With the Old Breed_ At Peleliu and Okinawa - E. B. Sledge [169]
The Japanese on Okinawa had a 320mm-spigot-mortar unit equipped to fire a 675-pound shell. Americans first encountered this awesome weapon on Iwo Jima. I don't know whether what we saw fired several times during the last day or two on Okinawa was a spigot mortar, but whatever it was, it was a frightful-sounding weapon that caused great damage.
The night turned into a long series of shooting scrapes with Japanese who prowled all over the place. We heard someone coming along the road, the coral crunching beneath his feet. In the pitch dark, a new replacement fired his carbine twice in that direction and yelled for the password. Somebody laughed, and several enemy started firing in our direction as they ran past us along the road. A bullet zipped by me and hit the hydrogen cylinder of a flamethrower placed on the side of the adjacent foxhole. The punctured cylinder emitted a sharp hissing sound.
“Is that thing gonna blow up?” I asked anxiously.
“Naw, just hit the hydrogen tank. It won't ignite,” the flamethrower gunner said.
We could hear the enemy soldiers’ hobnailed shoes pounding on the road until a fatal burst of fire from some other Company K Marines sent them sprawling. As we field-stripped them the next morning, I noted that each carried cooked rice in his double-boiler mess gear—all bullet-riddled then.
Other Japanese swam or walked along in the sea just offshore. We saw them in the flarelight. A line of Marines behind a stone wall on the beach fired at them. One of our men ran up from the wall to get more carbine ammo.
“Come on, Sledgehammer. It's just like Lexington and Concord.”
“No thanks. I'm too comfortable in my hole.”
He went back down to the wall, and they continued firing throughout the night.
Just before daylight, we heard a couple of enemy grenades explode. Japanese yelled and shouted wildly where one of our 37mm guns was dug in across the road, covering the valley out front. Shots rang out, then desperate shouts and cursing.
“Corspman!”
Then silence. A new corpsman who had joined us recently started toward the call for help, but I said, “Hold it, Doc. I'll go with you.”
I wasn't being heroic. I was quite afraid. But knowing the enemy's propensity for treachery, I thought somebody should accompany him.
“As you were, Sledgehammer. Ya might be needed on the gun. Take off, Doc, and be careful,” an NCO said. A few minutes later he said, “OK, Sledgehammer, take off if ya wanta.”
I grabbed the Tommy and followed the corpsman. He was just finishing bandaging one of the wounded Marines of the 37mm gun crew when I got there. Other Marines were coming over to see if they could help. Several men had been wounded by the firing when two enemy officers crept up the steep slope, threw grenades into the gun emplacement, and jumped in swinging their samurai sabers. One Marine had parried a saber blow with his carbine. His buddy then had shot the Japanese officer, who fell backwards a short distance down the slope. The saber blow had severed a finger and sliced through the mahogany carbine forestock to the metal barrel.
The second Japanese officer lay dead on his back next to the wheel of the 37mm gun. He was in full-dress uniform with white gloves, shiny leather leggings, Sam Browne belt,and campaign ribbons on his chest. Nothing remained of his head from the nose up—just a mass of crushed skull, brains, and bloody pulp. A grimy Marine with a dazed expression stood over the Japanese. With a foot planted firmly on the ground on each side of the enemy officer's body, the Marine held his rifle by the forestock with both hands and slowly and mechanically moved it up and down like a plunger. I winced each time it came down with a sickening sound into the gory mass. Brains and blood were splattered all over the Marine's rifle, boondockers, and canvas leggings, as well as the wheel of the 37mm gun.
The Marine was obviously in a complete state of shock. We gently