Read Online Hell in the Pacific: A Marine Rifleman's Journey From Guadalcanal to Peleliu by Bill Sloan, Jim McEnery - Free Book Online
Authors: Bill Sloan, Jim McEnery
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case, that was five clips that held five rounds apiece on each side of my belt. That came to fifty-five rounds total, including the clip in my rifle. Some of the guys who’d been shooting at phantoms those first two nights ashore had considerably less.
“Conserve your ammo,” Lieutenant Adams told us as we started out along the beach road. “When we make contact with the enemy,don’t waste a single round. Make every shot count. Use your bayonets whenever you can.”
By now, almost everybody in the company was down in the mouth and moping. Some guys started talking about Bataan and Corregidor in the Philippines and comparing our sorry situation to the one those poor devils had faced three or four months ago.
A private in the K/3/5 mortar section was walking beside me when we moved out that morning. He had an expression on his face that looked like somebody had just kicked him in the nuts. “Oh Jesus, Mac,” he said, “you think we’ll ever get off this damn island?”
He must’ve asked me that same question at least a hundred times over the next four months. I always tried to give him a positive answer, even though sometimes I wasn’t sure I believed it myself.
This was definitely one of those times.
“Yeah, yeah,” I told him. “We’ll be fine.”
R OUGHLY AN HOUR into the march, the road along the beach led us just north of the airfield, which was to our left, and still within sight of the water to our right. It had been quiet all the way so far with no sign of enemy activity.
Then, all at once, we saw a submarine surface out in the channel maybe a hundred yards from shore.
“That’s a Jap sub!” somebody yelled. “Hit the deck!”
We did exactly that, but like the Zeros that had flown over us twice before, the sub paid no attention to us. It opened fire toward the airfield with its one deck gun, and we could hear the shells whizzing over our heads. We could also hear the explosions as the shells hit off to the south. The sub kept firing for two or threeminutes. Then it moved away and slipped out of sight under the waves.
I almost felt like laughing. Here I was in an infantry rifle platoon, and the first and only Jap I’d seen was flying over me in a Zero at treetop level. Now I’d just come under fire—well, sort of—from a Jap submarine. But I still hadn’t seen a single enemy soldier on the ground. It all seemed nutty as hell to me, and I couldn’t help wondering what the odds were of something like that happening.
“Okay, the sub’s gone,” Lieutenant Adams said. “Show’s over. Let’s move out.”
We brushed ourselves off and started marching west again. We continued on for a couple of miles until we were ordered to stop and start setting up a new defensive perimeter near an outcropping of land called Lunga Point, where the Lunga River emptied into the sea.
From there, our Fifth Marines perimeter would be tied in a lot more securely with the lines of the First Marines. The Fifth’s lines ran along a ridge and through some coconut plantations, but the First’s were mostly in the jungle. At least we were both in better positions now to protect the airfield and hold our ground if the Japs decided to attack us with something bigger than a submarine.
And, sure enough, they did.
Their planes came first, and since there weren’t any American ships left to target, they concentrated on the airfield they’d given up and our troop concentrations. It hadn’t taken them long to realize a couple of things. First, our carriers were long gone. Second, until the airport was finished, we wouldn’t have any planes of our own to fight back with.
At the moment, all we had to protect the airfield were a few outdated 90-millimeter antiaircraft guns and a couple of searchlights.Our .30-caliber machine guns in K/3/5 and the other infantry companies were about as effective as peashooters against enemy bombers. What few 50-calibers we had were with the Third Battalion weapons company a
“Conserve your ammo,” Lieutenant Adams told us as we started out along the beach road. “When we make contact with the enemy,don’t waste a single round. Make every shot count. Use your bayonets whenever you can.”
By now, almost everybody in the company was down in the mouth and moping. Some guys started talking about Bataan and Corregidor in the Philippines and comparing our sorry situation to the one those poor devils had faced three or four months ago.
A private in the K/3/5 mortar section was walking beside me when we moved out that morning. He had an expression on his face that looked like somebody had just kicked him in the nuts. “Oh Jesus, Mac,” he said, “you think we’ll ever get off this damn island?”
He must’ve asked me that same question at least a hundred times over the next four months. I always tried to give him a positive answer, even though sometimes I wasn’t sure I believed it myself.
This was definitely one of those times.
“Yeah, yeah,” I told him. “We’ll be fine.”
R OUGHLY AN HOUR into the march, the road along the beach led us just north of the airfield, which was to our left, and still within sight of the water to our right. It had been quiet all the way so far with no sign of enemy activity.
Then, all at once, we saw a submarine surface out in the channel maybe a hundred yards from shore.
“That’s a Jap sub!” somebody yelled. “Hit the deck!”
We did exactly that, but like the Zeros that had flown over us twice before, the sub paid no attention to us. It opened fire toward the airfield with its one deck gun, and we could hear the shells whizzing over our heads. We could also hear the explosions as the shells hit off to the south. The sub kept firing for two or threeminutes. Then it moved away and slipped out of sight under the waves.
I almost felt like laughing. Here I was in an infantry rifle platoon, and the first and only Jap I’d seen was flying over me in a Zero at treetop level. Now I’d just come under fire—well, sort of—from a Jap submarine. But I still hadn’t seen a single enemy soldier on the ground. It all seemed nutty as hell to me, and I couldn’t help wondering what the odds were of something like that happening.
“Okay, the sub’s gone,” Lieutenant Adams said. “Show’s over. Let’s move out.”
We brushed ourselves off and started marching west again. We continued on for a couple of miles until we were ordered to stop and start setting up a new defensive perimeter near an outcropping of land called Lunga Point, where the Lunga River emptied into the sea.
From there, our Fifth Marines perimeter would be tied in a lot more securely with the lines of the First Marines. The Fifth’s lines ran along a ridge and through some coconut plantations, but the First’s were mostly in the jungle. At least we were both in better positions now to protect the airfield and hold our ground if the Japs decided to attack us with something bigger than a submarine.
And, sure enough, they did.
Their planes came first, and since there weren’t any American ships left to target, they concentrated on the airfield they’d given up and our troop concentrations. It hadn’t taken them long to realize a couple of things. First, our carriers were long gone. Second, until the airport was finished, we wouldn’t have any planes of our own to fight back with.
At the moment, all we had to protect the airfield were a few outdated 90-millimeter antiaircraft guns and a couple of searchlights.Our .30-caliber machine guns in K/3/5 and the other infantry companies were about as effective as peashooters against enemy bombers. What few 50-calibers we had were with the Third Battalion weapons company a
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