With the Old Breed_ At Peleliu and Okinawa - E. B. Sledge [64]
NGESEBUS ISLAND
Early the next morning our battalion made a successful assault on a small hill on the narrow neck of northern Peleliu. Because of its isolated position, it lacked the mutual support from surrounding caves that made most of the ridges on the island impregnable.
At this time the rest of the regiment was getting a lot of enemy fire from Ngesebus Island. The word was that several days earlier the Japanese had slipped reinforcements by barge down to Peleliu from the larger islands to the north; some of the barges had been shot up and sunk by the navy, but several hundred enemy troops got ashore. It was a real blow to our morale to hear this.*
“Sounds just like Guadalcanal,” said a veteran. “About the time we think we got the bastards boxed in, the damn Nips bring in reinforcements, and it'll go on and on.”
“Yeah,” said another, “and once them slant-eyed bastards get in these caves around here, it'll be hell to pay.”
On 27 September army troops took over our positions. We moved northward.
“Our battalion is ordered to hit the beach on Ngesebus Island tomorrow,” an officer told us.†
I shuddered as I recalled the beachhead we had made on 15 September. The battalion moved into an area near the northern peninsula and dug in for the night in a quiet area. It was sandy, open, and had some shattered, drooping palms. We didn't know what to expect on Ngesebus. I prayed the landing wouldn't be a repeat of the holocaust of D day.
Early in the morning of 28 September (D + 3) we squared away our gear and stood by to board the amtracs that would take us across the 500-700 yards of shallow reef to Ngesebus.
“We'll probably get another battle star for this beachhead,” said a man enthusiastically.
“No we won't,” answered another. “It's still just part of the Peleliu operation.”
“The hell you say; it's still another beachhead,” the first man responded.
“I don't make the regulation, ole buddy, but you check with the gunny, and I'll betcha I'm right.” Several mumbled comments came out about how stingy the high command was in authorizing battle stars, which were little enough compensation for combat duty.
We boarded the tractors and tried to suppress our fear. Ships were firing on Ngesebus, and we saw Marine F4U Corsair fighter planes approaching from the Peleliu airfield to the south. “We gonna have lots of support for this one,” an NCO said.
Our amtracs moved to the water's edge and waited for H hour as the thunderous prelanding naval gunfire bombardment covered the little island in smoke, flame, and dust. The Corsairs from Marine Fighter Squadron (VMF) 114 peeled off and began bombing and strafing the beach. The engines of the beautiful blue gull-winged planes roared, whined, and strained as they dove and pulled out. They plastered the beach with machine guns, bombs, and rockets. The effect was awesome as dirt, sand, and debris spewed into the air.*
Our Marine pilots outdid themselves, and we cheered, yelled, waved, and raised our clenched fists to indicate our approval. Never during the war did I see fighter pilots take such risks by not pulling out of their dives until the very last instant. We were certain, more than once, that a pilot was pulling out too late and would crash. But, expert flyers that they were, they gave that beach a brutal pounding without mishap to plane or pilot. We talked about their spectacular flying even after the war ended.
Out to sea on our left, with a cruiser, destroyers, and other ships firing support, was a huge battleship. Someone said it was the USS Mississippi, but I never knew for sure. She ranked with the Corsairs in the mass of destruction she hurled at Ngesebus. The huge shells rumbled like freight cars—as the men always used to describe the sound of projectiles from full-sized battleships’ 16-inch guns.
At H hour our tractor driver revved up his engine. We moved into the water and started the assault. My heart pounded in my throat. Would my luck hold out? “The Lord is my shepherd,” I prayed quietly and squeezed my