No Bended Knee

by Merrill B. Twining

  Spurlock’s L Company had brushed off light resistance and crossed the river on the eighteenth, the day before the general attack, bivouacking for the night south of Matanikau Village. In the morning they attacked toward the north and fought their way to the outskirts of the village, overrunning a series of well-defended positions. At this point they became the objective of a Japanese banzai charge, the first of the many we experienced on Guadalcanal. However, the element of surprise was lost when the enemy began his assault at too great a distance. There was interval enough to destroy the oncoming Japanese with small-arms fire before they could reach the Marines. It was heartening to know that the enemy could make mistakes too.

  Meanwhile, I Company (Hardy) was proceeding via Dexter’s landing craft along the coast to its landing point west of Kokumbona. It received rifle and machine-gun fire while still on the water and west of the Matanikau. Opposite the landing point the Marines came under long-range naval gunfire from two enemy destroyers and a submarine patrolling well to seaward. Though ineffective, this fire pursued them to the beach and throughout the brief period of landing.

  The Japanese ships did not attempt to close and destroy our small unprotected flotilla. This brings up an inexplicable quirk in the Japanese military mentality that we were to experience again and again. Whether because of lack of initiative or the workings of their strange code of military honor, they often did little or nothing to help their countrymen in an obvious moment of peril.

  With Hardy’s company ashore blocking the escape route to the west along the government track, the trap was complete. Enemy resistance broke, and the survivors faded into the familiar and unhealthy jungle with their wounded. Losses were incredibly disproportionate. Our dead numbered four; theirs, sixty-six, most killed in the ill-timed banzai charge on L Company. We were happy to see that we had three fine young company commanders: Spurlock, Hawkins, and Hardy. Each would be heard from again.

  Good weather continued. In the evenings some of us gathered at the end of the coral finger for a pleasant half-hour bull session. One evening a young officer sardonically suggested that a ribbon might be authorized to commemorate our present activity in the Solomons. Somebody picked up the idea and proposed it be made of the same green herringbone twill as the fatigues we were wearing. All were sure this would be approved by the quartermaster due to the obvious economy involved in providing the material.

  This casual project soon became more ambitious—that of a regular medal, something similar to the Marine Corps Expeditionary Medal. We all agreed to the somewhat scatological idea that the “stuff” hitting the fan—our favorite expression—should appear on one side of the medal. There was a difference of opinion concerning what should be portrayed on the other. One school of thought held out for the idea of a Marine grabbing at a hot potato shaped like Guadalcanal; the other, that it should be a transport with a stern on each end so it could “haul ass without turning around.”

  There was overwhelming approval of the idea that the unofficial motto of the division, Faciat Georgius (let George do it), must appear somewhere. No consensus reached, we went our separate ways, and I forgot the whole bit of good-natured foolishness. Months later, in Australia, two young officers from our intelligence section dropped something on my desk—a George Medal, the hot potato version cast in pot metal and suspended by a herringbone ribbon from a bandoleer pin. Faciat Georgius! It remains my most prized possession.

  We commenced getting information about the enemy along our eastern flank. We knew there was a small detachment near Taivu and were preparing to take it out. Then Coast Watcher Martin Clemens’s scouts reported sighting other forces. The latter reports were conflicting and unsubstantiated, so a small patrol under Lt. John J. Jachym, an energetic and capable young officer, was sent out from A Company, 1st Battalion, 1st Marines. His mission was also to provide protection for an engineer reconnaissance group conducting a survey as to the area’s suitability for construction of additional airfields. On 13 August the Jachym patrol encountered a Catholic missionary, Father Duhamel, who reported the presence of a large enemy force on the coast to the east. Jachym realized the transcending importance of this information and promptly returned with his patrol to the perimeter. His report confirmed intelligence obtained from other sources. Jerry Thomas decided to send out a strong combat patrol to make solid contact.

  Later, we were to receive news that Father Duhamel and the nuns of the mission at Tetere had been murdered by the Japanese. Their blood-soaked vestments were delivered to our command post by the native scouts, who brought us a full account of this bestial act. We had urged these missionaries to accept our protection at Lunga Point until they could be evacuated, but they had decided to remain true to their mission in the most literal sense of the word.

  Capt. Charlie Brush, A Company, 1st Marines left with a strong patrol on 19 August moving east along the government track. An approaching enemy group moving carelessly westward along the track was detected shortly after noon near the village of Tetere. Brush, reacting swiftly and correctly, deployed five squads across the road and engaged the surprised Japanese patrol frontally at close range.

  At the same time he dispatched Lieutenant Jachym with an enveloping force against the enemy’s left flank. Surprise was complete and the patrol was wiped out. Thirty-one Japanese were killed, while only three escaped. Our losses were three killed, three wounded. The matter of the Goettge patrol was evened.

  The appearance and uniforms of these troops indicated they were freshly landed members of the regular Japanese Army, the first we had seen. There were four officers, including two of field rank. This was unusual for a small patrol, as was the considerable amount of excellent communication equipment they carried. Brush correctly concluded this was an advance party for a larger force and without delay dispatched all documents found on the enemy dead to Lunga via special messenger. A partial translation hastily made by Capt. Sherwood F. “Pappy” Moran, our senior interpreter, indicated the presence of a special force of about 1,000 men, hurriedly embarked at Truk and sent to Guadalcanal immediately upon learning of our 7 August landing. This was the famous Ichiki Detachment, a commando unit originally intended for the seizure of Midway Island in June.

  General Vandegrift made a quick and accurate reassessment of our position. The most dangerous immediate enemy capability had shifted from that of an attack directly from the sea to an overland attack on our right (east) flank along the Tenaru. The river became progressively more difficult to defend as it extended inland, where it was less of an obstacle to the enemy and the coconut plantation area gave way to dense jungle.

  Orders were issued to extend the right flank of 1st Marines inland 1,500 yards by the priority construction of hasty defensive positions along the line of the river, in this locality more of a useful control line than an obstacle.

  Brush’s patrol had captured three or four enemy maps of Lunga Point. We were concerned with the accuracy and detail with which they depicted the location of our defensive positions, the state of their development, and whether or not they were actually occupied. These maps were better than anything we possessed then or at any time during the campaign.

  Our preoccupation with the eastern flank was not because we felt any particular threat from an attack by 1,000 Japanese. They could damage us, to be sure. They could strike at any hour or at any point they chose on our thinly held perimeter— they held the attacker’s option. But even if such an attack were to be initially successful, we had ample forces deployed elsewhere and the ability to commit them as reinforcements on short notice in overwhelming force. Our real concern lay in the many indications that the unit confronting us was merely an advance element covering the arrival of a much larger force. That could be a real test.

  Consideration was given to the idea of moving some of our own forces to the east to bring on a meeting engagement. This would be a logical move in active defense and would protect the airfield from possible artillery bombardment. But our logisti
cal limitations, including shortages in ammunition and motor fuel, precluded expenditure of the amounts required for an all-out attack. (Land forces in attack may expend from four to ten times as much artillery ammunition as those fighting defensively.) Furthermore, the reduction of troops in the perimeter would lower its defensive capability if it were attacked simultaneously from the sea or from the west. Our total lack of reliable information about enemy movements at sea made this a distinct possibility. It was decided to strengthen our security operations at the Matanikau, advance our listening posts eastward to the Ilu River on the front of the 1st Marines, and await developments.

  We had not long to wait. The first event marked one of the great turning points of the Solomons campaign—the arrival of thirty-one friendly aircraft. They came in late in the afternoon of 20 August. These aircraft belonged to Marine Bomber Squadron 232, commanded by Maj. Richard C. Mangrum, and Marine Fighter Squadron 223, under the command of Capt. John L. Smith.

  The fact that they arrived at all was a minor miracle. Working against the atmosphere of apathy and indecision that prevailed at ComSoPac, the always effective and dedicated Admiral McCain had, with his unlimited initiative, somehow managed to open the gate. The planes were ferried on the escort carrier Long Island (CVE-1) from Espiritu Santo to within 200 miles of Guadalcanal, then catapulted off.

  With keen perception McCain had seen the opportunity and made it a reality. He viewed the island as an unsinkable aircraft carrier that, used in conjunction with carrier forces, could destroy the Japanese naval air force. The success of this interaction turned Guadalcanal from a haunting liability into an operation of such exponential success that the name itself became a synonym for death and disaster in the language of the enemy.

  Two destroyer transports—old World War I four-stackers converted to high-speed transports—sneaked in by night with CUB-1, one of the navy’s self-contained mobile advance base units. This hastily assembled group of men with a sketchy assortment of bombs, fuel, and ammunition were to fill in as ground crews to support the newly arrived aircraft.

  There was little we could do for our newly arrived friends. A few tarpaulins, some Japanese blankets, and C rations were all we had to offer. Engineers and tank battalion personnel rendered some assistance. (Our tanks had the same aircraft engines and used the same fuel and starter cartridges.) After a perilous voyage, the CUB unit had arrived in time to put planes in the air beginning at dawn next morning.

  The Marine squadrons were followed on 22 August by five P-400s of the Army Air Corps’ 67th Fighter Squadron under the command of Capt. D. D. Brannon. On 24 August Lt. Turner F. Caldwell, USN, leading a group of dive bombers from Enterprise (CV-6) on an unsuccessful search for a force of Japanese ships, landed after dark on Henderson Field. For over a month the Navy planes reinforced Mangrum’s understrength squadron.

  These were the first of a group of airmen whose exploits and accomplishments were so remarkable as to beggar description. They founded that invincible brotherhood of the skies, the Cactus Air Force. (Cactus was the code name for Guadalcanal.) Drawn from the army, navy, and Marines, they were the creators of a tradition that yet lives.

  Along the Tenaru, the night of 20 August began in the usual way: minor alarms, flares, and scattered firing along the outpost line covering the right bank of the Tenaru toward its mouth. As midnight approached, the sound of firing continued steadily. Fragmentary reports from listening posts on the Ilu and elsewhere indicated a large enemy presence. The division was put on full alert. We were in contact with the Ichiki detachment, numbering about 900 men deployed along the opposite bank of the river.

  At 0313, 21 August, a strong force of enemy infantrymen launched a sudden banzai attack at the mouth of the Tenaru. In the then-prevailing dry weather the stream was blocked from the sea by a sandbar. This sandbar was covered by the fire of a small number of Marine riflemen, three heavy machine guns, and one 37mm gun firing canister ammunition and manned by a crew from Division Special Weapons Battalion.

  Greatly outnumbered, this small group of defenders took on, with deadly fire, the charging enemy, who attacked with empty chambers and fixed bayonets in closely grouped formation. The enemy officers fell first, and the survivors broke up into confused, leaderless small groups. They killed the occupants of some of our positions and began a firefight. Our men held every position where defenders remained alive until the arrival of reinforcements, who began the process of mopping up. A group of Marines, made up largely of post– Pearl Harbor recruits, had thrown back a superior force of highly trained, battle-experienced, elite enemy. In the best American tradition they had held their ground.

  A typical case was that of Cpl. Al Schmid of Philadelphia. Al was a machine gunner, with probably a year or so of time in, so he was the “old man” of the group. With an assistant gunner and two riflemen covering him, Al sent a deadly stream of fire into the ranks of the Japanese as they came across the bar. A Japanese knee mortar shell scored a hit on Al’s emplacement, knocking his gun out of action and wounding him and his helper. Al was blinded permanently. Somehow he got the machine gun back into action and continued firing. His assistants coached him from target to target, adjusting fire by watching the flight of the gun’s tracer bullets. Al got a medal, and the city of Philadelphia gave him a Chevrolet, but that didn’t restore his eyesight.

  The firefight spread up the Tenaru; both banks came alive with fire delivered at close range. The enemy opened up with three 70mm landing guns. We responded with close-in fire from our 75mm pack howitzers. The Japanese had flamethrowers but did not use them. We quickly gained fire superiority, and Vandegrift released the division reserve to Colonel Cates with instructions to move it around the enemy’s inland flank and come up behind. This would be a difficult maneuver for any battalion, particularly one as inexperienced as ours in the technique of tactical maneuvers. But it worked. A platoon of our light tanks came on and mopped up what was left. This small-size Cannae was over. The Japanese left more than 800 dead along the Tenaru. Thirty-four of our men were killed.

  This was our first good look at our opponents. They were all well-developed Japanese youths. Their arms, packs, and equipment were meticulously clean. Their packs contained small amounts of candy and cigarettes but no rations as such. Nearly all carried the inevitable diary and white flag with black inscriptions and the red meatball center that had deceived us earlier at the Matanikau. Some of the packs were said to have contained opium. I did not see any.

  While engaged in looking over the field, I was approached by a young navy hospital corpsman checking for wounded among the dead. He was unarmed, in accordance with the Geneva Convention, which we observed at that time. He had spotted a “body” among a group of dead near the river that still had a rifle. Since we had already stripped the field of arms, he suspected the man was a sniper. We approached from the rear. I covered the corpsman while he snatched the rifle and hurled it several feet away. I knew we had a sniper when I saw his ammunition carefully laid out round by round on the ground, not placed in the chamber. This was an old team shot’s trick to insure constant weight of the piece as an aid to accuracy. The sniper didn’t have a scratch on him. When we started to tie him up, he broke away and ran to recover his rifle. There was only one thing for me to do.

  The outcome of the Tenaru battle was a great morale booster for the entire command. Morale was also heightened by the fine performance of the new arrivals at Henderson Field. They had somehow gotten planes in the air by daybreak and knocked their first Zero out of the skies while we were slugging it out down at the river. A few small detachments of Ichiki survivors, on their way east, were intercepted with strafing runs. For the first time in many days there was no Japanese Navy presence in or near Ironbottom Sound.

  Jerry and I talked it over. The 1st Marines had done well. But we were lucky. As so often was to happen, our success derived in part from gross enemy mistakes. With ample knowledge of our position, Colonel Ichiki had elected to attack us at ou
r point of greatest strength, the mouth of the Tenaru. Had he moved the point of attack upstream, his troops would have been slowed by the difficult jungle terrain, but the dense cover would have permitted an undetected approach. The Japanese would have been on the field before we could have reacted effectively. With our great superiority in numbers we would have expelled them, but only after a costly struggle and the possible loss of or damage to our newly arrived aircraft.

  Why did Ichiki attack at all? His action seems at odds with normal decision making. The main body had been delayed a few days, but its arrival was certain. Why not wait? Was he just an eager beaver who saw a chance to grab the glory? A more reasonable surmise is that, given the history of the war to date, the Japanese regarded themselves as utterly invincible on land regardless of the relative size of the forces engaged.25 At that point in the war Colonel Ichiki would have been expected to do exactly what he did. There is no record that his ill-timed attack was ever criticized by his superiors. They too suffered from the “victory disease.”A pertinent reference can be found in a subsequent attack order leading to the Battle of Edson’s Ridge on 13 September in which the Japanese commander, Kawaguchi, exhorted his men to “avenge the spirit of the Ichiki detachment.” Colonel Ichiki was not available for comment. After the battle he chose “the honorable death” and left a diary. The final entry sets forth a schedule of events as follows:

  August 19—The approach.

  August 20—The battle.

  August 21—Enjoyment of the fruits of victory.

  To me one recollection of the battle was unforgettable. It was the sight of old Gunnery Sgt. Charley Angus, a veteran team shot and one-time national offhand rifle shot champion. Wearing a campaign hat and padded shooting coat and leather lefthand glove, he was calmly blazing away at some Japanese attempting to come through the surf to envelope our left flank. Charley had found his day of greater glory not at Camp Perry but at the mouth of the Tenaru.