Our Lot in War

[TW: pg-13 WW2 battle scene]

In 1942 my father was lucky. He studied anthropology in university—even published a paper on the Minahasan people of Indonesia—and when the draft came he was enlisted into US Army Intelligence rather than being called up for combat.

During the war he shuttled around the Pacific collecting information on local populations, providing weapons to resistance movements, and helping negotiate problems locals had with US military bases.

On one such journey, on a troop ship bound for the Philippines, he saw something unusual. A young Marine with perfectly white hair. There were reports of US soldiers suffering malnutrition from being garrisoned on remote islands.

“I noticed your white hair,” he said, “have you always had it?”

“Why do you ask?” The man's hands were shaking slightly. 

Soldiers sometimes find it hard to talk about their problems, so my dad changed the topic for a while. “The Philippines. A great place. Pineapple, steaks, beer, can you believe it? A lot better than those goddamn atolls.”

“Looking forward to it, sir.”

After more small talk about how pleasant things would be at their next destination, the white haired Marine got back around to answering the first question, and started to talk about himself.

**

My name is Doug, and I'm a mechanic from Michigan, engaged to a wonderful girl back home, Carol.

Last year, after Pearl Harbor, I signed up for the Marines. Soon enough I find myself on a Marines troop carrier circling around in the middle of the South Pacific.

One day, we are told to get ready, and soon enough, we are climbing out of the ship into landing craft. After we are onboard, the squad leader tell us our mission. In the Marines, they don’t tell you where you are going until the last second. Well the battleships had been firing their guns at an island in the distance for a few days, so it’s not a big surprise.

He says that’s Tarawa island, and we Marines plan to take it that day. Thousands will be landing. On the main beach, the Japanese have a dozen cement bunkers and the machine guns in those bunkers have a full range of fire across the beach. We need to do something about those guns.

I enlisted in Michigan as a vehicle mechanic but when I show up at Parris Island, they weren’t training mechanics, so I was taught Combat Engineering instead. Eight weeks of learning how to clear minefields, build pontoon bridges, and use explosives.

In the first landing wave we are the only combat engineers. We're given 40 lbs of TNT. We need to take out any bunker still in operation after the USAF bombers and the Navy artillery do their work. One of us will need to crawl up to the bunker and toss the bomb onto it. Under enemy fire, it’s a near suicide mission.

The Sergeant says he’s not asking for volunteers. Our squad has 10 Marines, and we will draw lots for who takes the demolition pack. The rest of us provide cover fire.

He writes the numbers 1 to 10 on tiny scraps of paper and puts them into a sock.

The first guy the Sergeant hands it to pulls out a “6”, looks happy with himself, and passes the sock to me. I put my hand in. I feel one of those pieces of paper between my fingers. Concentrate on feeling the number on it before pulling it out. If it's a "1", I can get ready to kiss this world goodbye. 

I think about my fiancee Carol. Will she miss me when I'm gone? I can't imagine her with another man. Nervously, I pull the tiny scrap of paper out. Sweat runs from my face. I open it and my head spins when I see a “2”. Then I focus again, and see it’s a “9”.

I keep my cool as if this is just a game of dice. Marines, we are all in this together. I can’t show it to the others but I can’t believe my luck. I might get a chance to get out of this after all.

After two more draws, a kid from Colorado turns pale when he pulls the number “1”. Another guy gets a “2” and the Sergeant reminds him he needs to be ready if anything happens to the number one guy. We talk to the kid from Colorado the whole boat trip and tell him It's going to be alright. We know better than to leave him alone in his thoughts.

At a steady crawl, the heavy wood boat moves toward the beach. From our seats swinging wildly from side to side, half the marines get sick on the floor. But not me. I’m used to the waves on Lake Michigan.

In training we learned landing craft need to ride in on high tide to push in high up the beach. The boat driver grumbles that the tide might fail today, A neap tide. The driver says he doesn’t have a gun and doesn’t want to get stuck on the beach.

Around us are dozens of boats like ours. Only a few Japanese artillery shells land anywhere near us. Seagulls fly overhead, oblivious to the war. I wonder what they are thinking about all this. Ahead, we see a thin band of white sand steadily getting closer.

The boat lurches and throws us out of our seats. A terrible scraping sound comes from the bottom of the boat. 

“The reef,” the driver shouts out. At low tide, the coral rocks of the reef hide just below the water surface.

He reverses the engine. We back up and then go forward again, trying a different channel. Another bump, and we’re stuck again. This time, reversing the engine doesn’t free the landing craft from the rocks.

Now we’re immobile and the tapping of Japanese bullets on our boat becomes more frequent. If the Japanese open up with anything high-caliber, we will be Swiss cheese in this flimsy wooden landing craft.

“California, check the depth,” the Sergeant says—he calls us by our home states, says it's easier than remembering our names. The Sergeant never answers our questions about the battles in North Africa we know he was in.

California pulls himself over the edge of the boat and drops into the water. His shoulders are showing above the water.

“Drop the gate,” the Sergeant cries out.

With a loud creak, the front of the Higgins boat drops open, which fully exposes us to fire from the beach. We have trained to get out of the boat fast and into the water.

“To the beach and dig in, Marines,” the Sergeant shouts.

With water up to my armpits, getting to the beach means wading in one step at a time. The tide pulls us out every other step. Splashes from bullets in the water around us look harmless.

Somebody shouts, “Phil!” 

I look over and see Phil fall face down into the water. The white foam of the waves turns pink. Phil was number “7”. He almost cried after he had seen the number.

An artillery shell explodes in the water right behind me, It’s pointless to look if anyone got hit, and I keep pushing in.

When the water is down to my knees, I start running. The cracking of Japanese infantry rifles and the piercing ripping sound of their machines guns is now very close. I ready myself for the pain of red hot lead.

A rise of sand is just up the beach, and I dive behind it. Taking out my infantry shovel, I start digging. A few infantry already on the beach toss grenades at the Japanese, but they don’t reach their lines in the trees or the bunkers.

I see smoke from the machine guns inside firing in the bunkers 10 feet above the beach. 

From his foxhole, the sergeant shouts out, “Roll call!” 

“Colorado!” and then, ”Delaware, Carolina, Arkansas, California, Michigan, Dakota!”

There’s seven of us left.

I scan the surf behind us. Hundreds of marines are slowly wading in. At intervals, the Japanese machine gun strafes the surf. Soldiers topple over and sink into the water.

“We need to take out that machine gun,“ the Sergeant says, “Colorado, prepare the charge.” 

We back off while Colorado readies the fuse. When it’s armed, if someone pulls the cord, they only have 10 seconds to get away from the explosion.

He puts the backpack on and slithers out of his foxhole. It’s 300 feet to the bunker. The sound of a Japanese machine gun rips through the air.

“Colorado?”

A Marine uses a shaving mirror to look over the top of the foxhole. “Colorado has been hit, Sergeant.”

The Sergeant waits for another round of US navy artillery to hit the Japanese line. 

“Delaware, go get the pack and complete the mission.”

The Japanese are barely firing back now, and Delaware looks more optimistic. He only makes it two feet farther than Colorado before getting hit.

It goes on like this, and soon Carolina and Arkansas are also gunned down, having made it just a few feet further.

The beach is silent for a long time.

“I think they’ve run out of ammunition,” the Sergeant said, “California, you need to do this.”

California is number 6, He slithers over the top of the foxhole, makes it to Arkansas without being spotted, slowly takes off the backpack, and then crawls very slowly back to our foxhole. 

“It takes a while for the machine gun to ready itself, sir,” California says, “I can make it before they notice me.”

The Sergeant nods.

California takes off at a full sprint. The beach remains silent for what seems an eternity as he runs and runs and it looks like he’s going to make it.

The sound of the Japanese machine gun fills my ears.

California’s goes down. He hasn’t even made it 10-feet.

“Michigan. You’re next.”

I look around and see number 7 and 8 aren’t here. Probably dead. My knees begin shaking uncontrollably.

The sergeant is holding his pistol in his hand. “We must take out that bunker, Michigan.”

“Yes, sir.”

Together we study routes to the bunker as he did with the previous Marines. Listen to the crescendos and lulls of the machine guns. Scan the beach strewn with dead marines looking for possible hiding spots.

I see a tiny look of indecision on his face.

“Do you really think this is a good idea?” I ask.

He looks at me, looks at the bunker, and puts his pistol back into its holster. “Nah. Let’s just forget about it for today.”

After a long night pinned down, the next morning we hear the rumble of a US army Sherman tank. Behind it, a fresh wave of troops with heavy weapons begins to clear the bunker line. We join the mop up operations. A day later, the battle of Tarawa is over.

And the next week, sir, my hair turned white. I can’t wait to get home when this war is over.