No Bended Knee

by Merrill B. Twining

  Once we embarked on this filthy ship the hassling started immediately. The exec published a ship’s order stating that the Marines were littering the decks and therefore would no longer be permitted to purchase items such as candy and cigarettes from the ship’s store. Under the draconian stringencies of our embarkation order we had loaded none of these items for ourselves. I had turned the bulk of them over gratis to the ships at Wellington, as their stocks were completely exhausted due to many weeks on station. I felt personally involved and betrayed, but there was nothing we could do without informing General Vandegrift, who was already deeply and unpleasantly entangled with Admiral Turner over the diversion of his division reserve to the Ndeni undertaking.

  As we moved toward our objective, the exec began to develop an uncommon interest in blackout precautions, including such minor matters as faint light leakage from portholes having ill-fitting metal covers that screened the thick glass. At the same time a major source of danger, peculiar to McCawley , was an intermittently flaming stack; visible for miles around as we charged along for all the world like an old-time horse-drawn steam fire engine. This condition had existed for over a year and was a matter of common knowledge and concern. It had never been corrected, and in consequence the old “Wacky Mac” was definitely not battle worthy. She survived— miraculously—until the evening of 30 June 1943, during the Rendova operation, when she took three torpedoes, one Japanese and two U.S.

  The exec liked to check our portholes. It gave him a pretext to prowl around Marine country at will, looking for trouble. He was constantly annoying us in the division staff area, an enclosed compartment beneath the signal bridge. There all staff sections were crowded together busily engaged in revising and rewriting our attack orders to conform to minor changes Turner made daily to his own directive.

  The production and particularly the distribution of these changes to all ships with embarked Marines were onerous tasks with little profit. When the general finally became aware of the matter he was annoyed and told us to ignore further changes: “The regimental commanders will think I can’t make up my mind.” This explains minor discrepancies between Turner’s and Vandegrift’s attack orders published in subsequent official accounts. For example, Turner’s order in its final form states enemy strength using the figures McKean and I brought back from Ferdinand headquarters in Townsville, whereas Vandegrift’s order shows the initial estimate received from MacArthur’s headquarters. He saw no reason to make a formal change, since this particular information was of no real significance to any landing force commander other than himself.

  Two days out on the sortie we had a minor flap when Turner announced he was going to accompany us ashore and set up shop on Guadalcanal. We hadn’t brought along even a tent or cot for General Vandegrift, but true to the tradition of Lucius Paulus, he felt it incumbent to provide his guest with a tent for his expedition into Macedonia.5 Turner later flatly denied that he ever had any such intention, but his biographer betrays him by revealing existence of a draft order found in his files.6 So Spike McKelvy, commanding the embarked Marine Battalion, was assigned the onerous task of going into the holds to find canvas and camp equipment among supplies loaded for the Division Field Hospital.

  We began work on a plan of defense, knowing we would face an immediate and terrific reaction from the Japanese. Base defense doctrine had not been developed to the same degree as the doctrine for landing operations because of our limited human resources in the field of military planning. In addition, the basic concept was faulty, at least from the point of view of our requirements for defense of advance naval bases. It was founded on a concept called “sector, subsector defense,” developed prior to World War I by the army at Leavenworth for the defense of large coastal areas of the continental United States against a hypothetical large-scale attack of the German army landing on the New Jersey coast and driving northwest to cut off the Philadelphia–Pittsburgh– New England industrial triangle. This problem, probably written about 1907 by then Capt. George Catlett Marshall for Gen. J. Franklin Bell, commandant of the Field Officers School, had been slavishly miniaturized by the Marine Corps to fit the beach situation confronting it in defense of small islands. Work had been suspended on this manual for years in order to concentrate all our efforts on the navy’s more important Manual for Landing Operations (FTP 167), but the uncompleted defense manual nevertheless continued as a controlling publication known as the Tentative Manual for the Defense of Advanced Bases MCS-3 , produced by the Marine Corps Schools.

  There had always been wide disagreement about the manual’s applicability to Marine Corps requirements. The best chance for a successful base defense by a small force is to fight at the water’s edge with a view to destroying the hostile landing force during its moment of greatest weakness, the golden hour between the lifting of the naval bombardment and the establishment of effective landing-force artillery support ashore. The alternative method was to offer no serious resistance until the enemy had landed and advanced inland.

  The Japanese were to try both methods. Neither ever worked, but their water’s-edge defense came close to success on several occasions; it always inflicted ghastly casualties on our forces, as at Tarawa, Peleliu, and Iwo Jima. At Jerry Thomas’s direction I worked up a conventional plan based on MCS-3, unworkable from every point of view. Jerry looked at it and said, “Magnificent dispersion.” The subject was never mentioned again.

  The last days of our approach were made under increasingly thick cloud cover, a gift from on high. We were now well within patrol-plane range of Rabaul and in clear weather most certainly would have been detected. Because of the impenetrable overcast the Japanese had suspended surveillance over the area of our approach. Late in the afternoon of 6 August we ran out of cover. The sky was clear and the sun bright, but it was too late in the day for the Japanese to take advantage of their last chance to intercept us. We had made it.

  At sunset I ran into Jerry in the passageway outside our berthing area. He had just left the admiral’s mess, where the general and his staff took their meals. He said the ongoing difference over the matter of the division reserve had reached the point of open dispute, with the general grimly and quietly refusing to capitulate. As a closing shot at the general’s unshaken argument for release of the reserve, Kelly Turner said, “Vandegrift, that sounds like something you read in a book.” Jerry paused, then added ruefully, “The old man turned gray as a cat.”

  We went up to the hot and crowded little command post in the compartment under the signal bridge and resumed work. Night fell, and we proceeded with the details of executing tomorrow’s attack. The exec came prowling around fussing with the porthole covers and complaining that we should clear the compartment so the lights could be turned out. His wind was up. We asked if his engineers had fixed the fiery stack yet. It was still blazing like a beacon, an attraction for any Japanese submarine.

  About an hour later the exec returned with four seamen carrying two oil lanterns. Each was about three to four feet high, one with green lenses, the other with red. I suppose these monsters were carried as emergency running lights in case the regular lights near the bridge lost power. Running lights were almost never used during the war, particularly in a combat zone. But here was Riley setting up standbys for the prohibited running lights. The exec had his men light and adjust the wicks to a nice smoky flame. His purpose, of course, was to goad someone into extinguishing them so he would presumably have an open-and-shut case: “Interference with the operation of the ship.” We went ahead with our work. He returned in a few minutes, reached into the compartment, found the light switch, and turned it off, then fled down the passageway closely pursued by Frank Goettge. Riley dropped his flashlight clattering on deck and kept on going, followed by one of the most powerful men I have ever known. Jerry Thomas threw a partial block on Frank and dissuaded him from his obvious intent. There was trouble enough on board McCawley. We finished our work.

  McCawley was the last of the Hell
Ships. Kelly Turner must have recognized the problem, for both captain and exec were replaced after the operation.7

  When our ships rounded Cape Esperance, Transport Group Yoke, carrying the northern attack force, split off and headed toward Tulagi Harbour. The main unit, Transport Group Xray, continued toward Lunga Point. We went to general quarters, though there was no sign that our presence was detected. We almost felt disappointed by our unbelievable good luck. No one likes to be ignored.

  Suddenly the classic tropical night ended. The blazing sun came up with a rush. At exactly 0613, 7 August 1942 (6 August in the United States) the heavy cruiser Quincy (CA-39) opened the ball. Every gun in the covering force that could be brought to bear joined in a deadly salute to the emperor. Ours was a salute that would bring him into the twentieth century and his prime minister to the gallows. We were announcing that the way back had begun. It was an unforgettable moment of history.

  As the sun came up, I was standing on the starboard side of McCawley with General Vandegrift and Jerry Thomas. We looked shoreward, eager to orient ourselves with respect to our objective. There was Lunga Point, and in the background, looking for all the world like Mt. Hood, we saw Mt. Austen looming out of the morning’s first light. General Vandegrift said, “Jerry, can that thing be Mr. Widdy’s Grassy Knoll?”

  In preparing the order for the Guadalcanal landing (1st Marine Division Operation Order 7-42), we had directed the 1st Marine Combat Group (Cates) to land and seize as its objective “a grassy knoll four miles south of Lunga Point.” This objective had been described to us in those terms by Mr. Widdy, former manager for Lever Brothers Plantation at Lunga Point, in a way that indicated it would be a suitable regimental objective. Lacking both maps and aerial photographs, we had no way of verifying the accuracy of his statements. He had been commissioned in the Australian navy directly from civilian life to accompany the attack force and did give us much valuable information, but unfortunately, lacking military experience, he had given us a totally misleading description. Before our eyes the rising sun disclosed the looming bulk of a massive and almost insurmountable mountain. This was our objective. It was nothing like what had been described to us by Mr. Widdy. As an objective perhaps it would have been suitable for an Army Corps, but not for a regiment. Vandegrift gave immediate instructions for the 1st Marines to stop their advance at the airfield.

  The cruisers launched spotter planes. Out of nowhere came the old Walrus from Australia, lumbering along at masthead height, keeping extremely close to the ships to avoid misidentification. As I watched from the signal bridge I heard an uproar from the flag bridge. Later I was told by an officer of General Vandegrift’s staff that Kelly Turner had ordered, “Shoot down that plane.” Instead of passing the order, the talker on the sound-powered phone said, “Admiral, that’s the Walrus plane from Australia . . . sir.” But Turner answered this with silence.

  I recalled the old navy yarn that used to delight us as plebes. The skipper of an old predreadnought was shortening chain in New York Harbor prior to weighing anchor. He spotted a bluejacket on the foc’sle out of uniform—no neckerchief— and immediately began bellowing through his megaphone, directing the apprehension of this miserable culprit. Meanwhile the ship, still swallowing, overran the anchor and popped her chain.

  Kelly Turner, we were to find out, was quick on the draw but sometimes shot from the lip.

  I went below to get breakfast, not because I felt hungry but because I knew it would be a long time before I would have another chance for a hot meal. The McCawley’s wardroom mess was excellent thanks to a fine supply officer. Their troop mess was also one of the best. This day they served the traditional D-day breakfast—steak and eggs for all hands. The ship was blacked out below except for a few blue battle lights. Those lights turned my scrambled eggs as green as the Chicago River on St. Patrick’s Day. Ditto for the butter on my toast.

  At 0650 the landing force was called away. The ships were 11,000 yards off the beach to be beyond the effective range of enemy medium artillery, although we were positive he had none. I took my assigned post observing the embarkation on the starboard side. Never have I seen a smoother operation. Landing craft previously lowered and orbiting nearby were called alongside and loaded with Marines clambering down the ship’s side clinging to cargo nets, their equipment loosened for easy divestiture in case of an accidental fall.

  Each coxswain was given identifying number cards to display on the boat’s bow and exact instructions as to his position in the formation and point of landing. The senior Marine aboard each boat already had this information on a separate card.

  Boats then took their assigned positions in the proper wave of the ship-to-shore formation and, after all were present, began the run to the beach, carefully timed to bring them to the line of departure at H hour.

  We had allowed more time than was needed. This miscalculation required the Marines to spend an unnecessarily long wait in the boats wallowing in a choppy sea, so there was a good deal of seasickness before we got ashore. In subsequent landings, troops debarked much closer to the hostile beach, and the assembly process was expedited. Aside from this, the landing was the best I have ever seen. I attribute our success to the unfavorable landing conditions at Koro, which gave us time to perfect ship-to-shore techniques, which were needed more than maneuvering onshore. Kelly Turner’s unrelenting efforts on boat drill at Koro paid off handsomely.

  The boat pool method we used here became the U.S. standard as the war progressed. The Aussies and the Brits would have none of it, claiming their method of “rile” (rail) loading was far superior. In their method boats are loaded at the transport’s rail and then lowered into the water. Unfortunately, a percentage of boats always prove to be inoperable after hanging at the davits during a long voyage. Invariably they will be the boats carrying key officers, important equipment, or vital armament. “But,” the Aussies would say, “it’s faster. And besides, that’s the way we did it at Gallipoli.” Right. And our Marine Corps post–World War I studies of that operation indicate that “rile” loading was a contributing cause to their difficulties in securing a lodgment ashore. Of course we were much too polite to tell them that.

  At about 1030 I was directed to go ashore with the chief of staff, Col. Capers James, to establish an advanced division command post at Red Beach. As we approached the shore, I heard occasional single shots from our Springfield 1903 rifles. This was puzzling. Our landing craft did not have a bow ramp and I took the precaution of rolling over the gunwale as we grounded on the sand. I felt an immediate stab of sharp pain in my belly and for a fraction of a second thought, “This is it. It’s been a short war for me.” Then I realized that I had accidentally triggered the CO2 bottle on my life belt and it had expanded around my waist, gripping it in full force. This attracted all my interest and attention for the next second or two until I found and operated the release.

  Our Higgins boat had made a beautiful landing on the steep-to beach, and we stepped ashore almost dry shod. We carried our radios and set them up in an advanced command post established about 100 yards inland. Our first message was to notify division of our arrival and our location ashore.

  Immediately, I returned to the beach proper to see what was going on. The scattered firing I’d heard was due to a few Marines shooting down coconuts from the first palm trees that most of them had ever seen. There were others there too. I found the division provost marshal—eating coconut—and told him to arrest anyone firing a weapon and to check all personnel on the beach for stragglers. Reminded of his duties, he did a good job. Order was soon restored.

  I was on the beach many times that afternoon and saw no further evidence of disorder. The men on the beach either were forming up prior to moving out or were there for some purpose in connection with artillery, tank, motor transport, engineer, and combat units coming across the beach. These all required guides, equipment operators, radiomen, and a dozen other special qualifications needed to get their parent units unde
r way. The later horror stories about stragglers were without foundation in fact.

  About 1320 someone brought me a message from the advanced command post. A Coast Watcher on Bougainville had spotted a large formation of enemy twin-engine bombers “coming yours,” as they always put it. The message had gone through a special communications system and reached us from Pearl Harbor less than a minute before the strike began. Word was passed to take cover. It was a waste of effort. No one wanted to miss the show, and it was a good one. Twenty-two twin-engine bombers at 14,000 feet passed over Transport Group Xray and its screening ships. The latter, joined by the transports, put up a highly effective antiaircraft barrage, bringing down at least three bombers. We suffered no damage afloat or ashore.

  I walked westward along the government track (an unimproved roadway without bridges or culverts, suitable for foot traffic and in some sections passable for vehicles having four-wheel drive) that skirts the beach in the trace of 1st Battalion, 5th Marines. They had been ashore for two hours and had made little progress. I noticed that a few men had started lightening their packs by throwing away spare articles of clothing. I was alarmed—shades of Bull Run! To my gratification all signs of discard suddenly ceased. Quite obviously sergeants equipped with number twelve USMC field boots had straightened things out in their own way. There would be no more of that nonsense.

  I found the battalion a few hundred yards up the beach, halted with its forward elements on the right bank of the Ilu River. The small units along the stream were clamoring to go across. I started back to find the battalion commander. As soon as I left, the troops crossed the stream of their own accord. I found the battalion commander and told him politely—he was far senior to me—to get going before the general got ashore. He made no response, but his battalion was already moving anyway. There were other and larger streams to cross between here and Lunga Point.