Even in retreat, the Japanese Army was ferocious. For two days, soldiers had killed and wounded dozens of Americans trying to scale Fishhook Ridge, the stark geographic barrier protecting the Japanese base at Chichagof Harbor. Fishhook was 1,500 feet high, caked with snow, and steep enough to set off avalanches. At this point in the battle, Fishhook was the main strategic advantage left for the Japanese. In white coveralls, machine gunners camouflaged themselves in the snow and sprayed ruin on the invaders below. Others rolled hand grenades down snowy slopes to explode on climbing attackers. For Americans, the flat area below Fishhook Ridge became known as Suicide Basin.
On May 26, however, Private Joe Martinez decided that he’d had enough. Disgusted by the stalemate, he stood with his Browning Automatic Rifle and charged the hill.
“Come on! Let’s go!” he yelled to his Company K of the 32nd Infantry.
A man possessed, Martinez blasted automatic fire into every hole he found. When he ran out of ammunition he grabbed a service rifle from someone else and rained more hell. Men followed. “Come on! Let’s go!” he cried again.
At the top of the pass, the Japanese were holed up beneath a rock overhang. Their rifles and machine guns once again pinned down the Americans. Martinez decided he hadn’t come so far, and risked so much, to be ground down to another stalemate. He stood on an exposed rock and emptied a magazine of bullets into the Japanese trench. He stopped to reload and fired again. With his next round came a crack in response. Martinez fell backward. He was mortally wounded. His courage and sacrifice inspired the 3rd Battalion to press onward. The battle for Fishhook Ridge tilted in favor of the Americans.
The whole charge was so unexpected and so chaotic that no one managed to record an accurate count of the casualties inflicted by Martinez. Some GIs say he killed six Japanese; others believe his toll was as high as thirty. No one disputed his valor. “It was a one-man charge,” said Lieutenant Morton Solot, his commanding officer. “He didn’t have any cover.”
Martinez was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor posthumously. The native of Taos, New Mexico, was the first Hispanic to win the nation’s highest military decoration, and the first private to win it in World War II. His final rallying cry—“Come on! Let’s go!”—was used for years as a slogan to sell United States savings bonds.
As the battle turned in favor of the Americans, some troops regained their swagger. When Private Joe Mendoza found an unarmed Japanese soldier huddled behind a rock, he aimed his M1 rifle but doubted the morality of what he was about to do. Mendoza then decided to make it a fair fight. He dropped his rifle. According to Time magazine, he pulled out one knife, pitched another knife to the enemy, and challenged him to a fight. When the Japanese soldier instead ran for his life, Mendoza shot him with no regrets.
At a horrible cost to both sides, the Japanese had been blasted out of Massacre Valley, Point Able, Jarmin Pass, Hill X, and the east arm and west arms of Holtz Bay. Surviving fighters were concentrated on a low plateau between the fortified heights of Buffalo Ridge and the base and old Attu village at Chichagof Harbor. There was no easy way for the Americans to push forward, or for the Japanese to escape. Tatsuguchi was grim and desperate.
MAY 27—BATTLE
Diarrhea continues. Pain is severe. Took everything—pills, opium, morphine—then slept pretty well. Strafing by planes. Roof broke through. There is less than a thousand left of more than two thousand troops. Wounded from Coast Defense, Unit Field Hospital Headquarters are here. The rest are on the front lines.
MAY 28—BATTLE
The remaining ration is for only two days. Our artillery has been completely destroyed. There is a sound of trench mortar—also of antiaircraft gun. The company on the bottom of Attu Fuji (Cold Mountain) has been completely annihilated except one man. Rations for about two days. I wonder if Commander Yonegawa and some of his men are still living. Other companies have been completely annihilated except one or two. The 303rd Battalion has been defeated. Yonegawa is still holding Umanose. Continuous cases of suicide. Half of Sector Unit Headquarters has been blown away. Hear that they gave four hundred shots of morphine to seriously wounded and killed them. Ate half-fried thistle. It is the first time I have eaten something fresh in six months. It is a delicacy. Order from the sector commander to move the field hospital to the inland, but it was called off.
15
* * *
Bushido
No help was coming. He hadn’t wanted to believe it, but now he had to admit it. All those promises of rescuing submarines, counterattacking battleships, supporting fighter planes, even backup food and ammunition—they were all a lie. Any hope was false. Tatsuguchi and his fellow troops were on their own. For seventeen days they had fought fiercely, even nobly, but fewer than half of their original brigade survived. They were down to a thousand men. Perhaps two days of food and ammunition remained. They had been assaulted by 42,000 artillery shells, dozens of warplanes, and tens of thousands of bullets. They were surrounded.
The day before an American plane had dropped leaflets with this message:
Your attention is called to the fact that your forces are now in a hopeless position, and that because the United States forces control the air and sea lanes, there is no chance of reinforcements for your troops. Therefore, in accordance with the rules of land warfare, I ask for the unconditional surrender of the Japanese Garrison of Attu Island. Your defense and soldierly conduct of your troops have been worthy of the highest military traditions. It is requested that the Commanding Officer, accompanied by not to exceed four staff officers, proceed openly in broad daylight under white flags in a southerly direction in Chichagof Valley to the vicinity of the South End of Lake Cories. This party will not be fired upon and will be met by guides who will conduct you to the place where the surrender will be received. After the surrender, your forces will be entitled to and will receive all privileges due prisoners of war according to the rules of land warfare.
Colonel Yamasaki, the Japanese commander, was dubious. Just who did the Americans think they were fighting? Japan did not surrender. Even when an Imperial Army soldier was caught behind lines, he refused to lay down his rifle. He turned it on himself, or pressed a grenade to his chest. Surrendering was an insult to his emperor, the sacred spirits, and his family honor. The few Japanese captured as prisoners of war, almost to the man, asked to be killed or sent permanently to a place where no family member could ever see them.
When Yamasaki gathered his men that evening outside their besieged command post, hope had been replaced by duty. They could not win. They could not surrender.
They could, however, mount the biggest banzai attack the United States Army had ever seen.
“By the combined attack of the enemy land, sea, and air units, the battalions on the front line have been defeated,” said Yamasaki’s order to his troops. “However, our morale is excellent and we are holding some important points. We will attack and annihilate the United States Forces.”
The goal was to break through the front line, seize U.S. food and weapons, especially artillery, and then use it all to crush United States troops with a retooled offensive. Because Yamasaki knew the plan was unlikely to succeed, he directed his cryptographers to destroy all remaining documents at the Japanese base. He then ordered his soldiers to reconvene before dawn the next day.
MAY 29—BATTLE
Today at 2000 o’clock we assembled in front of Headquarters. The field hospital took part too. The last assault is to be carried out. All the patients in the hospital were made to commit suicide. Only thirty-three years of living and I am to die here. I have no regrets, Banzai to the Emperor. I am grateful that I have kept the peace of my soul which Christ bestowed upon me. At 1800 took care of all the patients with grenades. Goodbye Taeko, my beloved wife, who loved me to the last. Until we meet again, grant you Godspeed. Misako, who just became three years old, will grow up unhindered. I feel sorry for you, Mutsuko, born February of this year and never will see your father.
Well, goodbye, Machan [brother]. Goodbye Sat-chan, Teshi-chan, Mitchan [nicknames for sisters]. The number participating in this attack is a little over a thousand, to take enemy artillery positions. It seems that the enemy will make an all-out attack tomorrow.
Dick Laird heard something. He wasn’t sure what, but it was out there, beyond his pup tent, a noise in the dark that jostled him awake. Maybe it was just footsteps from his company runner returning from headquarters with the day’s fighting orders. Or maybe it was something worse. He couldn’t ignore it. He grabbed his M1 service rifle, his .45 caliber pistol, two grenades, and he rolled on the ground outside.
His Company H was camped just below the crest of Buffalo Ridge, a strategic point that allowed his soldiers to blast mortars onto the Japanese encampment below at Chichagof Harbor. Now it was 5 a.m., before sunrise, and fog shrouded everything. Laird couldn’t see much, but he could hear a noise, a scuffling, not far away.
Then the gloom erupted.
“Banzai! You die! We die!”
A squad of Japanese soldiers descended upon his tent and slashed it with bayonets. It was chaotic and confusing and Laird wasn’t even sure what was happening. In the fog, he could hardly see the enemy, and they could hardly see him. He raised his rifle for a shot, but they disappeared back into the fog.
Laird frantically tore at the remnants of his tent. Under the shreds he found his tent mate groaning and soaked in blood. He convulsed, then grew still. He was dead.
From behind Laird came another noise. He grabbed his rifle again, bracing for another attack, when he turned and saw a fellow American soldier stumbling toward him. It was a platoon sergeant with a deep slash from his ear into his mouth. The sergeant’s jaw dangled with every step. He could not calm himself. Laird pressed the jaw back into place, but the soldier was unwilling or unable to hold it. Laird sat the man on the ground. This time the man seemed to comprehend. He held his own jaw in place. Laird promised to get help.
His tent mate was dead and his platoon sergeant was slashed through the bone. Laird needed medics, and fast.
From the ridge rose the screams of the attackers and the moans of the wounded. With dawn the sky lightened, but the fog continued to drift through, offering only unpredictable glimpses of his surroundings.
From the corner of his eye he detected movement, then heard an unearthly groaning sound racing toward him. Had the Banzai attackers returned to finish him off? This time he would not be caught off-guard. He raised his rifle and fired.
After the crack of the shot he heard a weight drop to the muskeg. He tensed. Would a shot be fired in return? Nothing. He paused a second more. Still quiet. He waited for a squad of banzai warriors to burst from the fog, but nothing moved. He pressed ahead and found a body slumped on the ground, wearing not the tan woolens of the Japanese, but the combat helmet of an American.
Laird had killed his own Army runner, who, it turned out, had been bayoneted earlier in the banzai attack.
He collapsed in grief. My God, what had he done? He was trying to defend himself. He couldn’t see clearly and he didn’t think clearly. It all happened so fast. He made an awful mistake. It was so final. His own man sprawled lifeless at his feet.
Friendly fire has always been a horrible partner of war—the Army estimated 12 to 14 percent of all deaths in World War II came from friendly fire—but this fact didn’t make Laird feel any better. He felt like a monster. He looked around and panicked. He didn’t know what to do.
He had little time for guilt, and even less for hand-wringing. Above him in the fog he heard more noises, more men. He could not see if they were friend or foe. His self-confidence was weak, but his instinct for self-preservation took over. He moved slowly, cautiously, through the fog and toward the disturbance. This time, Laird promised himself, he would be certain of his target.
Toward the top of the ridge the clouds lifted, just for a second, but it was enough for Laird to confirm what he was up against. A squad of Japanese had claimed the American mortar position, which was dug into a knoll along Buffalo Ridge. Instead of being aimed at Chichagof Harbor, the mortar was being spun around by the Japanese and pointed in the opposite direction—at the Americans.
Laird was joined by his company clerk, and together they heard the clunk of a shell being dropped by the Japanese into the 81mm mortar. “Oh, boy, it’s going to come down right on our troops,” Laird whispered. “It’s got to be stopped.” Laird and the clerk raced around the side of the knoll and watched the Japanese maneuver the mortar into position. Their squad had too many men for Laird to defeat with his rifle. He had already thrown his two grenades during the earlier assault, so he asked the clerk for more.
His clerk handed him two. Laird pulled the pin on one and held it two seconds to let the fuse burn down. The clerk was so terrified by the delay that he crawled as fast as he could away from Laird, who lobbed the grenade over his shoulder and toward the Japanese and dug his face into the dirt for cover.
The tundra shook with the force of the blast. Ears ringing, Laird stood to survey the damage.
His grenade scored a direct hit, but some troops survived. One Japanese soldier stood and trained his pistol at Laird, who was ready with his rifle. He squeezed the trigger and shot the pistol from the soldier’s hand. Laird had been aiming for the body, but was still grateful that he hit something. He charged the enemy and let his M1 finish the job.
He had killed eight Japanese. In the frenzy his clerk had run in the opposite direction, but another soldier had come across the mayhem and sprayed more bullets from his Browning Automatic Rifle into the corpses. The soldier had lost control of himself, and kept firing and firing and firing. Chunks of flesh exploded into the air. Laird screamed. “If you fire one more shot, I’m going to kill you!” he barked. “We’re not barbarians!”
The soldier stopped. Laird tried not to gag.
At his boots was a twisted pile of human futility—soldiers who had given all for a place that no leader of their country would ever see. They were here only because men from the opposite side of the Pacific were here, too. In time Laird would leave this place. The corpses around his feet would not.
More men from Company H had heard the firefight and joined the battle. They stood in awe at what Laird had accomplished. He had single-handedly wiped out a squad of eight enemy soldiers. In the mortar commandeered by the Japanese there was a shell, pointed at U.S. troops below, that remained unfired. It was the worst day of Laird’s life, but it had turned him into a hero. He had killed, and he had spared.
Laird and the other soldiers inspected the bodies. They were supposed to look for papers and maps and anything else that might reveal enemy war plans. At this point in their cold and brutal fight, however, many soldiers also were desperate for booty—dry socks, food, warm hats and gloves. Laird tried to stay true to his training. He studied the bodies as a policeman would view a crime scene. He struggled to keep his eyes clinical and dispassionate. The scene around the mortar was gruesome.
Like many of his fellow soldiers, Laird claimed a Japanese gunto sword as a war prize. On one dead soldier, however, Laird noticed something unusual. The soldier carried a satchel. Laird looked inside and found books and a document that was handwritten in Japanese. It might be important, it might not. Laird stuffed it in his pocket to give to his superiors.
He had no time to look for anything else. Down the slope the Japanese assault continued. Bullets and shells flew around Laird and his men. Over the explosions he heard men yipping like coyotes and screaming curses.
“Banzai! You die! We die!”
“Die Yankee dogs, die!”
And then, a furious cry in response: “The Japs are here! They’ve broken through!”
Led by Colonel Yamasaki, who wielded his sword in the center of the attack just behind the front line, a thousand Japanese soldiers poured up the Chichagof Valley, across Buffalo Ridge, and overran the first of two United States command posts.
The next hours were a fury of scr
eams and blood and adrenaline. Japanese blasted into an American medical tent and sprayed the wounded with bullets and grenades. Attackers bayoneted the bedridden to death. Whole camps of fighting men were detonated. A soldier fleeing a grenade in his tent ran for his life outside and was impaled by a sword. The Japanese captured a Browning Automatic Rifle and turned it on its owners. Another wounded American tried to defend himself by grabbing an abandoned Japanese rifle, but he tripped and fell with his chest onto the bayonet. The Japanese shot and pressed on, shot and pressed on, stopping only when they came across a supply dump or kitchen, where they paused to load up on food, cigarettes, and grenades. The Japanese were so short of ammunition that some mounted the banzai charge with only the bayonets on their unloaded rifles, or knives lashed to sticks, their determination stronger than their firepower.
Caught by surprise, the Americans regrouped and mounted a furious counterattack. After Captain Albert Pence killed and stunned a handful of attackers with a grenade, he raced in to finish the job with his combat knife. In his anger Pence lost control of himself and plunged his knife again and again and again into the back of a Japanese soldier, only to realize that the blade had snapped several thrusts ago inside the man’s spine. Pence moved on.
Yamasaki’s men overwhelmed Company L of the 17th Infantry and seized every available weapon. For the first time the full might of American firepower was trained back on Americans. The fog lit up with .30 caliber tracer bullets, then the bigger and louder .37 calibers. Every tracer shot illuminated a landscape of men running for the lives, diving for cover, collapsing in their tracks.
The Storm on Our Shores Page 14
