When I got back to duty I felt like a stranger in my own hometown. We had all sorts of new men who had chosen the Marines when they were drafted. Only a few of the wounded from Tarawa were returned to the Division after being released from the hospital. (The dispute about Tarawa — i.e., whether it should have been bypassed because of heavy Japanese defenses — continues to this day). The vacancies needed to be filled and new duties in every unit also demanded new men. They were supplied through the draft, but even though they had chosen the Marines — that did not make them "volunteers" in the old sense of the word.
One day Otis called me aside and wanted to know if we could borrow a 16-mm projector and some movies to show to the men at the USED (United States Engineering Department) camp who were assisting our engineers in completing our camp. He had met the man in charge, a Sam Milne, and Sam had said if this could be arranged we could pass the hat and whatever was contributed was ours. The fox is back in the coop again!
I said, "Why not?" The next night we put on a show in their mess hall. The movie went over so well, and we had a large stock of first-run movies fresh from the States, that we put on two shows a night, three nights a week. In order to get in two shows and still get back by taps, we had to start early. So, we began eating dinner with them and would start the first show right after dinner. We were making more money than we could playing poker — and there was no risk of losing it.
When we were in the middle of this, George Freeberg came by. He was now the first sergeant of Division Headquarters Company of the 4th Division on Maui. We held a mini Iceland reunion with George, Smokey, Warren Davies, Chris Christofferson, Bud Heller and me. I did not see George for another 25 years.
I noticed I was having a little trouble with my vision, so I went to have my eyes checked and glasses were prescribed. I hardly ever wore them but I had them if needed. One evening the Skipper asked me if I'd be available to show a movie in General Watson's residence (Watson had replaced Julian Smith) for him and some senior officers and other guests. Of course — how else could I reply?
At about 2000, I piled the equipment in the jeep and drove to the general's quarters and set things up. When I started the movie I could feel that something wasn't right — I had forgotten my glasses and could not get a sharp focus on the screen. I fooled around for a while without success and then Colonel Lloyd, who had been the CO of K Company in Iceland, came over and whispered, "What's wrong, Dick?" I replied, "I forgot my new glasses and can't get a sharp focus." He said, "Don't worry about it. We'll make like we're in the Army artillery and I'm your spotter. We've had enough experience with the Army." So, we used his good eyes and my fine touch on the projector and got a sharp focus. Everyone enjoyed the movie. That was the last time I showed movies for the general, though.
Time was moving along and the Division was practicing for combat in sugarcane fields. Everyone was speculating which of those islands had sugarcane, but the only one we knew for sure was the one we were on — Hawaii. We were also kept busy attaching large loudspeakers to the front of jeeps and waterproofing them. An experiment was to be tried in saving lives. Japanese linguists were present to test them out. Everyone was satisfied with the end-product.
In early May, word came down that three men in our section had been selected to assist with graves-registration duties. I had been bypassed because I had been to Guadalcanal and Tarawa, my health was questionable, I was married and my wife was about to have a baby. So, I was going to be in the rear echelon. I asked the CO who'd make that decision, and he replied that he would. I put forth all my best arguments, that none of the three men chosen had been in combat, none of them had been part of a burial detail, and I didn't think any of them had ever gone down a cargo net.
All to no avail. The roster had been drawn and as far as he was concerned that was the end of it. He was dumbfounded when I asked for permission to speak to the colonel, but he said, "It won't do you any good, but you have my permission." That is a touchy situation anytime, going over the CO's head, but the colonel agreed with my arguments and I was added as a fourth man.
On 19 May 1944, we left for Honolulu for preliminary staging. While there we were tied up near to and downwind of the Dole pineapple cannery. Our ship smelled of pineapple for the rest of the trip. It was years before I could eat pineapple again. Also while we were there a tragic explosion occurred aboard one of the LSTs. Over 200 men from the 2nd and 4th Divisions were lost before we left Pearl. Gloom hung over the first few days at sea. Our departure came on 30 May -- one day short of the date we left San Diego harbor three years earlier. We could tell that this was going to be a big operation because ships had been leaving for days. The trip was hot, and with so many men and so much equipment, deck space was scarce.
One day I went to the head and sat down directly under an air vent. The air coming out of it was so cool that I decided to stay a while. It was wonderful. I was reading "the first sergeant's handbook" (comics) so I just stayed on and on. It wasn't until the next morning that I discovered that I had acquired a fine crop of crabs (crab lice) that were giving me the ha-ha. I was mortified. I had gone all those years and been very careful, but here in the middle of the Pacific with sweat running off me like rain water, I end up with the crabs.
I've always believed that drastic situations call for drastic action, so I got my razor and some shaving cream, went to the head and started at my armpits and worked down to my ankles. When I got through I didn't have a hair on my body. Even I thought I looked funny. But the real test of courage was yet to come — when the hair started growing back, especially in the crotch area, amid the heat and misery of Saipan.
Prior to arriving at Eniwetok (Ralik Chain of the Marshall Islands, west-central Pacific), everyone knew our destination was Saipan (southwest Mariana Islands, western Pacific). Maps, charts, photographs and mockups were studied in minute detail. Even though we were accompanying the task force, we didn't feel that our part would amount to much. However, any amphibious assault is subject to a variety of circumstances and miscalculations that can turn a well-planned operation into a seat-of-the-pants execution by brave men not willing or too frightened to let chaos rule. Such was D-Day on Saipan and our contribution, small as it was, was to begin immediately.
While on our way to Eniwetok, we received news that the second front had opened in France with the Allied landings on 6 June (7 June our time). A common reaction among us was, "It's about time. We've been doing this for two years. It's time we got some help." But as news came in, our group heard of the large number of casualties and became somber — our turn was only a few days away (15 June). Saipan differed from both Guadalcanal and Tarawa in terrain, weather, fortifications and proximity to Japan. All these factors and the fact that once again the initial bombardment had failed in its effort to neutralize or seriously affect the enemy, plus Japan's fanatical cave-fighters also made our Marines and the Army pay dearly for Saipan.
On 9 July the island was declared secured, yet many Japs fought on from caves, hidden pillboxes and the mountains well into October. As hostilities wound down, the cemetery was given more attention. A large archway was constructed at its entrance, and in the middle of the arch a panel read, 2nd Marine Division Cemetery. By this time we'd been assigned designated areas for eating, and considered it an insult to the men we were burying for someone, anyone, to brazenly defy our unwritten-but-established convention of giving all possible respect due these heroic men. I can recall no sight more disgusting than that of an officer of the burial detail sitting on the mounds of earth created by the grave diggings as he ate fried-egg sandwiches and muttered, "What a waste, what a waste." His mutterings may have been true, but his behavior was disrespectful.
We were trying to make things as comfortable as possible. One day Lieutenant Edelstein showed up at our location in full battle dress. I was happy to see him, but when I asked what he was doing on Saipan he replied, "You know me — I f*cked up and the general sent me here." He was a platoon leader in the 8th Marines. Hank had never liked liquor, so while there he suggested, "If you save up your beer ration, I'll trade you my booze for your beer whenever we get our ration." SOLD — great idea, Hank.
How he could drink that green beer I never knew. He had been assigned a bunch of 8-ball Marines that he had to take out on patrol looking for Japanese holdouts in the mountains and caves or wherever he could find them. I asked Hank if I could go along, and he seemed happy to have me. I never told anyone what I was doing, but at that time everything was still disorganized, so no one asked where I was. Hank's were usually only daylong patrols and, as is the case with my luck when fishing, we didn't get a bite. Hank was very happy about that.
During this period of lull I met another old friend, Howard Hiskey, from Salt Lake City, who had been my bunkee during my first cruise at Division HQ. He had been assigned to Chaplain Mansfield in the early days and later to 2nd Division Chaplain Lumpkin (an Episcopalian with a wry sense of humor). Hiskey also knew Chaplain Toleffsen and Chaplain O'Neill, as well as Smokey and George Freeberg (right), whom he'd met through me.
We were catching up on the news about ourselves when he began to tell me about his role at Saipan He had gone in with the first wave and he said they nearly didn't make it to the shelter of a huge shell hole made by the barrage, where they were pinned down. They just stayed there for a considerable length of time. I asked him if he felt his fire had any effect on the Japs. He replied, "I went through the whole thing and never fired a shot. I was scared to death." I was telling him about Guadalcanal (he hadn't been there) and about the time Father O'Neill and I were taking a couple of bodies back to the rear. It was just shortly after Dick Watson had been killed, and I was telling the chaplain about Dick's death, how I felt, and how I'd gone over and talked to Dick's corpse. I said to the chaplain: "And he didn't say a f*cking word, Father."
"A what kind of word, Dick?"
"Sorry, Father, he didn't say anything, Pat."
"That's better, me boy."
Hiskey and I had a good laugh over that one. We began to assess the situation from a loss standpoint and found that some of my old friends had been wounded or killed. Warren Davies, who had been with K Company from the start, was killed. Lt. Colonel McLeod, the 6th exec was killed (Lt. Colonel Russell Lloyd, who was beachmaster, replaced him). And my old friend Smokey Smolikar got shot, literally, in the ass. A piece of shrapnel bored into the right check and sheared off most of it. When I found him he was lying on a stretcher face down with a cigar hanging out of his mouth and tears running down his face. He was evacuated and I didn't see him again for nearly a year. Larry Card had some slight wounds he received when he ran a bulldozer up to a machinegun nest and covered it with dirt. He never turned himself in, but treated the wound himself.
Within a few weeks orders came down for a group of about 30 of us old-timers to pack our gear and be ready to return to the States. I didn't get a chance to say goodbye to anyone before I left. So, 2 Dec. 1944 was a red-letter day as we headed for the ship anchored in Saipan's harbor. When we left Guadalcanal I hadn't had to climb a ship's nets because about a week before I'd injured my right hand and arm. I was all bandaged up so I, along with the walking wounded, climbed up the gangway.
When leaving Tarawa I was among a group that had climbed aboard about amidships. Now when leaving Saipan came the big trial. The boat I was in pulled up to the ship's bow. There the nets hung straight down from the deck with no support for the feet as we climbed. Looking up, the ship's deck looked just a little higher than the Empire State Building. We began the climb with packs and rifles. We were swaying in and out and a stiff breeze was blowing. I thought, "I'll feel like an ass if I fall off this thing," yet the prospect of doing that was ever-present. We were an exhausted bunch as we tumbled over the rail with the help of some sailors who held us tightly. We didn't lose anyone to accident as our sheer strength and will prevented it. Within an hour of boarding we were moving away from Saipan.
Our war was over, but not our troubles. We hadn't been out a day when the ship lost a boiler and we were separated from the other ships and had to pull in to Eniwetok for temporary repairs. We lost a couple more days there, so when we arrived at Pearl (tent city), where we were not originally supposed to be, we upset everyone's schedule. There was no ship to take us to San Francisco. We were at tent city for a week or more. We couldn't get out of the place, but I did contact my brother, who came over and had Christmas dinner with us. That was the first Christmas we had been together since 1937.
Eventually we were assigned to a ship — a Merchant Marine vessel that was subbing as a troop transport — the SS Eixtania. The trip to San Francisco was a subdued one. The weather began to get cooler so we were below decks in our bunks most of the time. One night about 2100 the captain asked all troops to assemble in the forward compartment.
When we were all there he came about halfway down the ladder and said, "We will be docking in about an hour and a half. I want you to know that I have carried a lot of troops on this ship, but I have never carried a better bunch than you. I know you've been through hell. It shows, but you have also conducted yourselves aboard my ship in an exemplary manner and I am proud that I am the one who brought you home." He came to attention and said, "I salute you," which he did adding, "Semper Fidelis, Marines."
There wasn't a dry eye in the compartment, and when he finished there wasn't any yelling or shouting; just a loud clapping of hands. The yelling occurred about two hours later as we passed under the Golden Gate Bridge and got our first glimpse of San Francisco.
In early February I reported to the Guard Company at the Naval Ammunition Depot in Earle, New Jersey. Its sergeant major said, "There is someone here who wants to see you." He led me into the CO's office and there was Colonel Gannon (still a colonel) with his hands out to grasp me by the shoulders. They had received my orders and knew I was coming.
There were 700 combat-hardened Marines at Earle and about 20,000 Negro sailors, who loaded the ships. This was the largest ammunition depot on the East Coast and it was a busy place. We had no trouble of any kind. Asbury Park was the closest city and all its luxury hotels had been taken over by the Navy as in-patient and out-patient hospitals.
One morning while in a hotel lobby, I saw Smokey. I could have kissed him. He had a cigar in his mouth and insisted that I come up to his room. He wanted me to see his backside wound (an ugly scar with the skin still bright red and just beginning to pull together) from the inside out. He said, "If I ever get out of here I'm going back to the theater 'cause you don't have to sit down to show movies." I left him with the promise to come back, but when I returned about 10 days later he was gone. He had been transferred to a hospital in Minnesota. Try as I would to find him, I never saw him again.
Today when most people say, "The War" or "World War Two," they are talking about the war in Europe, not the Pacific. It may be that the war in Europe saved Western Civilization — but in the Pacific, and especially at Guadalcanal, we saved our nation.
When I enlisted there were about 25,000 men in the Corps. In 1945 there were about 486,000 men and women. Of that number we had 700 at Earle, all of whom had seen combat in the early days, most of them at Guadalcanal. They were some of the men who, under deplorable conditions, halted Japanese aggression in the Pacific and handed the Japanese armed forces their first complete defeat in 2,600 years. After Guadalcanal the Japs fought nothing but defensive actions. These 700 men, many decorated — one a Navy Cross recipient — all had much the same attitude: "We didn't do anything special. We were just there."
