CHAPTER 8
“Come Up on This Hill and Fight”
Following the Tenaru battle Jerry Thomas and I were both of the opinion that our position was facing the wrong way, that our exposed rear was a greater danger than the Lunga beaches. The reasons seemed compelling. The enemy could reach our positions undetected under cover of the jungle. The beaches, now that we had aerial reconnaissance, were less exposed to surprise attack. In addition, the beaches could be quickly reinforced, whereas strengthening the area to the south—the jungle—would be difficult and time consuming. General Vandegrift listened carefully to our arguments but declined to authorize any major changes in the existing dispositions.
We conducted limited operations to the west and east, toward Kokumbona and Tasimboko, to gain information, to keep the enemy off balance, and to comply with Admiral Turner’s repeated exhortations to “be more aggressive.” He never abandoned his opinion that had we been more aggressive the Japanese would never have tried to reinforce the place. This, of course, is flying in the face of the facts. Preparations for reinforcement were begun by the enemy upon confirmation of our initial landing and were pursued vigorously through mid-November. At that point in the war the idea of giving up positions anywhere in their area of occupation was totally repugnant to the Japanese character and ego, already overinflated by cheap successes elsewhere. Finally, we were lacking in the means needed to mount large scale attacks: we had little transportation, ammunition was in short supply, and, without aircraft, our sources of information were totally inadequate.
The arrival of Marine aircraft on 20 August was the turning point of the operation. Without their continuous support our survival would have been impossible. During daylight hours they kept the Japanese Navy at a respectable distance while covering our support and resupply vessels in the area. These planes also provided fast and effective evacuation of our wounded and a vital capability for emergency logistical support. Their deeds were legendary. They transformed our miserable little strip into an unsinkable aircraft carrier, and from its “flight deck” the Cactus Air Force launched decisive counterattacks. During the 1st Marine Division’s stormy sojourn in the Solomons, our aviators—Marine, navy, and Army Air Corps operating from Henderson Field—shot down 416 Japanese planes and sank twenty-one enemy ships in less than four months. We lost seventy-eight planes in combat. The crews of about half were saved.26
There was another bonus from the arrival of these planes: the immeasurable upsurge in our morale that greeted their landing never subsided. A great part of their illustrious performance took place directly overhead or immediately in view above Ironbottom Sound. To every Marine this was more than a spectacle; it was a powerful inspiration to “go thou and do likewise” in his own environment. The war overhead was always the great news of the day, written on the billboard at Kukum—the Times Square of Guadalcanal—where Marines who could congregated each evening to read Solomon Islands dope (the term for various bulletins featuring the day’s events and posted on the board) and to listen to Tokyo Rose on the bullhorn. The original small Japanese blackboard where Pvt. M. Shapiro had inscribed his immortal message was nailed below our own billboard and was now used to record stateside baseball scores—even baseball became a matter of secondary importance. The advent of our local airpower was, in every way, of incalculable benefit.
Admiral McCain, ComAirSoPac, was our first visitor. He slept under a Japanese blanket beneath the tarpaulin tent shared with his host, General Vandegrift. McCain was sharp, active, and purposeful. He knew exactly what he wanted to find out and with whom he desired to talk. It was a pleasure to watch him work, talking directly to squadron leaders, pilots, and crew chiefs, explaining what he expected them to do.
The admiral also talked informally to the rest of us, expounding convincingly on something that we had not yet fully appreciated. Guadalcanal was much more than a dirty local donnybrook, a grudge fight between some raggedyassed Marines and the Japanese. If we prevailed here, we would be saving something more than just our precious butts. In the admiral’s view, Guadalcanal was a rampart, not an outpost. Its successful defense could lead to the destruction of Japanese naval power in the Pacific. If the enemy continued on their present ruinous course, the island would become the rat hole down which they funneled all their resources. Their resources were not limitless, and already, McCain believed, they were beginning to suffer from loss of their best pilots—those well-trained naval aviators we had encountered at Pearl Harbor, Coral Sea, and Midway. Those men were irreplaceable.
McCain was on his way to Washington and would tell everybody who’d listen that the retention of Guadalcanal was the key to victory; its loss would forfeit the gains of Coral Sea and Midway and require us to start all over again. This good talk made our ears roar. We began to feel better about ourselves and fully understood the importance of Guadalcanal to winning the war. He assured us that we were doing more than fighting for our lives and enduring the miseries of the Solomon Islands. Even General Vandegrift joined in with words of encouragement and praise.
That night there was a full moon. The Japanese took advantage of it, and destroyers commenced their usual bombardment. Everybody came out of their holes to take a look. McCain and Vandegrift, in their skivvies, stood in front of their tent watching the uproar. After a minute or two the admiral said, “Well, son, this is your war. I’m going back to bed.” He called everybody “son,” including Vandegrift, possibly three years his junior.
I never saw Admiral McCain again. During the unification scrap in Washington I worked with his son, Captain McCain. He was cut from the same cloth as his father. His grandson, a survivor of the Hanoi Hilton, is a well known and admired U.S. senator.
The admiral also spoke warmly of what we had accomplished on the ground, a welcome change from Kelly Turner’s continued carping from Noumea.
Before leaving, McCain pointed out that high trees on the Tenaru approach to Henderson Field endangered operation of heavily armed bombers by necessitating steep angles of ascent. The division engineer was asked to see what could be done. “The trees are too large to be removed,” he said. Characteristically, Jerry Thomas was not willing to accept this cop-out and, after thinking it over, sent for Lieutenant Lytz and his platoon sergeant, Stinky Davis. A few hours later Stinky returned to tell us the trees could be removed, but it would take a week.
Four days later I spotted Stinky, all smiles, coming down the road. “The trees are down. One big banyan was twenty feet across the butt. It took 150 pounds of enemy dynamite to knock it over.”
The accomplishments of our aircraft began to attract favorable notice, and Guadalcanal was coming to be regarded as something of an asset and not a total liability. Resupply activities picked up, largely devoted to air operations, but demonstrating that they could be done. The first major increment of supplies came with the arrival of Wm. W. Burrows (AP-6) and the New Zealand merchantman Kopara at Ringbolt (code name for Tulagi) on 29 August, followed at irregular intervals by Fomalhaut (AK-22), Bellatrix (AK-20), and Fuller (AP-14).
Unfortunately, Burrows went aground on Tulagi. Valuable supplies and several days were lost jettisoning some of her cargo to facilitate refloating. Refloated on 2 September, she ran aground again, but was able to clear the obstruction and proceeded to unload some cargo at Tulagi. Completely unabashed, the luckless skipper brought his ship to Guadalcanal and “requested” General Vandegrift to come aboard for a conference. (Under an anachronistic U.S. statute passed in 1831, the commanding officer, being the senior officer present afloat [SOPA], could, in theory, exercise command over all naval forces ashore or afloat.) We in operations thought this was funny, but our general was not amused and quickly replied, “If you desire to confer with the commanding general, come ashore.” The captain didn’t.
During this period Alhena (AK-26), Fomalhaut, Betelgeuse (AK-28), and the New Zealand merchantman Latakia brought in supplies and equipment for the Cactus Air Force and, to a limited extent, augmented
our supply of rations.
Air cover made it possible to unload at Guadalcanal during daylight and to some extent in Tulagi Harbour at night. It was never possible to unload any of these ships completely due to persistent interference by enemy surface ships and aircraft. Emphasis was always placed on speed of unloading. Cargo intended for Guadalcanal might be discharged in Tulagi, and vice versa. Transfer was effected by use of the utilitarian small craft identified as YPs—yippie boats to those aboard and ashore. Most of these in the Solomons were tuna boats from San Diego, taken over by the navy complete with crew. They were a good lot and could take their lumps with the rest of us. Most of the crewmen held a low opinion of seamanship such as that displayed by Burrows.
All of our supplies went into the common dumps administered by the quartermaster, except for organizational equipment and weapons. In return the quartermaster issued from the common source on a per capita or special need basis. Ammunition was the exception. It was in such short supply that it went directly to unit dumps, which never attained full capacity. When an engaged unit went short, the quartermaster levied on others. Lt. Col. Ray Coffman, our division quartermaster, did a splendid job of “distributing the shortages,” as we termed it. Usually every ship brought in some of each class of supply.
We continued living on reduced rations, although we attempted to supplement the daily ration going to the very young Marines in the infantry regiments, who out of sheer necessity were required to work hard and long hours with little sleep. A form of Japanese barley, somewhat like oatmeal, served with captured brown sugar—when we had it—was a favorite first meal served daily about midmorning. The evening meal was more conventional but usually involved some form of rice and dried fish or bull beef, even lambs’ tongues. Coffee was always plentiful, served sergeant major style: strong, black, and without “side arms” (cream and sugar). The Marines continued to lose weight.
When we went off half rations we still generally adhered to the two-meal-a-day schedule and simply increased the quantities. This fit in better with our situation. Cooking fires drew enemy gunfire during darkness, and noon was the usual time for major raids. A notable exception was Lunga Point during unloading operations; then chow was available around the clock. This popularized to some degree the backbreaking task of lift and carry.
Butch Morgan, the world’s finest cook, lived a life of quiet despair. He had replaced the blacksmith’s forge with a portable Marine Corps field range called, for some strange reason, a Buzycott. Surrounded by all this splendor, poor Butch had nothing worthwhile to cook. He did manage to console himself by occasionally serving a dish utterly incongruous with our otherwise frugal menu. This was a millionaire’s salad, a byproduct of our daily bombardment. Whenever a palm tree was toppled in our vicinity, Butch and Mantay would race to the scene, cut out the large crown buds, and serve hearts of palm, which I understand costs real money down in Florida.
On 27 August the 1st Battalion, 5th Marines, moved into the Kokumbona area in response to increased enemy activity and indications of reinforcement. The battalion, less one company, made a ship-to-shore movement from Kukum to Kokumbona via navy boat pool landing craft. The remaining company proceeded overland by inland trails.
Once ashore, the battalion made unsatisfactory progress, even in the face of only light resistance. One company protecting the inland flank encountered almost impossible terrain and had to be withdrawn. General Vandegrift considered the performance of the command irresolute and directed the regimental commander to intervene on the scene. Command changes were made, and the advance was resumed. Then it was discovered that the enemy had abandoned his strong positions and moved inland. The operation ended as a complete fiasco. In a complex operation such as this, formal orders are a necessity. None were issued. The very purpose of the operation was obscure. The battalion commander was not aggressive, but that fact was well known to all his superiors. This characteristic had previously led to recommendations that he not accompany the division overseas. These recommendations had been overruled. Now it would be difficult to find a suitable relief.
Betelgeuse now brought us more than rations. On 1 September she landed a large group of men with their supplies and equipment at Lunga Point. These men were unarmed, but they brought with them something more valuable than weapons. They were Seabees, men who could do anything and do it right, as they quickly demonstrated when they turned to our primitive airstrip and speedily upgraded it to an acceptable operational status.
These Seabees, organized as members of a naval construction battalion, were serving in a unique organization, one of the true innovations of World War II and one of the most important. Hitherto and traditionally the army and Marines had relied solely on combat engineers, organizations made up of young men who were taught elementary engineering skills in addition to basic infantry training. Such units are sufficiently competent to construct and repair roads and bridges, operate water purification systems, and perform other works that sufficed the needs of armies of the past. But this capability fell short of meeting the sophisticated requirements of mid-twentieth-century warfare, with its ever-increasing demand for construction of airfields, railways, and electric power–generating stations plus bases, docks, and repair facilities for naval vessels. The military requirements by mid-century spanned almost the entire spectrum of the nation’s trades and services. Such disciplines cannot be acquired overnight by new recruits. However, America is rich with millions of able men who already possess these needed skills, acquired during years of civilian pursuits. Tens of thousands of such men, necessarily somewhat older than most servicemen, were only too glad to serve their country by enlisting in the navy’s construction battalion program. These Seabees furnished almost unlimited high-tech support for all the armed forces. It was one of the most successful and well-received innovations of the war. It was so sensible that no one had ever thought of it before. Its 300 units and 230,000 members gave valuable support to the services in all areas where we were engaged. Most of the credit for this noteworthy contribution is due the chief of the navy’s Bureau of Yards and Docks, Rear Adm. Ben Moreell.
During the next few days, advantage was taken of the availability of the APDs of Transport Division 12 to move the Raider and Parachute battalions, commanded by Lt. Col. Merritt “Red Mike” Edson, from Tulagi to Lunga Point.
TransDiv 12 had lost Colhoun (APD-2) to a Japanese bomber on 30 August. Later, on the night of 5 September, Gregory (APD-3) and Little (APD-4) were mistakenly illuminated by one of our PBYs and quickly sunk by overwhelming gunfire from a Japanese destroyer force. McKean (APD-5) and Manley (APD-1) were the only ones left.
McKean was lost later at Bougainville. Curiously, the APDs went down in numerical order, 2, 3, 4, then 5. Manley alone survived the war. Due to our close association with them before and during the war, we Marines felt keenly the loss of these brave little ships. To my mind, no group in the Pacific accomplished so much with so little.
We began receiving reports of a new Japanese force assembling in the Tasimboko area twenty miles to the east. It was first estimated at 300 men. Plans were begun for Edson’s Raider Battalion to make a strike in that area. As arrangements progressed, further reports indicated a much larger force had landed—possibly as many as 3,000. There was no separate confirmation, so it was assumed that the count by Martin Clemens’s native scouts was a gross overestimate, and we proceeded with the original plan.
The plan was put into execution on 8 September, when the Raider and Parachute battalions embarked in Manley and McKean. Our APDs—now reduced to two—required two trips each to move Edson’s small striking force. At dawn, Edson landed with the advance group at Tasimboko without detection.
It was noted immediately that a large enemy force had landed across the same beach only hours before. Nevertheless, Edson drove ahead to the village and overran it with little resistance. Losses on both sides were small. The village contained quantities of artillery, rations, and stores large enough to sug
gest the presence of a considerable force.
This overwhelming force of freshly landed Japanese soldiers stood by within view and failed to intervene while, in the short time available, Edson’s men destroyed Kawaguchi’s base at Tasimboko, broke up his equipment, and urinated on the rice they could not carry off. They then withdrew to the APDs without interference, bringing their dead and wounded and captured rice.
These Marines would meet Kawaguchi again.
This inaction of enemy troops has never been satisfactorily explained. One view is that the code of Japanese military honor precludes voluntarily rendering assistance to a neighboring unit. Assistance must be requested. Another view has it that Edson’s attack was ignored as only a diversion that should not have been allowed to disrupt the carefully planned attack schedule aimed at Henderson Field; in other words, the Japanese rigidly adhered to the original plan. Edson said that two large navy ships en route to Tulagi, Fuller and Bellatrix, appeared off Tasimboko at the critical moment and may have been mistakenly identified as transports with reinforcements for Edson’s outnumbered forces. With more facts now available, it would appear that the paralysis of action was due to the fact that General Kawaguchi, the Japanese commander and conqueror of Borneo, had moved inland with the advance units and could not be reached to secure assent for the commitment of the forces at Tasimboko. However, under any view, the incident was illustrative of the frequent lack of initiative by Japanese troop leaders at every level.
Our operation was well executed, with timely and effective gunfire from the APDs and close support from the Army Air Corps P-400s.
Tasimboko will stand as a classic example of the brilliant employment of hit-and-run tactics by a raider. In 1587 Sir Francis Drake led the victorious raid on the Spanish Armada at Cadiz, Spain, and “singed the king’s beard” before disappearing, leaving the hapless monarch to contemplate the ruin of his fleet, the loss of his supplies, and the abortion of his plan for an early invasion of the British Isles. Edson’s Raiders had “singed Kawaguchi’s beard” in much the same way.
No Bended Knee Page 13
