With the Old Breed_ At Peleliu and Okinawa - E. B. Sledge [51]
When the enemy ceased firing artillery and mortars from caves, they shut protective steel doors and waited while our artillery, naval guns, and 81mm mortars blasted away at the rock. If we moved ahead under our protective fire support, the Japanese pinned us down and inflicted serious losses on us, because it was almost impossible to dig a protective foxhole in the rock. No individual events of the attack stuck in my mind, just the severe fire from our left and the feeling that any time the Japanese decided to do so, they could have blown us sky high.
Our attack was called off late in the afternoon, and we were ordered to set up our mortar for the night. An NCO came by and told me to go with him and about four others from other platoons to unload an amtrac bringing up supplies for Company K. We arrived at the designated place, dispersed a little so as not to draw fire, and waited for the amtrac. In a few minutes it came clanking up in a swirl of white dust.
“You guys from K Company, 5th Marines?” asked the driver.
“Yeah, you got chow and ammo for us?” asked our NCO.
“Yeah, sure have. Got a unit of fire,* water, and rations. Better get it unloaded as soon as you can, or we'll draw fire,” the driver said as his machine lurched to a halt and he climbed down.
The tractor was an older model such as I had landed from on D day. It didn't have a drop tailgate; so we climbed aboard and hefted the heavy ammo boxes over the side and down onto the deck.
“Let's go, boys,” our NCO said as he and a couple of us climbed onto the tractor.
I saw him gaze in amazement down into the cargo area of the tractor. At the bottom, wedged under a pile of ammo boxes, we saw one of those infernal fifty-five-gallon oil drums of water. Filled, they weighed several hundred pounds. Our NCO rested his arms on the side of the tractor and remarked in an exasperated tone, “It took a bloody genius of a supply officer to do that. How in the hell are we supposed to get that drum outa there?”
“I don't know,” said the driver. “I just bring it up.”
We cursed and began unloading the ammo as fast as possible. We had expected the water to be in several five-gallon cans, each of which weighed a little more than forty pounds. We worked as rapidly as possible, but then we heard that inevitable and deadly whisshh-shh-shh. Three big mortar shells exploded, one after the other, not far from us.
“Uh oh, the stuff's hit the fan now,” groaned one of my buddies.
“Bear a hand, you guys. On the double,” said our NCO.
“Look, you guys, I'm gonna hafta get this tractor the hell outa here. If it gets knocked out and it's my fault, the lieu-tenant'll have my can in a crack,” groaned the driver.
We had no gripe with the driver, and we didn't blame him. The amtrac drivers on Peleliu were praised by everyone for doing such a fine job. Their bravery and sense of responsibility were above question. We worked like beavers as our NCO said to him, “I'm sorry, ole buddy, but if we don't get these supplies unloaded, it's our ass!”
More mortar shells fell out to one side, and the fragments swished through the air. It was apparent that the Japanese mortar crew was trying to bracket us, but was afraid to fire too much for fear of being seen by our observers. We sweated and panted to get the ammo unloaded. We unloaded the water drum with a rope sling.
“You fellows need any help?” asked a Marine who appeared from the rear.
We hadn't noticed him before he spoke. He wore green dungarees, leggings, and a cloth-covered helmet like ourselves and carried a .45 caliber automatic pistol like any mortar gunner, machine gunner, or one of our officers. Of course, he wore no rank insignia, being in combat. What astonished us was that he looked to be more than fifty years old and wore glasses—a rarity