Their Backs against the Sea: The Battle of Saipan and the Largest Banzai Attack of World War II

by Bill Sloan

  “Finally an Army battalion had been forced to move up, and they came up behind us in our lines, and I was really embarrassed for them,” Duval recalled. “The Marines cussed them out like nobody’s business.”

  IT SEEMS HIGHLY DOUBTFUL that Ralph Smith’s firing brought about any significant change—one way or the other—in the aggressiveness of the 27th Division. But there is absolutely no doubt that it triggered an interservice controversy of alarming proportions, one that seriously jeopardized relations at all levels among the Army, the Navy, and the Marine Corps in the Pacific.

  The first signs of strain appeared naturally enough on Saipan itself, where soldiers and Marines still had to fight for the better part of two weeks to secure the island. Army officers were quick to resent the slur on their service implied by the removal of Ralph Smith, and by the end of the battle relationships between top Army officers and Holland Smith’s staff had reached the breaking point. After replacing Ralph Smith, General Griner said he came away with the firm conviction that Holland Smith was “so prejudiced against the Army that he could never expect a fair and honest evaluation.” A military board was appointed to study the case. Its ruling found that the removal of General Ralph Smith “was not justified by the facts.”

  A 1986 book on the subject entitled “Howlin’ Mad” Smith vs. the Army by Harry A. Gailey would sum it up this way: (1) relieving Ralph Smith was uncalled for, and the substitution of a new, untried commander to bring about a quicker victory on Saipan may even have lengthened the campaign; and (2) the slurs cast upon the officers and men of the 27th Division then and later by Holland Smith in his articles and books were totally “unwarranted and unconscionable.”

  To the men who knew Ralph Smith when the chips were down, like Grinaldo, the truth was simple and straightforward: “I remember that one incident, when our battalion hit Mount Tapotchau, and it became part of the headache between the two Smiths. ‘Howlin’ Mad’ wanted us to attack that ridge, and Ralph Smith gave him a little bit of flak. ‘How do you expect me to send those men to their death without any artillery support?’ He said it because the Marines had confiscated all our artillery. Holland Smith said, ‘You got 81-millimeter mortars, 60-millimeter mortars—use them.’ That was one reason that Ralph was relieved—because he wouldn’t go along just to get along.”

  In his book Coral and Brass, published four years after the battle of Saipan, Holland Smith had this to say: “Relieving Ralph Smith was one of the most disagreeable tasks I have ever been forced to perform. Personally, I always regarded Ralph Smith as a likeable and professionally knowledgeable man. However, there are times in battle when the responsibility of the commander to his country and to his troops requires hard measures. Smith’s division was not fighting as it should, and its failure to perform was endangering American lives. As Napoleon has said, ‘There are no bad regiments, only bad colonels.’”

  IN THE MEANTIME the fighting continued.

  By the evening of 27 June Nafutan Point and Ridge 300 at the southernmost part of Saipan were finally in US hands, but there was one more river to cross for the soldiers of the 27th Infantry Division and the Marines of the 2nd and 4th Marine Divisions. This river was a valley, and they called it Death Valley—for good reason.

  This particular valley was actually a terrace-like depression on the eastern slope of the craggy mass that dominated most of central Saipan and culminated in the 1,564-foot peak of Mount Tapotchau. The floor of the valley was less than a thousand yards wide and dominated by the rugged slopes of Mount Tapotchau on the west and a series of tree-covered, high hills—the highest being about 150 feet—on the east that was dubbed Purple Heart Ridge. There was almost no cover in the flat valley except for a line of trees near the southern end and a few small groups of farm buildings here and there. A narrow road ran up most of the length of the valley.

  The 8th and 29th Marines had been given the task of capturing Mount Tapotchau. On 21 and 22 June the Marines moved toward the mountain, hiking uphill through the steep valleys and across sharp coral ridges. On the afternoon of 23 June artillery fire suddenly hit the Marine battalions.

  “The first salvo hit directly on Marine lines,” remembered Sergeant John Orsock. “Whoever it was continued to pound the lines, and a lot of people were being killed by direct hits.” Someone finally sent up a green flare, the signal for shells landing short on friendly troops, and the firing stopped. “It was so-called friendly fire,” Orsock said, “but we never found out if it was Marine, Army, or Naval gunfire.”

  The Japanese held the high ground, from which they could watch and anticipate what moves the Americans were likely to make. The force comprised some of the island’s best fighting men, though they had taken a beating in the first week of the invasion—and also some of its worst, at least as far as arms went. On its way to Saipan less than three weeks earlier one of the ships on which one regiment had been traveling had been torpedoed; 850 of its men had been lost, and almost all its weapons and equipment, and it too had suffered heavy losses since the assault. But the Japanese owned a valuable advantage: terrain. From their top-of-the-mountain vantage point their gunners could observe the entire road network for a distance of at least two miles. The hills and hillsides were pocked with small and large caves. The wooded area was rough, filled with boulders, and excellent for defensive operations. The Japanese had several light and heavy mortars and some 75-millimeter mountain guns, all well concealed.

  Over the next few days US forces would make repeated efforts to advance through Death Valley, often with tanks attempting to hit the Japanese emplacements, but with little success as tank after tank was knocked out by enemy artillery. Intense fire forced any Marine or Army units to retreat south. At the end of the day on 25 June American forces had advanced just two hundred yards farther up the valley.

  Meanwhile Marine units began assaults on Mount Tapotchau from that side. By 25 June elements of the 1st and 2nd Battalions had seized the peak, though the fighting was tough over every foot of terrain. Japanese counterattacks to regain their valued observation post were unsuccessful.

  Following an artillery barrage on Japanese positions on Purple Heart Ridge, the 3rd Battalion, 106th Infantry Regiment, attacked at midmorning on 27 June, advancing through thick tufts of grass for most of the way, then through sugar cane fields, and onto a low ridgeline that intersected the valley. As soon as the men moved down into the valley they were subjected to a murderous crossfire, but they stubbornly held their position despite being low on water and ammunition. The 2nd Battalion of the 106th soon joined them, and the combined units gained significant ground against the enemy.

  “Congratulations on a day’s work well done,” General Jarman, who was still in command, told the troops. “I have the utmost confidence in our continued success in a vigorous push against the remaining enemy. Keep up the good work.”

  But the next day, under General Griner, brought no advances. When trucks bearing food and ammunition arrived, more problems immediately developed. Company commanders sent patrols to try to recover the equipment, but a Japanese mortar barrage intervened, killing seven and wounding twenty-two from I and K Companies of the 106th, and two Japanese tanks showed up and opened fire on the 2nd and 3rd Battalions of the 106th, killing twelve and wounding sixty-one.

  As soon as the 3rd Platoon moved into the valley the Japanese opened fire and pinned everyone down. When the Japs sent two tanks in, the 3rd Platoon quickly knocked out both of them, and the crews faced withering fire from the soldiers. Despite their success against the Japanese tanks, the platoon was cut off in the valley and trapped for over three hours, and most of the men were killed or wounded. “We were in an open bowl like sitting ducks,” remembered Private John Munka. “Finally, everyone tried to get out of there, and they were cut down. Only four or five men of the original thirty-six were not casualties. We didn’t have a prayer.”

  In total, twenty-two company commanders of the 165th and 106th Infantry Regiments were either killed
or wounded in action. The wounded included Colonel Gerard Kelley, commander of the 165th Infantry Regiment, and Lieutenant Colonel John McDonough, head of the 2nd Battalion of the 165th. Major Gregory Brusseau of the 165th was fatally wounded, and Colonel Harold Mizony of the 106th Infantry Regiment was also killed in Death Valley.

  ON THE MORNING of June 27 Lieutenant John Graves was sitting calmly in the battalion headquarters of his 4th Marines battery when a platoon-sized unit of Japanese troops suddenly stormed the outpost.

  “I don’t know to this day where they came from or what they were trying to do,” Graves remembered. “They just kind of barged in, over a little hill, and there must have been forty or fifty of them. They may have been disoriented, but suddenly they were all over us.”

  A sentry shouted, “Identify yourselves, you bastards!” Then he raised his rifle and started firing. “The Japanese ran into an old, abandoned gun position halfway up the hill and started shooting downhill at us,” Graves said. “It was touch and go for a while there. We had a machine gunner and some of us had rifles. If anything moved, we shot at it.”

  Finally the hill got quiet. Some of the Americans started moving forward, watching for any sign of movement by the Japanese. But Graves didn’t see a single enemy soldier move until one threw a grenade right at him. It blew up about six or seven feet ahead of Graves and sprayed him all up and down his left side and blinded his left eye. Graves was trucked back to an Army tent hospital, where a doctor used a flashlight and a magnet to try to remove the pieces of the grenade.

  “There was a crummy Japanese air raid going on with a couple of Betty bombers while all this was happening,” he recalled. “And a doctor later on told me that they probably messed the eye up worse than it was, but they were doing their best, and it was definitely under adverse circumstances. When they’d done all they could, they put me in a little two-man tent with my head wrapped up, even over my good eye. And there was a kid Marine in the other bunk who was in awful shape. I was pretty sure he was dying. He said he was from Alabama, and he was just so glad I was a Marine and not a ‘dogface Army man.’”

  “Would you hold my hand?” the young Marine asked. Graves reached over blindly, and the pair clenched hands. He died a short time later.

  PROGRESS THROUGH DEATH Valley remained slow but steady, and soon Marines had undertaken the tedious job of clearing out caves along both sides of the valley, often with flamethrower-demolition teams. The 1st and 2nd Battalions of the 106th Infantry Regiment were now positioned in Death Valley, and the bone-weary 3rd Battalion was moved into reserve. By the next day, 28 June, only Hill Able, the final, northernmost promontory of Purple Heart Ridge, remained, and the 27th Division was ordered to attack it. But fierce enemy resistance kept the Army from making much headway, though pockets of Japanese forces in the central part of the island—chiefly to the north of Mount Tapotchau—were attacked anew, and US troops made impressive advances. By the end of the day soldiers of the 106th Regiment had gained close to a thousand yards in the largest one-day gain since the fight for Death Valley began. But Hill Able still remained Japanese property—soldiers who tried to scale the steep southern slope were gifted with hand grenades tossed down into their ranks. That night several Japanese planes attacked just after dusk and continued until midnight but failed to inflict any significant damage.

  It was not until the next morning that the hill was taken. At 0715 one company of the 27th attacked from the east and one from the west. They encountered little opposition—the enemy forces had already begun to retreat north to consolidate and form another defensive line across the island that stretched east from the town of Tanapag. By 0940 the hill was secured.

  The fight for Death Valley had lasted a week, and when it was over, the casualties were high—1,465 for the 27th Infantry, 1,016 for the 2nd Marine Division, and 1,506 for the 4th Marine Division. In all, almost 4,000 men.

  Would the loss have been less severe if Ralph Smith had stayed aboard? No one can say for certain. But the events of the early morning of 6 July—although it was still a handful of days away—would go a long way toward refuting Holland Smith’s accusations against the 27th Division.

  AFTER SEVERAL DAYS of artillery bombardment Marines on the west coast began moving into the town of Garapan on the east coast. Most of the buildings had been reduced to rubble, and the 2nd Marine Division moved through the streets until, by the evening of 3 July, only four hundred yards of real estate ending at Mutcho Point were untaken. The next day that area was also in American hands. And with the Army in control of Death Valley and Purple Heart Ridge, the U-shaped gaps between the 27th Division and the Marines that had worried Holland Smith so intensely had been permanently closed. Now all three divisions were in a straight line and prepared—they believed—to complete the conquest of Saipan by moving north toward Marpi Point and its unfinished airfield.

  “Howlin’ Mad” sent a Fourth of July greeting to the American forces:

  The Commanding General takes pride on this Independence Day in sending his best wishes to the fighting men on Saipan. Your unflagging gallantry and devotion to duty have been worthy of the highest praise of our country. It is fitting that on this 4th of July you should be extremely proud of your achievements. Your fight is no less important than that waged by our forefathers who gave us the liberty and freedom that we have long enjoyed. Your deeds to maintain these principles will not be forgotten. To all hands a sincere well done. My confidence in your ability is unbounded.

  The attack was scheduled to resume at noon on 5 July. The 4th Marine Division and the Army’s 27th Infantry Division would pivot around the 2nd Marine Division, moving west across the island toward the coast near Garapan. Once this had been done, the 2nd Marine Division would be relieved to prepare for the upcoming invasion of Tinian.

  While the 2nd Battalion of the Army’s 105th Infantry Regiment was moving along the beach to check the supposedly abandoned Japanese positions, the Marines set up a CP atop Mount Tapotchau. When they received word that a group of civilians was coming toward them, they discovered they were Japanese soldiers dressed in civilian clothes. Some of the Japanese soldiers were a little careless with their sabers, and the Marines could tell immediately what was going on. The Japanese opened fire with a water-cooled machine gun, and the Marines used their M-1s until they cut them down, though not without some casualties.

  “Gunnery Sergeant Gus Bloomenshine took a bullet right through the heart,” remembered Corporal Barnes Whitehead. “He was one of the finest men I ever knew. And when another friend of mine got shot through the neck, I made a stupid move, and I got shot myself.”

  The Japanese bullet went through Whitehead’s right shoulder, came out the back of his right arm, and shattered everything in its path. A few days later, when a doctor back in Hawaii looked at an X-ray of the arm in the hospital, he could only shake his head.

  “Son,” he said, “You’ll never use this arm again.”

  “Get your damn ass out of here,” Whitehead responded. “I’ll show you what I can do.”

  The doctor frowned and shook his head again. “All right,” he said. “You’ve got but one chance in hell. But I’ll get you a rubber ball, and we’ll see what happens.”

  At first Whitehead couldn’t even move one of his fingers. But he started squeezing the rubber ball, and by the time he got to San Francisco he could move all of them a little. He still had a long way to go, but his arm was on its way to being fully healed.

  PRIVATE FIRST CLASS RAYMOND RENFRO was as tired as he had ever been. He hadn’t slept for more than a handful of minutes in over a week, and if he could have shut his eyes for a moment, he would have been sound asleep. He was half-listening to a conversation between two 4th Division Marines in his rifle platoon who were talking about who would get the other’s watch if they didn’t make it through the next few minutes. They were under attack, Ray knew that much, but it really didn’t matter. Ray felt like screaming at them, but he wasn’t sure he had the stre
ngth.

  “I was utterly exhausted,” he recalled. “I didn’t know what to do, but I didn’t really care.” There he was, just sitting on a rock, when he heard a clicking noise—just like when you snap your fingers. The mine was about four or five feet to his left when it exploded.

  The last thing Renfro remembered was going up in the air and somebody giving the order to retreat, so they withdrew to the top of the hill they were on. They left Renfro and two or three others lying there, thinking they were dead.

  Ray didn’t know for sure how long he lay unconscious there, but he slowly awakened. He couldn’t see anything because his eyes wouldn’t open. He had blood all over his face, but he finally managed to open his left eye. He started feeling around to where he was injured. He still had his arms and legs, and through the gravel and grit in his eye he could make out the men on his left. They looked dead. But there was another Marine on his right. He’d been hit hard, and his whole chest was just laid open. Ray started to talk to him.

  “There’s nobody here but us,” he told the man. “Everybody else is dead.” Ray knew from which direction they’d come, so with his help they started slowly up the hill. Eventually several Marines ran down and dragged them to safety.

  Someone gave Ray a shot of morphine, and he began to examine where he was hurt. “I had a big piece of shrapnel in my left shin bone, three pieces in my left arm, and two in my left thigh,” he said. “My eye still would barely focus from the rock and sand hitting my face. My BAR and helmet, they were all bent up. It looked like they’d been stomped on.”

  Ray lay there until they put the wounded in a Higgins boat and ferried them out to a hospital ship. “I heard one of the men say, ‘Well, this one looks like he’s dead.’ I waved my hand to let ’em know I was still alive. I must have looked pretty scary. I hadn’t shaved in a long time and I was bloody all over, but by God I was alive!”