Borta descended Tapotchau and proceeded east into Death Valley. He had not gone far when he saw three men walking toward him. Borta dropped to a knee and was prepared to open up when one of the men yelled, “Don’t fire—Marines!” Borta lowered his rifle, knowing that a split second later and he would have killed them. The men explained that they were the tail end of the patrol. They had been ambushed and somehow managed to escape. Their best guess was that they lost a handful of men, including the lieutenant and his runner. When they said “runner,” Borta felt an electric shock radiate through his hands and up into his shoulders. He should have been the dead runner.
Borta pushed on. Along the trail he saw evidence of the ambush—bodies scattered in the knee-high grass. He could tell that one of the men had only been wounded. He followed the blood trail. Like a half-dead rabbit, the man had crawled through the field on his belly. When Borta came to the body, he tested the pulse. Nothing. Before the sun fell, he hurried back up Tapotchau.
The mountain was quiet that night. A steady rain fell, and Borta shivered in his foxhole, pressing his body against its walls, and wondered what had become of Lemon and Brem. Word was that Lemon was somewhere on top, but none of the guys whom Borta questioned had actually seen him. Brem, he heard, was still below, recovering from his eye injury.
The night passed miserably. By morning the rain had stopped, and some of the guys were actually whistling. Borta had been collecting cigarettes, and now he tried to trade them for a swig of water. The only problem was that no one had any water left. After going from one foxhole to the next, Borta found a Marine who had collected rainwater in his helmet. For two cigarettes he agreed to allow Borta a pull from his helmet.
About midmorning, Borta learned that the captain wanted to see him. As usual, he dreaded what his next order might be. When he reached the foxhole, he was stunned. The old captain was gone. In his place was a new one just up from the beach. Captain Leonard introduced himself. He struck Borta as a decent fella. After introductions, Captain Leonard explained that the battalion had orders to push to the northern edge of Tapotchau with the help of Company B, which had joined the battalion late the previous day. In order to do that, he needed to get the lay of the land. He had been briefed at the beach and had seen various maps, but what he wanted now was a firsthand picture of the battalion’s position.
As the sun climbed high and turned hot, Borta led the captain along the rim of the ridge, pointing out landmarks. For the first time it became obvious to him why Tapotchau was so important. He felt as though he could see all the way to Guam. There was Tinian to the south, the Navy ships on all sides of the island, the invasion beaches, Lake Susupe, the rubble that was once Charan Kanoa, and the soaring cliffs at Saipan’s northernmost point. He could also see below the movements of the American forces, and every detail of the land—the burning cane fields, farmers’ shacks, tanks, and command posts.
After about thirty minutes they took a break. The captain was wearing a pressed uniform right off the quartermaster’s shelf, with his sleeves rolled up neatly. He looked like someone important, and Japanese snipers loved to take out the big shots with the shiny boots. So Borta sat with him against some rocks that protected them on three sides. Leonard took off his helmet, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, and offered Borta a drink from his canteen. He took just enough to moisten his mouth, and in that time a sniper spotted them. When Borta pulled the canteen from his lips, Leonard was lying on his back with a bullet hole through his throat.
Borta walked back to where the company was dug in and explained to a new corporal that the captain had been killed. He was standing next to the corporal when he radioed the 8th Marines’ headquarters. “Goddammit,” someone at headquarters said, “isn’t the captain there yet? “Yes, sir,” responded the corporal, “but he’s dead.” Then Borta heard headquarters say, “Well, Corporal, it looks like you’re in charge now.”
Borta returned to where the captain had been shot. He had been gone no more than fifteen minutes, but when he reached the spot he saw that Marines had already stripped the captain of his clothes down to his skivvies. Early on in the battle, Borta might have been offended by the act. But now he knew that the men meant no disrespect. They were not scavenging hyenas. They were desperate. Some wore nothing but rags. Others were covered in dried blood and reeked of night soil. Even if they belonged to a dead captain, new boondockers or socks or a dungaree jacket were too good to pass up. Nearly every other Marine there would have done the same thing.
CHAPTER 30
Gyokusai
By late June the American casualty count hit nearly ten thousand, and Holland Smith knew that the Japanese were hoping to win a war of attrition, or to prolong the war long enough for reinforcements to arrive. The doctors who treated the wounded recognized this, too. “The thing that impresses me is this,” one physician remarked. “These Japs know they can’t win. They have nothing left except some small arms and a few mortars, and we’ve got a world of everything. But the Japs fight on and on and on, and we’re going to lose ten thousand men before we win this damned little island.”
The doctor’s assessment was right. General Saito was once again on the run, moving his command post one and a quarter miles north of Mount Tapotchau in the midst of a rainsquall. His army had been reduced to “chewing the leaves of trees and eating snails,” and had little drinking water or medical supplies left. Nevertheless, the Japanese soldiers vowed that they would hold back “nothing in the service of the Emperor.”
With the battle dragging on and no end in sight, General Holland Smith had to find fighting men. He had already landed his reserve force, the Army’s 27th Division, which he committed to some of the island’s trouble spots, where they met fierce enemy resistance. The 106th Infantry’s 3rd Battalion had fewer than one hundred men and was reorganized into a single rifle company.
Smith had also mobilized the two-hundred-man 2nd Division Shore Party, comprising blacks from Marine depot and ammunition companies. Although he may have supported the Corps’ long-standing opposition to using blacks in battle, troop shortages necessitated desperate measures. The black servicemen had already proved their reliability, landing an unprecedented 75,000 tons of supplies, including TNT, rockets, parachute flares, carbines, and thousands of rounds of small-caliber cartridges, diesel fuel, and water, in just ten days. Seeking to strengthen some of his harder-hit units, Smith distributed hundreds of men from the 18th, 19th, and 20th Depot Companies as well as the 3rd Marine Ammunition Company among the 6th and 8th Marines. He used others to help transport casualties and to establish a guard company to protect the observation post atop Mount Tapotchau.
Back at Montford Point, Edgar Huff had just been promoted from gunnery sergeant to first sergeant. His rise through the ranks had been meteoric, but, to his frustration, he was still right where he had started. He wanted to fight, and repeatedly asked Colonel Woods to transfer him overseas. Woods was sympathetic to his requests, but reluctant to let him go. Huff argued that as first sergeant of a malaria control unit, he was not serving any purpose. He should have been fighting Japanese on Saipan with the men he had trained, instead of battling mosquitoes in North Carolina.
In late June the 4th Division was well north of the Kagman Peninsula. While it waited for the 27th Division to come abreast, it mopped up rear sections in the vicinity of Donnay and scouted the terrain to the north. The real action, though, was still in the middle, in the area just east of Tapotchau, where the 27th had finally established contact with the 8th Marines on its left and the 24th Marines on its right. The Army division was still behind, but as soon as it caught up, the 4th Division would begin what might be its final push north.
On Tapotchau, Chick Borta learned that he would be working as a runner for a new lieutenant and soon would be getting off the mountain. Borta dreaded answering to a wet-behind-the-ears second lieutenant, fresh out of officers’ candidate school, with a bronze suntan and spotless khakis. But when First Lieutenant
Bradford Chaffin introduced himself, Borta knew he had lucked out. Chaffin, who hailed from Adrian, Michigan, a straight shot east of Borta’s Chicago, struck him as a thoroughly decent guy, the kind of leader, like Sergeant Rachitsky, who could inspire loyalty without really trying. If Chaffin was disappointed with the battalion, he did not let on, though he would have had good reason to: the entire 29th Battalion numbered just 284 men, with fewer than ninety to each infantry company.
From the peak, Chaffin pointed out four hiccups of land to the north, the Pimple Hills, the next target for the 8th Marines and Borta’s “bastard battalion.” The 29th’s goal would be Tommy’s Pimple, the second one from the right.
The following morning the battalion began its descent via a narrow crevice that dropped off at an angle that would have been difficult for a mountain goat to negotiate. To Borta it looked like an invitation to an ambush. But by midday on July 1, the battalion had made it down Tapotchau and occupied the top of Tommy’s Pimple—without a fight. The battle that Chaffin and others had predicted never materialized.
Somewhere near midmorning on July 2, Borta and a squad of men came upon a bunker. Everyone was jumpy. For the first time, many believed that they might actually get off Saipan alive, and they were not about to take any chances. One of the guys wanted to lift the lid and throw in a hand grenade in case the bunker contained Japanese soldiers. Remembering the trigger-happy BAR man and the dead mother and child, Borta asked him to wait.
As he walked up, the rest of the men stood at a safe distance. Borta hesitated. Who gave a shit about a bunch of starving civilians? Pulling the lid off the bunker, he had the urge to drop in a grenade, but then he said, “Detekoi!”—“Come out!” Stepping back from the hole, he saw a small hand. “Korosanai yo,” he said—“We won’t murder you.” Seconds later, a frail, shriveled-up old woman crawled out. “Mizu,” she said, pointing to her mouth—“Water.” When a Marine gave her his canteen, she gulped at it. When she finished, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand and walked to the edge of the bunker and said something. A long string of people filed out, civilians all of them. Lieutenant Chaffin chose a group of men to escort them to the stockade, and then the battalion pressed on.
By early afternoon, after moving unimpeded for hours, the 29th cut through a meadow flanked by two small hills. There for the first time since Tapotchau, they confronted Japanese machine gunners and mortarmen. Chaffin and Borta dove behind some rocks, and Chaffin yelled to his men to stay put. After a few minutes a squad of Marines tried to move forward. Spotting them, Chaffin tugged on Borta’s arm. “Stop the point.”
Borta ran to reach them. He had not gone farther than twenty yards when a mortar hit. For a moment Chaffin thought Borta was dead. But then he moved and the lieutenant charged out from behind some rocks and dragged Borta to safety.
While a medic attended to Borta, two tanks pounded the enemy’s position. Then Chaffin, following a flamethrowing tank, led his men on a dead run across the open field and up a hill as a rainstorm that had swept over the sea hurled itself against the landscape. As the tanks rumbled up the hill, they followed. Shortly before dusk, a large group of Marines, led by Chaffin’s platoon, reached the top. With what little light remained, they shot the retreating Japanese soldiers. According to one Marine, it was a heck of a good time, like “shooting jackrabbits.”
July 2 was a good day for Holland Smith. The 2nd Division made its greatest push since the D-Day landings and moved into the heart of Garapan’s Little Tokyo, which weeks of shelling had reduced to little more than a pile of rubble. The Seabees, working day and night, had lengthened and widened the Aslito airstrip. It was now big enough for fighters to take off and land. Soon B-24 Liberator bombers could start using it. With more improvements, the larger B-29 bombers could as well.
On July 3, much of General Saito’s island garrison crumbled. Forfeiting the Pimples, the general had moved his command post farther north, to a secluded cave in what the Americans called “Paradise Valley,” a thousand yards inland from the northern village of Makunsha (or Matansa). Here, during the uprisings of the late 1600s, Spaniards massacred the local Chamorro inhabitants. The Chamorros called it the Killing Place. The general ordered his troops, fighting just north of the Garapan-Tapotchau-Kagman Peninsula line, to withdraw, too. Now, nearly two weeks behind schedule, the 2nd and 4th Marine Divisions and the Army’s 27th Division were taking huge chunks of territory. Outside of Garapan, the 2nd Marine Division pushed into the O-7 area (Day 7 objective), near Mutcho Point, and cut down large numbers of fleeing enemy soldiers.
For the 4th Division Marines, who had reached the O-6 line, north of the village of Hashigoru, turning to the northwest as the island narrowed, the going was much tougher. On July 3 they encountered a succession of hills that the Japanese seemed determined to hold, despite the division’s use of tanks and 75-mm halftracks. Hill 721 (named for its elevation) proved especially difficult. That night the Marines subjected it to unending fire and, after taking it the following day, renamed it “Fourth of July Hill.”
On the fourth of July, Holland Smith gave many of his troops a rest, ordering the 2nd and 6th Marines detached from the 2nd Marine Division, and assigned them the role of NTLF (Northern Troops and Landing Forces) reserve. He also removed the 8th Marines from the fighting. Even the beleaguered 27th Division got a break after reaching Flores Point on Saipan’s west coast.
Chick Borta’s “bastard battalion,” which had not enjoyed a day of rest since the battle began, was assigned to patrol operations under the Saipan Garrison Force. Borta almost could not believe it. He had been on hand days before when Colonel Tompkins had told General Merritt Edson, CO of the 2nd Division, that the battalion had nothing left as a fighting unit. “Hey, Red,” Borta had heard the colonel say, “this battalion has had it.” Now, looking around at his fellow Marines, Borta was taken aback by what he saw. Their dungarees were spattered with blood. They were gaunt and hollow-eyed, and shuffled, as if shackled, on feet burning with jungle rot. Pluto Brem, tall and thin before the battle had begun, looked like a scarecrow. But at least he was alive. Lemon was nowhere to be found. A photographer, Keith Wheeler of the Chicago Times, caught the battalion pulling back. Even for his hometown paper, Borta could not muster a smile. He walked head down in a fog of fatigue, conscious of the fact that he and the others looked like the dregs of humanity.
That evening General Holland Smith circulated a message to his troops: “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.… Your fight is no less important than that waged by our forefathers who gave us the liberty and freedom we have long enjoyed. Your deeds to maintain these principles will not be forgotten.”
Admiral Spruance, too, was in high spirits. On July 3, Admiral Mitscher reported that two of his carrier task force groups had hit Iwo Jima. U.S. fighters had shot down fifty Japanese Zeros and demolished dozens of planes on the ground. The following day, Mitscher’s pilots pounded Iwo Jima again and followed up with raids on the Chichi and Haha Jima island groups.
On July 5, Holland Smith set his sights on the northern part of the island. Splitting it in half, he gave the west side to the 27th Division and the east to the 4th Marine Division. Together the divisions would advance all the way north.
Morning came early for the 23rd Marines’ 2nd Battalion atop Hill 767. Hoping to prepare the way for the day’s push, artillery sent up a spotter. Joining the spotter, Lieutenant Leary and Carl Matthews, still stinking of night soil after their night in the farmer’s garden, crawled to the highest point on the ridge.
Everyone heard the initial rounds as they whooshed overhead. Seeing that they had landed too far out, the spotter called in the coordinates and began walking the rounds in closer, hoping to drop the next one in the middle of the enemy outpost. When Matthews heard it, he knew something was wrong. The shell fell sho
rt, failing to clear the crest of the hill. Matthews felt as if he had been slammed against a concrete wall. His ears rang as if someone were holding his head up against a screaming teapot. Although he did not appear to notice the injury, Lieutenant Leary had been hit by a piece of shrapnel that had ripped his jacket and grazed his side. The spotter’s dungaree jacket was in tatters and his back covered in blood, but he continued to direct the artillery until the rounds were landing on top of the Japanese on the far side of the hill.
An hour later the 23rd Marines moved forward. Dead and wounded enemy soldiers covered the ground. The odor of blood mingled with the smell of rain. Some Marines walked among the bodies, plunging their bayonets into the bellies of the half-dead Japanese, while others rested in the grass and licked at the water that dripped from the lip of their helmets.
By the morning of July 6, Holland Smith was already fed up with the 27th’s lack of progress and what he considered its persistent timidity. Smith ordered the 4th Marine Division to move west and squeeze it out. His Marines would execute the final sweep of the island. The Army could busy itself mopping up the coast near Tanapag.
Thanks to Smith’s decision to relieve the 27th, the 23rd Marines were again on the move. Held in reserve for just a day, they would now assume a position on the left flank of the advancing Marines, expanding the 4th Division’s coverage of the island from the west coast to the east.
Despite their new assignment, there was a growing sense of optimism among the Marines of the 4th Division. After weeks of fighting, the battle seemed to be winding down. Huge numbers of Japanese soldiers were said to be fleeing north. Civilians, perhaps sensing the imminence of the Japanese defeat, were surrendering en masse. Hundreds turned themselves over to the American troops on July 6 alone.
The Color of War Page 27
