by Chester Nez
“They seem peaceful,” said Francis, watching the little group of Melanesians trudge toward the tent holding our medical personnel.
“That didn’t save them from war, though.” The native people gathered around the medical tent.
I ran a hand through my hair, which hung down over my ears. When I looked into a mirror, I resembled a bogeyman, with all of that heavy growth. But my beliefs wouldn’t let me get a haircut on land during battle. It was dangerous enough getting your hair cut during peacetime, when you could be sure that the hair was properly disposed of. During battle, I sure didn’t want to take a chance. But a shipboard haircut, after the battle was done, was okay. There, the cut hair would be burned, disposed of properly, along with the garbage. I told myself I needed to get out to the ship for a serious trim. Some of the men were okay with getting their hair shaved during hostilities on land, even though the hair was often not disposed of properly. It all depended on what your family taught you. And my family had taught me to let it grow until I could get away from the battle site. That went for your beard and mustache as well. No shaving. Of course, I had no beard. Many of the Marines were too young to grow beards. We Native Americans had very little facial hair, regardless of age.
I nodded toward the group of island natives. “They’re lucky we Americans secured this island. The Japanese would have got rid of them all.”
Huge tractors lumbered along the beach at Guadalcanal, burying bodies. Dog tags collected from the American dead contained each man’s name and serial number. The tags would be sent home to their next of kin. Sometimes we were able to erect wooden crosses over the graves of our men, but often sheer numbers made individual graves impractical. Then, dead American troops were buried in mass graves, the enemy dead alongside them.
A group of us Navajo communications men sunned on the “cleared” part of the beach after a dip in the ocean.
“You know, they’re trying to recruit more talkers. A hundred per division, I heard,” said Roy Notah.
“And guess where the First and Second Division Marines are right now?” asked Roy Begay. He pointed across the ocean with his chin and answered his own question. “Hawaii. Training.”
A Navajo Marine shook water from his hair and ran a towel across his chest. “And here we are, the Third Division, still no R and R.” He grinned. “Wonder what island is next?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Bougainville
November 1943 to May 1944: Bougainville
Black beach canted up at a sharp angle from the ocean. Waves crashed against shore, turning Higgins boats sideways. Roiling ocean swamped several nearby boats, driving them into the land, like beached whales. That was bad. The boats were supposed to drop their men, return to the ships offshore for supplies, then bring those supplies back to the troops who were in the process of invading the island.
Francis and I advanced toward the beach at Cape Torokina, Empress Augusta Bay, in our Higgins craft. Wind whipped the inhospitable west-central coast of Bougainville. It was November 3, 1943.
Our assault had begun on November 1. Landing on the treacherous, steep coast had proved a painstaking job, and when darkness fell, we stopped loading into the shore-bound craft and waited for first light, next day. That day, November 2, the Japanese Navy stationed in Rabaul, New Britain, dispatched four cruisers and six destroyers to Torokina, attempting to intercept the American troops while we were still in the process of landing. The enemy ships made it to within forty-five miles of Torokina before being intercepted and driven off by Admiral Merrill’s four cruisers and eight destroyers in the three-hour Battle of Empress Augusta Bay.
Now, on November 3, we were finally nearing shore.
Our assault on Bougainville was one prong of Operation Cartwheel, a two-pronged attack aimed at rendering the mighty Japanese base on Rabaul, New Britain, useless.
Admiral Chester W. Nimitz controlled Allied forces from the Pacific Ocean Areas command. His forces, with me among them, advanced through the Solomon Islands to take Bougainville. In the Southwest Pacific Area, Supreme Allied Commander General Douglas MacArthur was in command of the other prong of the attack. His forces proceeded along the northeast coast of New Guinea to take nearby islands. The Allied forces involved in both prongs included troops from the United States, New Zealand, and Australia, as well as from the Netherlands.
We code talkers were always part of the offensive, even though I can’t remember ever attacking the beaches with the first wave. After we stormed the beach in the second or third wave, other assault waves followed. At the end came the regimental reserve. Troops waiting to land watched what was happening with us men who went ahead of them. Each wave offered feedback on the previous assault, letting commanders know about any snafu,32 so that corrections could be made.
The unforeseen challenges of landing men on Bougainville threw all schedules off. Supplies and stores of ammunition sat in the holds of ships, waiting to be off-loaded and delivered to shore. Those ships sailed from Empress Augusta Bay at noon on November 3, as scheduled, with many of our supplies still stashed in their cargo bays.
U.S. strategy had been designed to mislead. On the northern tip of the island, at Buka and Bonis, sat two Japanese airfields. Four Japanese airfields and a seaplane base had been constructed at Buin, on the island’s southern end. The airfields were heavily garrisoned with enemy troops. Eight Allied destroyers and four light cruisers had bombarded the northern and southern ends of the island prior to the U.S. landing, leading the enemy to assume that American troops would land in either the north or the south.
However, we Marines were counting on the element of surprise. Those men from the Land of the Rising Sun had not expected us to invade at Cape Torokina, approximately halfway up Bougainville’s western coast, an area which boasted no airfield and was scantily defended.
Despite the meager Japanese defenses, enemy bullets strafed the beach sporadically. The expanse of sand provided poor cover, and the footing was hazardous. Strange black sand flexed underfoot like a bog. Water squeezed out of that black sand with each imprint of our boondockers. There were scattered patches of quicksand. Picking our way across quicksand and bogs, we hit areas where the sand was tan-colored and firm. That gave us a false sense of security, when we really needed to use caution with every step.
Francis and I, crouching low, made our way to the tree line—maybe 250 yards away. Roots and more swampland greeted us. The soggy terrain of Bougainville made Guadalcanal look almost dry. There was nowhere to dig a decent foxhole.
Still, with most of the Japanese soldiers stationed at the distant airfields on the northern and southern ends of the island, the U.S. military took Cape Torokina that same day.
That evening, we dug in as best we could in the saturated, root-filled soil. Wind blew and the night actually grew cold. We’d been warned to stay in our foxholes, with smoking lamps out—which meant no smoking and no striking of matches—because of the possibility of Japanese soldiers arriving from elsewhere on the island, seeing the burning tips of our cigarettes, and attacking.
I tried to get comfortable, but didn’t dare stand. My jacket was soaked and clammy, but at least it offered some protection from the wind. We wore our helmets, even when sleeping, over the mosquito nets that covered our heads. You can get used to almost anything when you’re tired enough. I stretched one leg out as far as I could. When the other began to cramp, I switched legs. I rubbed my arms and crossed them over my chest for warmth. Francis seemed to be asleep.
A shot sounded nearby.
Francis jerked. “What was that?”
“I thought you were sleeping.”
“Not a chance.”
The next morning we discovered that one of the code talkers, Harry Tsosie, had crawled out of his foxhole and stood to take a leak, or maybe to say a prayer. A tall man, he was spotted by an American corpsman, who aimed his .45 revolver, shot, and killed him. Not till morning did the medic and the rest of us Marines realize that the man who
was killed had been one of our own. Harry, mistaken for a Japanese suicide warrior, or Banzai, had been a buddy—one of the first code talkers. His death made us all sad. And we felt nervous, too, knowing we could be next.
Not too many nights later, we had trouble sending an important message. For some reason, our message couldn’t be received by radio. So Francis and I acted as runners, leaving our foxhole and our buddies and venturing out into hostile territory. We only had to go four or five hundred yards, but it seemed like miles. The moon was really bright that night, and the trees cast dark shadows. We dashed from shadow to shadow. We heard mortars and gunfire everywhere, and of course we thought about Harry Tsosie and his death by friendly fire. Man, we were scared. But we made it.
Our U.S.-held beachhead surrounding Cape Torokina expanded slowly. Since most of their forces were concentrated in the northern and southern airfields, the Japanese lacked the numbers they needed to attack us en masse on the ground. Instead they snaked through the island, set traps, climbed trees, and sniped at any American soldier they saw. Nowhere could we feel safe. Of course, we Americans had snipers, too, the telescopic sights on their rifles almost as long as the barrels. But we held the beach, not the high ground, and the series of high ridges and volcanic mountains forming the backbone of Bougainville gave the entrenched enemy an advantage we needed to eliminate.
U.S. troops nicknamed an especially dangerous ridge “Hellzapoppin.” An unknown number of Japanese had fortified the ridge, which overlooked the Cape Torokina area. From their vantage point, enemy snipers were picking off too many Americans. Several Marine assaults on the ridge failed when we were forced back down the steep slopes.
One morning around six o’clock, Francis, myself, and a few others ran along the beach, heading toward the forward line. Artillery fire and the explosions of hand grenades pursued us.
I manned the microphone and nodded toward a large tree. “There,” I said.
Francis, attached to me by the umbilical cord of the radio, ducked behind the tree with me. When I’d caught my breath, I peered to the left of the thick trunk. Was it safe to resume our dash? As I turned back to the right, a sniper’s bullet whined by my head. Shit! I reached to touch the medicine bag in my pocket. It was there, safe, protecting me.
Francis’s eyes rounded out like marbles. “That was close.”
We continued running toward the front, hearts beating like drums. We zigzagged as we ran, keeping close to one another. The sniper who had targeted me was shot by one of my fellow Marines.
Finally in heavy foliage, Francis and I cut our way through with machetes. The foliage was tough to plow through, but it provided good cover. The long, thin cord connecting the headset to the radio became tangled in the vegetation. I unhooked my headset. Almost immediately a beep and a flashing red light warned of an incoming message. I plugged back in.
Considerably larger than Guadalcanal, Bougainville held thirty-five thousand Japanese troops and was well fortified, especially in the north and the south. The island was 125 miles long, dwarfing Guadalcanal’s 90-mile length. Two active volcanoes pushed up from Bougainville’s interior. A narrow strip of beach ran around the border of the island, and huge areas of swamp connected the beaches to the overgrown interior.
Despite the inhospitable conditions on Bougainville, the 3d Marine Division and 37th Infantry Divisions, under Admiral “Bull” Halsey, proved indomitable. We drained swamps and slashed roads through the jungle. The American Seabees, Navy construction personnel, somehow built three airfields at Torokina while suffering intermittent air attacks from Rabaul and artillery fire from ridges like Hellzapoppin that overlooked Torokina and Empress Augusta Bay.
Christmas approached and the men were called together. We sang songs and devoured cookies and coffee. It sure didn’t feel like home, but it was a nice change from being involved in battle.
Then, on Christmas Day 1943, the Marines, aided by air cover, managed to scale the steep slopes of Hellzapoppin and take the ridge.
As long as we had good cover, Francis and I felt fairly secure. Now that we had taken Hellzapoppin Ridge, the fighting on Bougainville had pretty much stopped—temporarily. Everyone worried about air attacks, but even those had abated. Star shells occasionally floated down at night on small parachutes. The light attached to them lit the landscape in eerie white and cast shadows that moved with the movement of the parachutes. Our riflemen would try to shoot them, causing them to burst above us and preventing them from hitting the ground near the troops and exploding.
The island—like most of the tropical islands we fought on—was covered with beautiful flowers, with red and white blossoms as big as the tops of barrels. These bloomed at sunrise, and they smelled wonderful. We occasionally used petals plucked from them for underarm deodorant!
The way we smelled after a prolonged battle was in sharp contrast to those fabulous flowers. We could smell ourselves and everyone else. I remember dirty sweat rolling down my back, arms, and legs, collecting wherever my uniform made contact with my body. During heavy fighting, when we had no access to showers, I looked forward to rain so I could rinse off a bit.
Still, our smell couldn’t begin to compete with the stench of dead bodies. In the heat, bodies began to decompose within a couple of hours, and despite liberal sprayings of DDT, the flies and maggots had a field day. Of course, the flies and maggots didn’t limit themselves to dead bodies. They’d attack the dead skin around a wound, too.
The tropical birds were noisy and brilliantly colored, with dazzling yellow and red feathers. The palm trees were lovely, like a travel poster, and the whole tree—trunk and fronds—swayed in the breezes. Unfortunately, many trees were bomb-blasted, and we had to slash our way into the jungles with machetes, cutting vines and flowers. I always hated the feeling that we were destroying something really beautiful. Sometimes, when I was resting, I’d see monkeys come down from the trees. We men would feed them. During quiet periods, I often thought about those wonderful animals and flowers and wondered how they were going to survive the war. As a Navajo, I’d been taught to respect the earth, and the devastation made me feel sick.
We found we couldn’t really trust this period of relative quiet. That was one of the toughest things about war; you could never really relax, not even for a few moments. Even after an island was secured, there was always the possibility of the Japanese trying to win it back. And Bougainville wasn’t yet secured.
One morning, Francis and I had just loaded our breakfast trays when someone yelled, “Incoming!” Japanese Zeros whined and their sirens sounded. That familiar ominous clicking made our pulses race. We grabbed our trays and ran for cover in a roofed foxhole, not losing any of the food. Bombs exploded as we downed our breakfast.
Enemy ground troops had received very little in the way of reinforcements. General Hyakutake, the Japanese commander on the island, made no attempt to attack the Torokina area. The Japanese general was, at first, convinced that the Torokina landing was a mere diversion. After we Americans began airfield construction and took Hellzapoppin Ridge, he finally realized that he had to pull troops from the northern and southern coasts of the island and attack Torokina.
It was slow going for the Japanese troops, slashing their way through dense jungle to Torokina, dragging heavy weapons. We military men took advantage of this time, creating a U-shaped defense line manned by heavy artillery, mortars, and antitank guns. American troops mined the swampy approaches to our fortifications.
Hyakutake and his men arrived in March 1944. Suddenly the quiet island erupted. Ferocious attacks tore up the beach and the surrounding swamplands. In constant demand, we code talkers manned our radios.
For seventeen days, the battle raged. When men ran out of ammunition, many of them fought hand-to-hand using the bayonets affixed to their rifles. Combatants dodged from one tree to another. Japanese troops emitted terrifying screams. Everyone refused to give up. It was—if such a thing were possible—worse than being fired upon by artille
ry.
But the Japanese, who had traveled overland, abandoning their heaviest weapons along the way, were definitely outgunned. We Allies prevailed, maintaining control of the three new airfields we’d constructed at Torokina.
That long, bloody battle decimated Japanese troops. By the end of April 1944, the Americans secured Bougainville, although skirmishes continued throughout May.
More than one thousand Americans and over seven thousand Japanese died on Bougainville.
With Bougainville secured, we code talkers with the 3d Marine Division figured we would finally get some R&R somewhere, far from the sights and sounds of battle. We joked and talked, went out to the ship to have our hair trimmed to a Marine brush by military barbers, changed into clean fatigues, and read mail from home. We washed our clothing, especially socks and underwear, knowing it would have ample time to dry without attracting enemy bullets. Dry underwear was a luxury. Dry socks were, too. Several Navajo men packed up their well-worn combat uniforms and sent them home, where families would use the clothing as personal items in ceremonies designed to keep the men safe.
A couple of us discovered that the Naval Construction Battalions (Seabees) had great food. None of the rice spiced with worms that we sometimes ate as Marines. Instead they had things like ice cream, excellent steaks, and delicious bread. Word spread quickly, and frequently we code talkers lined up with the Seabees for rations. Seabees built airfields, bathrooms, and anything else that needed building. They set up the tents that housed hospitals and cafeterias. Their facilities were superior, and they were happy to share with other fighting men. They’d fill our canteens with fresh, sweet water and fill our plates till they couldn’t hold any more, then invite us to come back for seconds.
