With the Old Breed_ At Peleliu and Okinawa - E. B. Sledge [43]
“Them's the biggest Nips I ever saw,” one veteran said.
“Look at them sonsabitches; they's all over six foot tall,” said another.
“That must be some of that ‘Flower of the Kwantung Army’ we've been hearing about,” put in a corporal.
The Japanese counterattack was no wild, suicidal banzai charge such as Marine experience in the past would have led us to expect. Numerous times during D day I heard the dogmatic claim by experienced veterans that the enemy would banzai.
“They'll pull a banzai, and we'll tear their ass up. Then we can get the hell offa this hot rock, and maybe the CG will send the division back to Melbourne.”
Rather than a banzai, the Japanese counterthrust turned out to be a well-coordinated tank-infantry attack. Approximately one company of Japanese infantry, together with about thirteen tanks, had moved carefully across the airfield until annihilated by the Marines on our left. This was our first warning that the Japanese might fight differently on Peleliu than they had elsewhere.
Just before dusk, a Japanese mortar concentration hit ⅗'s command post. Our CO, Lt. Col. Austin C. Shofner,* was hit while trying to establish contact among the companies of our battalion. He was evacuated and put aboard a hospital ship.
Companies I, K, and L couldn't regain contact before nightfall. Each dug in in a circular defense for the night. The situation was precarious. We were isolated, nearly out of water in the terrible heat, and ammunition was low. Lt. Col. Lewis Walt, accompanied by only a runner, came out into that pitch-dark, enemy-infested scrub, located all the companies, and directed us into the division's line on the airfield. He should have won a Medal of Honor for that feat!†
Rumor had it, as we dug in, that the division had suffered heavy casualties in the landing and subsequent fighting. The veterans I knew said it had been about the worst day of fighting they had ever seen.‡
It was an immense relief to me when we got our gun pit completed and had registered in our gun by firing two or three rounds of HE into an area out in front of Company K. My thirst was almost unbearable, my stomach was tied in knots, and sweat soaked me. Dissolving some K ration dextrose tablets in my mouth helped, and I took the last sip of my dwindling water supply. We had no idea when relief would get through with additional water. Artillery shells shrieked and whistled back and forth overhead with increasing frequency, and small-arms fire rattled everywhere.
In the eerie green light of star shells swinging pendulumlike on their parachutes so that shadows danced and swayed around crazily, I started taking off my right shoe.
“Sledgehammer, what the hell are you doin’?” Snafu asked in an exasperated tone.
“Taking off my boondockers; my feet hurt,” I replied.
“Have you gone Asiatic?” he asked excitedly. “What the hell are you gonna do in your stockin’ feet if the Nips come bustin’ outa that jungle, or across this field? We may have to get outa this hole and haul tail if we're ordered to. They're probably gonna pull a banzai before daybreak, and how do you reckon you'll move around on this coral in your stockin's?”
I said that I just wasn't thinking. He reamed me out good and told me we would be lucky to get our shoes off before the island was secured. I thanked God my foxhole buddy was a combat veteran.
Snafu then nonchalantly drew his kabar and stuck it in the coral gravel near his right hand. My stomach tightened and gooseflesh chilled my back and shoulders at the sight of the long blade in the greenish light and the realization of why he placed it within such easy reach. He then checked his .45 automatic pistol. I followed his example with my kabar as I crouched on the other side of the mortar, checked my carbine, and looked over the mortar shells (HE and flares) stacked