No Bended Knee

by Merrill B. Twining

  The visitors were nearly forgotten because of another event closer to home and more meaningful. It started to rain at sunset on 18 October and became one of those miserable nights we all dreaded, nights when anything could happen and usually did. About 2100 there was the sound of loud cheering starting in the Signal Company bivouac area and spreading quickly to other units around the command post. Vice Adm. William F. “Bull” Halsey had taken over back at ComSoPac headquarters in Noumea! High command relationships were not matters of discussion around the camps, and I had assumed that there was no general knowledge of or interest in these matters except among senior officers. How wrong I was. Here were men whooping it up and turning cart-wheels in the dark at the best news we had heard since Kelly Turner brought in our 7th Marines exactly one month before. Our general made no comment, but I could sense his feeling of great relief at this momentous change occurring in our fortunes.

  On the staff we were delighted to read the admiral’s first tactical messages. Instead of sending long-winded dispatches involving limitations, reservations, boundaries, and other impediments thought necessary by his predecessor, Halsey gave simple and direct orders. I remember that his first order closed with the words “attack, attack, attack.” It was a heartwarming change to us, and I am sure it was even more so to the action addressees.

  Admiral Halsey visited us on 8 November, just a few days after taking over as commander, South Pacific. He came to Guadalcanal “to get the feel of the place,” something he said he was not getting back in Noumea. His personal magnetism brightened the scene wherever he went, which was about everywhere. He came into our D-3 dugout unannounced and listened carefully to my explanation of our tactical dispositions, then asked some very sensible questions as to why we were doing what we were doing.

  Carried away with my own eloquence, I made the mistake of volunteering to say what wonderful things we could do to the enemy “if we had just one more regiment.” He cut me down to size by a reply I will never forget: “Hit with what you’ve got, son. That’s what I have to do.” As he pronounced the word “hit,” he banged his fist into a sandbag, which split and scattered sand along his sleeve. There was a certain symbolism in that rotting sandbag that did not escape either of us.

  Nobody who was present ever forgot the dinner in the general’s mess on the eve of the admiral’s departure. I noted that Butch Morgan and his striker, Shorty Mantray, were somehow both immaculately clad and groomed for the occasion. The dinner itself was fit for the gods, including steaks and the finest apple pie I have ever tasted. Where Butch got the makings for such a feast he would never reveal. Either the admiral brought them with him from his mess in Noumea in a conspiracy with Butch, or the latter somehow had made an under-the-counter deal with one of the ships in a souvenirs-for-goodies exchange. Those steaks alone were well worth a Samurai sword.

  At the conclusion of dinner the admiral announced that he wanted to meet the world’s greatest cook. My heart sank as General Vandegrift told me to escort Admiral Halsey into Butch’s adjoining galley and meet the founder of the feast. Butch, for once in his lifetime, was overwhelmed. He hung his head, his powerful tattooed arms at his side, rough hands twisting his apron. When the admiral concluded his complimentary appreciation for “the finest meal I’ve ever had,” it was Butch’s turn: “Aw, shit, Admiral, you didn’t have to say that.”

  The next morning, as Halsey got into the plane to leave, he turned to Vandegrift and admonished, “And don’t you do anything to that sergeant of yours.”

  CHAPTER 11

  October Dogfall

  October 1942 was a rainy month in the Solomons. Uncertain visibility and downpour-flooded airstrips handicapped the Cactus Air Force in its effort to maintain continuous operations. Fortunately for us the island soil was quick drying. A soggy field could dry out and become usable, even slightly dusty, in a few hours. The Japanese were aware of this too and pressed their advantage at every opportunity to strike us while Henderson Field was wet. It was always their golden chance to inflict severe losses on us at the field itself or to cover the landing of troops and supplies on the beaches west of Kokumbona.

  Our people up in Pearl were reading the Japanese’s mail pretty thoroughly by now, and they kept us informed. This communications intelligence was called Ultra but sometimes referred to as Magic. Much of this top-secret information was gained by our cryptographers at headquarters, commander in chief, Pacific Fleet, who had broken some of the Japanese codes.29 A very limited portion of this information was distributed, and that only to those whose responsibilities required it. From this intelligence we knew that the Japanese Seventeenth Army, commanded by Lt. Gen. Harukichi Hyakutake—an officer of known ability based at Rabaul—had assumed the task of regaining Guadalcanal.

  Their major unit, the 2d Division, had landed near Kokumbona and was reinforced with the Kawaguchi Detachment and other units, including tanks, heavy artillery, and engineers. The 2d, also known as the Sendai Division, was an elite outfit comparable professionally in every respect to our own 1st Marine Division. In addition, it enjoyed a semisacred status due to its historic origin.

  One of its regiments, the 29th, was considered to be the premier unit of the Imperial Japanese Army. This regiment prided itself on its physical conditioning and ability to endure under the worst conditions of climate, fatigue, and short rations. One of its annual exploits was a December night ascent of Fujiyama, with the soldiers under arms, with full packs, and in their underwear. For years we had read about this regiment, but none of us expected ever to see it.

  Hyakutake agreed to send the Sendai to the Solomons only on condition that the Imperial Navy would give specific assurance of its safe arrival. It was flattering that the Japanese now took us seriously enough to send their best, not just a bunch of banzai bayonetmen fresh out of the rice paddies. Any damage we could inflict on them would be doubly effective so far as their prestige was concerned.

  Immediate command of the force was exercised by Lt. Gen. Masao Maruyama, although General Hyakutake issued the written orders and was on Guadalcanal at least part of the time.

  We were privy to information that Hyakutake was considering a three-pronged attack on the Lunga Perimeter: one assault from the west, one from the east, and one from the south. This was the same scheme of maneuver Kawaguchi had hoped to employ when he attacked Edson’s Ridge on 13 September. His was the main blow from the south. On the same night a battalion had assaulted the 1st Marines’ sector from the east and was repulsed by Cates’s 3d Battalion, commanded by Lt. Col. William N. McKelvy. The following night another force had delivered a half-hearted attack from the west against the left flank of 5th Marines, then employed on beach defense. That was thrown back by Captain Spurlock’s Company of 3d Battalion, 5th Marines. These latter two attacks in no way assisted the main effort, being on too small a scale and badly coordinated with respect to the principal thrust against Edson’s position on the ridge. They were also, in effect, “off the battlefield,” as so frequently happens when excessively wide envelopments are attempted at points too remote from the principal objective to be tactically significant. Furthermore, we did not attempt to “divine” the enemy’s intentions, as the Naval War College puts it. We had seen enough of that during the run-up to the naval fiasco at Savo, and we had all agreed that the “divine” business should be left solely to the Navy Corps of Chaplains.

  We did assess in great detail the enemy’s major capabilities, including some not mentioned heretofore. We decided the one most dangerous to us would be a quick thrust across the Matanikau at its mouth (attack from the west), seizing the sandbar and bringing their heavy stuff across to knock out the airfield with massed short-range artillery and mortar fire from the ridge west of the Lunga River. This could be quick and decisive.

  Next most dangerous was a thrust directly at the airfield from the south along the ridge where Edson had made his successful stand against Kawaguchi on 13 September. Under cover of the jungle, it would be possib
le to reach our perimeter undetected. If the enemy broke through to the field, it would be messy and damaging but not decisive, as we could expel or destroy the intruding force in short order. At this time there was nothing to indicate an attack from the east, but it was certainly a dangerous capability and one we would have to face extemporaneously when, wherever, and if it occurred. All or any combination of these moves would have to be anticipated in our preparations and distribution of forces.

  There were extreme differences of availability and use of interior lines of movement and communications existing between our two forces. Assume that a battalion of Marines and a battalion of Sendai face each other across the Matanikau River. It would take us only three hours to move that Marine battalion to Edson’s Ridge. However, if the enemy battalion across the river had to go to the same spot on the ridge and face us, it would require at least five days of arduous travel through the near impenetrable jungle. They would arrive exhausted, understrength, and short of food, heavy weapons, and ammunition. This disparity gave us an extremely important advantage in terms of maneuver, which seems to have been entirely overlooked by our adversaries.

  We felt confident that our dispositions were good and our defenses well developed. McKelvy’s force holding the line along the Matanikau River was not strong enough for all-around defense, but it could hold the main crossing. If an attempt at envelopment was made, McKelvy could be quickly reinforced. The sectors of the main perimeter facing west were strongly held, protected with wire barriers, and covered by preregistered artillery barrages by 11th Marines. This represented the strongest single position we had ever held.

  There seemed to be no movement across the Matanikau River. What was Maruyama doing? Where was Hyakutake? No one had any idea. Day after day we sent out patrols. Their reports continued to be negative. The native scouts went farther afield than ever before. Nothing. They explored the native trail almost to Kokumbona. Nothing along there but small bands of badly armed, dispirited, stale Japanese, which they “fairly dealt with.” Air photos were taken daily. Nothing but the endless, unbroken jungle canopy. We were stumped.

  Meanwhile business was picking up down at the river. All signs indicated that we might expect a strong attack from the west. Ground probes at our lines increased. Artillery fire increased, the forward battle position being the favored target. The enemy was using 150mm howitzers and plenty of ammunition. We responded with our two batteries of recently arrived 155mm guns: one army battery, one Marine. Their effective fire caused quick shifts in the Japanese firing positions and resulted in the destruction of some enemy guns.

  Lt. Gen. Thomas Holcomb, commandant, U.S. Marine Corps, and members of his staff landed at Henderson Field late in the afternoon of 21 October. The Japanese put on a good show for our guests. Commencing at sunset they launched an attack across the sandbar by nine tanks supported by infantry. This strong probe was broken up by the intense fire of infantry weapons. The Japanese lost one tank.

  Next day, enemy bombardment was renewed with increasing intensity. Although well dug in, McKelvy’s battalion suffered six killed and twenty-five wounded, indicating an artillery bombardment of World War I intensity, something we had never before experienced, with the exception of the terrific night naval gunfire pounding we had taken at Lunga many days earlier.

  At 1800 on the twenty-second, the bombardment was renewed with increased ferocity when the heaviest artillery concentration of the entire campaign was placed on McKelvy’s positions at the mouth of the river and along the government track and on the rear-area installations of the forward battle positions. The Marines had spent the day improving their positions and held fast.

  “After all,” as one youngster modestly explained to me, “where the hell could you go?”

  When the artillery lifted, a company of Japanese tanks supported by infantry attempted to storm the sandspit as a prelude to their well-known “filleting attack.” They intended to send the tanks straight down the government track to disrupt our only line of communications while their massed infantry followed in great depth on a narrow front. This had to be stopped at the outset. It was. Antitank fire from our half tracks swept the bar. Carefully prearranged and precisely registered artillery concentrations commenced on signal and laid death-dealing barrages on the government track across the river, along which we knew their columns of supporting infantry had to be moving.

  One tank made it across the sandspit and crashed through our wire. PFC Joseph D. R. Champagne reached out of his foxhole and placed a hand grenade on the tread as the tank stopped beside him. The explosion partially disabled the tank. It was destroyed by 75mm fire from a nearby half track. The sandspit was littered with the wreckage of nine hostile tanks and numerous enemy dead. Patrols later reported hundreds of bodies lying along the government track leading to Kokumbona. These dead Japanese had been caught in the meticulously planned and carefully executed fires of 11th Marines artillery. The hulks of three additional burned-out tanks were also discovered.

  The fighting along the front of McKelvy’s 3d Battalion, 1st Marines, ended by midnight with the repulse of a small force attempting to cross the river at a point a few hundred yards upstream. The left battalion of the McKelvy group, 3d Battalion, 7th Marines (Williams), passed a quiet night, not having been engaged.

  It had been a long night. Brigadier General Rupertus, over from Tulagi to take command while General Vandegrift was in Noumea for a conference with Vice Admiral Halsey, was following the battle with us. He had Butch Morgan make coffee, which Mantay brought to us in the dugout. It was early morning when I finished work.

  At first light, 23 October, when I was just about to get some sleep, Lieutenant Colonel Williams, commanding 3d Battalion, 7th Marines—unengaged on McKelvy’s left—called to tell me that they had just spotted a strong enemy column on our side of the river. The Japanese were out of range, traveling in hellish terrain and making slow progress, but moving to a position threatening Williams’s exposed left flank and rear. They had found a crossing well upstream from the Nippon Bridge and crossed under cover of darkness while we were preoccupied with the brawl at the river mouth.

  This column was probably the hard-luck Oka detachment. There has to be a clown in every circus, and that apparently was Colonel Oka’s unhappy role in the Seventeenth Army. He ran into bad luck wherever he went. Oka had brought his command to Guadalcanal as the guinea pig outfit in an ill-fated attempt to reinforce their garrison, using a fleet of small boats and lighters to avoid exposing larger ships to the tender mercies of our scout bombers, the Douglas SBDs. Our fighters and Army Air Corps P-400s also gave Oka’s troops a bad time all the way down from Rekata Bay. They arrived in bad shape on 5 September. From then on they could do nothing right. Captured diaries and intercepted messages bad-mouthed poor old Oka. At daylight Oka, on this occasion, had set up his CP near the river and sent his troops on by themselves. As in any army, this did not wear well with the people upstairs. We almost felt sorry for the guy, but it was fun to read his mail.

  General del Valle’s artillery and General Geiger’s planes worked Oka’s troops over all day before they made it to a heavily wooded ravine providing good cover and room for dispersion. The enemy was now located within striking distance of the left flank and rear of 3d Battalion, 7th Marines. They were in a position that threatened to cut off our forward battle position from the perimeter.

  That day we had planned to regularize the situation by pulling McKelvy’s battalion out and replacing it with 7th Marines (less 1st Battalion—Puller). This would in effect be turning the position over to 7th Marines, with Sims exercising command. Puller was to stay in position on the perimeter, singling up his lines in order to cover the entire regimental front until the return of the relieved McKelvy battalion on the river. This was a standard practice to compensate for our lack of strength. This would restore tactical unity and provide headquarters and service support necessary for a permanent stay on the river, but it required Puller to hold the entire re
gimental sector for one night. It did involve a worrisome risk.

  The new situation called for a quick revision of plans. The relief at the river was called off, and Sims and his 2d Battalion were diverted to the task of protecting the left flank and rear of the exposed forward battle position from an attack by the Oka detachment. The 2d Battalion was commanded by Lt. Col. Herman H. Hanneken, proud wearer of the only Medal of Honor in the division at that time. In 1919 Hanneken had made an incredible night penetration into the mountain headquarters of Charlemagne Peralte, killing this Haitian leader of the Caco guerrillas in a gun battle illuminated only by a flickering campfire. For this, he won the Medal of Honor and a commission as second lieutenant. Later, in Nicaragua, he captured Gen. Jiron Sandino’s second in command. Hanneken was quite a soldier, well able to deal with the likes of Colonel Oka.

  In accordance with division directives, Sims had Hanneken take up a position extending the left of the existing forward battle position, refusing it sharply to the north in the direction of the main perimeter along a precipitous ridge. The position was much too long for an understrength, malaria-ridden battalion, but it had to be held even though it was so attenuated as to amount to little more than a strong line of outposts. The steep slope would in itself be a considerable obstacle to Japanese assault. The day of the twenty-fourth was spent in hastily fortifying the Ridge. Our artillery and aircraft worked over the area occupied by the Japanese incessantly, with unknown results. At sunset the troops on both sides engaged in the usual vituperative shouted colloquy involving the empress, Eleanor, Babe Ruth, and the strange dietary preferences of the Mikado. The night passed quietly—why, I cannot imagine. It was not exactly quiet back in the perimeter, where Puller’s battalion was singled up along a full regimental front.