when the
firing became too intense to move. They were supposed to establish a
straight line across the island by nightfall, but it became
impossible. "There were sand dunes in front of us that were actually
fortified pillboxes," he says. "We were pinned down and couldn't
move." Richter was up front, at the point. He saw some movement.
"Get down out there!" he yelled, thinking it was Marines. It was
Japanese soldiers! Pinned down by machinegun fire coming from the
pillboxes, Richter and his platoon couldn't move. They dug holes
beneath them and waited for morning and help. Richter didn't know it
at the time, but 566 Marines had already been killed and 1,755
wounded -- approximating two of the eight battalions, which had
landed that day. Richter dug in about five yards from two guys near
the point. The night was moonless and cold and seemingly unending.
Richter was brought to full attention by the crack of rifle fire.
Two quick shots. The firing came from the two men near the point,
five yards away. Next morning, Richter saw two dead Japanese
soldiers. "They had been shot in the middle of the forehead," he
says. "It looked like they had been standing behind each other and
hit by the same bullet, but they hadn't."
Tanks were brought up later in the morning and blew the pillboxes
out of the sand. Later that afternoon, they moved up behind another
outfit and dug in. They were told to prepare to move forward again
at a minute’s notice and plug the gap in the line. They did, jumping
in holes with Marines already in place. "They were all down,"
Richter says. "No one was looking to see what was going on out
front." Next morning, the unit Richter's platoon had come to help
was pulled back. "Some of them were going by our foxholes and they
were getting shot." Richter's platoon was near Motoyama airstrip,
which was elevated by pillboxes along the side of the embankment.
"We were pinned down," Richter says. "They were firing machine guns
and mortars at us. It was almost unbelievable at the people being
killed.” Richter's platoon was ordered to move forward, but they
kept getting flanking fire on their right and waited for the unit on
their right to move up in place. When the other unit moved, they ran
into a wall of fire. "My men saw how many of them were getting shot
and we moved up to help them."
Richter and his Leathernecks routed the Japanese from their
reinforced sanctuaries one pillbox at a time. Someone would crawl
close to the opening, toss in a white phosphorous grenade, and when
the Japanese soldiers emerged, they were shot. Hardly any
surrendered.
On the fourth day of fighting, the 28th Regiment took Mt. Surabichi
and hoisted the flag. Richter didn't see the famous event, now
immortalized by the bronze monument in Arlington Cemetery, but he
remembers his first glimpse of Old Glory fluttering triumphantly
over the island. After several days of bloody fighting, Richter's
tattered platoon was pulled back for rest.
After a day or two of rest, Richter was back up on the front line
trying to blow Japanese out of their caves and pillboxes with
satchel charges and flame-throwers. The tops of the bunkers and
pillboxes were impervious to satchel charges. One of Richter’s men
found an entranceway, tossed in a satchel charge and out came a
grenade from the same hole. "We called for flame-throwers. They came
and sprayed and a minute later out came another grenade."
On March, 1, Richter was standing behind a rock when he heard "Kaploop
- kaploop." Someone yelled, "Watch out for those mortars!" Richter
looked up and saw a round coming toward him. "It didn't arc," he
says. "When it reached it height, it turned and came straight down
hitting the top of the rock I was behind." Flying shrapnel tore into
his right leg and ankle. Corpsmen evacuated him to an auxiliary
hospital ship. The war was over for Richter.
Iwo Jima fell on March 26. Of the 20,700 Japanese on the tiny
island, all but 200 were killed. Marine casualties were 5,888 killed
and 17,272 wounded in action - over 33 percent of the landing force.
Richter's platoon had been practically annihilated. Of the original
platoon of 40, only 10 men were left.
"I still mourn for the boys that were in my platoon..." His voice
breaks with emotion. "I think about them on Armistice Day. For years
I've tried to forget the bloodshed -- the youth of the boys -- can
you imagine almost 6,000 getting killed on that little island?"
In June 1944, Charles Ray Barnes, 19, considered himself a lucky
man. When Uncle Sam called, Barnes had requested the Navy. And he
got it. He glanced around at the group of young men surrounding him
at the Induction Center in Birmingham. Some had opted for the Army,
some for the Navy, like himself, and some of the more daring had
joined the Marines. They could have the Marines.
Barnes eyeballed the officer with the clipboard standing in front of
the formation.
“Seventeen of you fellars will have to go to the Marines,” the
officer said. “Any volunteers?”
Silence. Barnes was young, but Sally Hightower Barnes hadn’t reared
any fools. The officer shrugged and looked down at the clipboard and
started calling out names, skipping around as he did. Barnes kept
count in his head. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen - his luck was
holding.
“BARNES, CHARLES RAY!” Barnes felt his stomach plunge to his bowels.
It was worse than the electric chair. Dear God, why do I deserve
this?
“Gentlemen, welcome to the Marine Corps.”
Barnes was assigned to the Fourth Marine Division, veterans of
Roi-Nemur and Saipan. Barnes, unaware of what lay ahead of him,
sailed for Iwo Jima. En route, he studied a map and plastic model of
the tiny volcanic island. Barely five miles long and shaped like a
pork chop, Mt. Suribachi loomed over the small end. Plateaus and
ridges were carved in the northern end. There were no trees. It was
hot, black and lifeless. Tunneled under this inferno were
approximately 23,000 Japanese soldiers.
Early morning, Feb. 19, 1945, Barnes looked out across the blue
Pacific. There were ships from horizon to horizon. Battleships,
cruisers and destroyers pounded the island with their big guns.
H-Hour was 9000. Barnes watched as Marines climbed down nets and
into landing boats. Airplanes flew in low over the island, strafing
the beaches. “I could see flashing in the sunlight.”
Barnes’ outfit remained onboard ship as replacements, waiting
innocently to be fed into the human meat grinder. On the fourth day
the 28th Regiment, 5th Marine Division, captured Mt. Surabachi and
raised the flag. Barnes didn’t see Old Glory go up, but he remembers
his feeling when he first saw it fluttering in the distance. “It was
a great sight. Those of us aboard ship didn’t know no better. We
thought the whole thing was over.”
A day or two later, Barnes prepared to climb down the ship nets and
into a landing craft. It was gut check time. He never wanted in the
Marines, but he had never backed away from his duty. Anyway, over
the months of hardship and training, he had grown to like the Corps.
He was proud to be a Marine.
Barnes recalls landing on Iwo Jima: “Wrecked landing craft and
vehicles were turned upside down. The beach was a mess and they were
trying to get supplies unloaded. Everything was mired up in the
sand”
Lugging their 30-caliber machine gun, dubbed “The Widow Maker,”
Barnes and his squad were sent to the frontline as replacements.
“When we got there, they didn’t have any officers, they had already
been killed. A buck sergeant was leading the outfit.” That evening
Barnes, scared and miserable, dug into the volcanic sand and waited.
“The sand was so hot, you’d have to turn over every few minutes to
cool.”
Next morning, at dawn, he heard what he thought was a rooster
crowing. “It was the lonesomest sound you ever heard in your life. I
lay there listening and I couldn’t hear nothing. I rolled over on my
back toward a shell hole behind me and saw a helmet, just the top of
it. I figured it was some of our bunch,” he says. “Suddenly, a
Japanese solder jumped out with a rifle in his hand. I made a dive
for my carbine. Two riflemen in a nearby hole opened up on the
Japanese soldier. They put ‘im on the deck and put some more in ‘im
just for good measure.”
American strategy was to cut across the small end of the island and
isolate and capture Mt. Surabachi. That had been done at great loss
on the fourth day. But the fight had hardly begun. Lying to the
north was Hill 382, which comprised the backbone of the Japanese
defense. Intelligence reports described the hill as “a complicated
mass of crevices, 15 to 20 feet deep which covers its surface,
making it a bastion of defense capable of receiving an attack from
any quarter.” On top, buried several stories down in the volcanic
rock, was a reinforced blockhouse. When the firing became too
intense for the Japanese, they would move downward, then come back
up to fight again.
On February 26, the assault on Hill 382 began. It would be the
bitterest and costliest battle of the whole Iwo Jima campaign.
Barnes’ 25th Regiment played an important role in taking the hill.
Official records state: “Both flanks (25th Regiment) received a
murderous concentration of heavy mortar fire which was extremely
accurate.”
Barnes remembers the battle: “We went up there twice, maybe three
times,” he says. “We’d get up there and have to leave because it
would get too hot. The Japanese were down in holes and caves and the
engineers got most of them out with explosives and flame throwers.”
After Hill 382 was finally taken, Barnes and his outfit dug in on
top. “Everybody had them a nice deep hole and stayed in it.” One
night, Barnes and his platoon were asked to help flush out some
Japanese hemmed up below them. “We heard shooting below us and heard
somebody running toward us. Sounded like a running horse. Joe
hollered ‘HALT!’ A flare went off. I heard Johnny holler ‘Shoot ‘em
Joe!’ I heard screaming and hollering. Next morning, Barnes and his
buddies inspected the dead soldier. He was shot in the center of the
heart. Lying beside him was an American carbine, without an ammo
clip. Barnes says, “He had a folding cigarette case made in the
shape of a dollar bill with dollar bill signs on it. He got it off
some American the same way he got the carbine, I guess.”
Later, that evening, Barnes and a buddy were digging a hole for the
night and accidentally struck a lead-covered telephone cable buried
in the ground. “We chopped it in two and bent it out of the way,” he
says. “And we didn’t tell nobody about it. I didn’t think much about
it until later, but it could have been tapped. Anyway, we messed up
the Japanese communication.”
Next day, another outfit moved up to the front and set up a machine
gun near Barnes’ platoon. “They started shooting at something across
there,” Barnes says. “Directly, a sniper got the man on the machine
gun. The next man took over and he was shot. Then the third man
crawled up the machine and the sniper got him. The sniper shot three
of ‘em.”
The Japanese were masters of camouflage. “They hid everywhere,”
Barnes says. “They would come up behind you, in front of you, it
didn’t seem to make any difference.”
On March 16, after 26 days of battle, Iwo Jima was secured. No
quarters had been given. The losses were horrendous. Approximately
23,000 Japanese had been killed, of which the 4th Marine Division
claimed 8,992. They took only 441 Japanese prisoners. As for Barnes’
Company C, all of the officers were killed and wounded except one.
Rifle platoons were commanded by enlisted men, one a Pfc. “It was a
slaughter house,” Barnes says.
The 4th Marine Division’s next objective was Japan, but the war
ended early August 1945. Barnes was lying in his bunk. “It was
daylight and I wondered what was wrong. No reveille blowing nobody
hollering ‘fall out’. Nobody saying anything. Directly, some guy
come running down the street hollering ‘the war’s over the war’s
over!’ You’d thought everybody would have been jumping up and down
singing and having a big time. They seemed unconcerned about it."
Barnes had a recurring dream. “A Japanese fellar would be after me
in a small airplane. I’d be working on my pasture fence and I’d hear
an airplane and look up and it would be him. He’d dive at me. Same
airplane, same Japanese pilot, same everything. It went on for
years. I told somebody about it. He asked if I’d brought anything
back from the war. I told ‘em about the hand grenade and he said get
rid of it and you won’t be bothered again. So I did, and I never had
anymore dreams.”
World War II had shaped Jesse Earl Long, Jr.'s life. From the
beginning, he was destined to be a Marine. James Daniel, his uncle,
Assistant Farm Agent in Madison County had joined the Marines at age
32, reasoning that his enlistment might save some young father from
having to serve. Daniels was killed on Guadalcanal, the first
Limestonian to die in the war. Long was 18 at the time and a senior
at Tanner High. He wanted to join the Marines immediately, but his
mother had insisted he finish school. His cousin, Macon Lamon, had
already joined the Leathernecks and was serving with an elite Raider
Battalion somewhere in the South Pacific. His uncle had forfeited
his life for his country and Long was prepared to do the same.
Long joined the Marines June 16, 1943. After his cousin, Macon Lamon,
3rd Marine Division, was killed by Japanese on Nov. 29, 1943, on
Bougainville, he had one burning mission in life: to fight the
Japanese.
Long, assigned to the newly formed 5th Marine "Spearhead" Division,
5th Engineer Battalion, headquartered at Camp Pendleton was soon
training in the southern California canyons and deserts. On
weekends, Long and buddies sometimes hitchhiked to Los Angeles and
hung out at the Hollywood Canteen and rubbed shoulders with film
starts such as William Bendix on one occasion, he snagged a dance
with Shirley Temple.
While at Camp Pendleton. Long's mother mailed him a "Heart-Shield
Bible" -- one with a gold plated steel cover that fit snugly in his
dungaree pocket over his heart. Engraved on the steel cover was a
mother's wishful prayer. "May this keep you safe from harm.”
The 5th Marine Division sailed out of San Diego in August 1944.
Rumors abounded among the Leathernecks. Some said they were going
straight to Tokyo, others said San Francisco. Neither was correct.
They landed at Camp Tarawa, Hawaii, their new home where they
trained for their first combat mission - "Island X". There was
liberty for the men in Honolulu, then the Division slipped out of
Pearl Harbor. Two days out to sea and "Island X" was officially
identified: Iwo Jima. Plans were to sweep across the island in two
or three days and move on to Okinawa where the real fight would take
place.
The battle for Iwo Jima, a volcanic island five miles long would
become one of the epic struggles of the war. Approximately 46,000
men, Japanese and Americans, would be killed or wounded on the
eight-square miles during 26 days of fighting. "Taking Iwo Jima"
someone wrote afterwards, "was like throwing human flesh against
reinforced concrete."
The Navy pulverized this spit of land for days and planes bombed and
strafed from above. It didn't seem possible that any Japanese could
be alive. Yet, hardly any were killed.
Long's job was to drive a bulldozer ashore and push aside land
mines, clearing a path for tanks and infantry to follow. Steel armor
one inch thick that would deflect .50 caliber bullets was
constructed around the dozer with an exit door on top and a peep
hole in front for Long to see out.
Monday morning, February 19, was lovely. At 8:59 a.m. the first wave
of Marines hit the beach, followed closely by the second wave. Long
climbed inside the armored dozer and drove onto a landing craft.
"Don't drop me out here in the middle of the ocean," Long joked with
the operator, "because this tractor can't swim." The third wave of
Marines landed. All hell broke loose. The Japanese opened up with
machine guns, mortars, and artillery from high on Mt. Suribachi.
Marines were being mowed down like grass on the volcanic ash beach.
The landing craft operator veered off course, putting Long ashore at
the wrong place. It would be a week before he hooked up with his
company.
Long drove his armored dozer ashore onto a beach clogged with
disabled landing craft and dead and wounded Marines. He lowered the
blade and began pushing up land mines, being careful not to run over
dead Marines. There were three airfields on Iwo Jima. Taking
Motoyama Airfield No. 1 was the first objective, but it was an inch
by inch slugfest. At nights, Japanese soldiers walked through the
Marine lines, trying to draw machine gun fire thereby locating their
positions. Marines were under orders not to shoot. They quickly
dispatched the Japanese with sharp knives and bayonets.
Long, like a turtle hunkered inside his armored shell, cleared a
path of mines enabling tanks and riflemen to move up from behind.
Mortar rounds dropped all around him and machine gun bullets hitting
the steel armor sounded like popcorn popping. Some luckless Japanese
attempted to disable the dozer with explosives but were shot.
One night, the Japanese penetrated the American lines and blew up a
huge ammo dump. Long, a hundred yards away, felt the earth tremble.
Long and his dozer were out front in the heat of the battle. He
knocked out more than one machine gun emplacement by lowering the
blade and pushing a mound of sand into the pill box opening, burying
the Japanese. While they were digging out, another Marine would toss
a grenade or satchel charge inside.
On the fourth day of battle, Long was near Airfield No. 1. "Look!" A
Marine pointed toward Mt. Surabachi. "What is it?" Long asked. "See
that flag?" Long looked up at Surabachi and saw the Stars and
Stripes, a small one, fluttering over the island. "Yeah." He
shrugged. It was no big deal since it wasn't any help at the moment
to Long and his hard-pressed buddies. Later, a second flag, a larger
one, was raised on Surabachi, the photo of which, when it appeared
on front pages back home, electrified the nation.
During the last days of the campaign, at the north end of the island
where the Japanese were fighting tenaciously, Long was asked to
gouge out a path down to the sea so that the tanks and infantrymen
could advance. Long responded. He squinted through the peephole and
gave the dozer throttle. The big machine crawled forward into an
area where no American had gone. Long was greeted by a hail of
bullets. Two tanks covering Long from the rear were drawing intense
fire from mortars, and round began dropping, each one moving closer
to the dozer. Long heard a loud explosion. The dozer lurched and
wouldn’t move. He figured his truck had been hit. The official
Marine citation tells what happened:
“For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action against the
enemy while attached to a Marine Engineer battalion on Iwo Jima,
Volcano Islands, March 12, 1943, Pfc. Long was operating an armored
dozer forward of the front lines through a deep ravine leading to
heavily fortified enemy positions. Despite heavy fire he was
successfully completing his mission when a land slide caused his
dozer to slip too far over an embankment making it impossible for
him to move either forward or backward. Without a moment’s
hesitation and with total disregard for his own personal safety and
despite the heavy enemy fire, Pfc. Long climbed out of his cab,
raced back to the tank which was supporting him, unfastened the tow
cable with which the tank was equipped, carried it forward, attached
it to his dozer and by so doing saved his dozer and was able to
complete his dangerous task enabling the tanks and infantry to
advance. His prompt and heroic action was in keeping with the
highest traditions of the United States Naval Service.”
For his heroic action, Long was awarded a Silver Star.
While the dozer was being pulled from the ravine, Long spotted two
Japanese soldiers hiding beside a big rock. Long ran for his carbine
and yelled to other Marines. “Hey! We’d better get them or they’re
going to get us.” Several Marines ran over to the Japanese and one
blazed away with his .45 pistol. A tremendous explosion ensued. The
Japanese were holding live grenades with the pins pulled. Several of
the Marines were gravely wounded.
Iwo Jima was officially declared secured on March 16. Almost 6,000
Marines had been killed and over 17,300 wounded. Most all of the
23,000 Japanese had been killed. “Among the Americans who served on
Iwo Island,” remarked Admiral Nimitz, “uncommon valor was a common
virtue.”
Long sailed for Hawaii where the Division was to rest and make ready
for the coming invasion of Japan. The Division, reoutfitted, sailed
for Japan. Long was aboard ship in combat formation when the skipper
came on the loud speaker and announced that a bomb had been dropped
on Hiroshima. Three days later, on August 9, a second bomb leveled
Nagasaki. Japan surrendered on August 15. “Beware of treachery,”
warned Admiral Nimitz when he ordered a cessation of operation
against Japan.
A great armada of ships sailed into Kyushu. Long, not knowing what
to expect from the Japanese, went ashore. Snipers killed two
Marines, otherwise there was little resistance.
Later, one night as Long drove a Jeep down a winding road, he hit a
land mine, apparently planted by unforgiving Japanese. The Jeep blew
up, tossing Long out and down an embankment. He couldn’t move his
right leg. Transferred to a make shift hospital, Long lost
consciousness. When he came to a week or so later, he was in a body
cast and bleeding internally. Plans were made to evacuate him back
to the states. He was moved like cargo onto a Merchant Marine ship
and had just settled down when the captain came in and asked if he
had a passport. “I didn’t have one when I came over,” Long answered.
The captain, nearly in tears boomed Long back on shore, where he
convalesced in a wooden warehouse, passing his days watching gopher
rats run the rafters.
On November 26, he was finally loaded aboard a hospital ship and
sailed to Oakland, California, then on to Memphis for twenty-one
(21) months of hospitalization. While convalescing, in Memphis,
Helen Keller, the world famous blind, deaf, and mute author from
Tuscumbia, came by Long’s bed, visiting. He was still in a body
cast. Her interpreter said, “Helen can tell which branch of service
you’re in.” She gently felt of Long’s head. “You are a Marine,” she
said through her interpreter.
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