Links to Manuscript
5. Welcome to Tacloban
6. 4th Replacement Depot at Manila
7. The Villa Verde Trail
8. Joining the Battle
9. End of Day One
10. Caught In Cross Fire
11. Taking Charge
12. Saving Lives
13. Getting Relieved from Villa Verde
14. The Lingayen Gulf
6. 4th Replacement Depot at Manila
7. The Villa Verde Trail
8. Joining the Battle
9. End of Day One
10. Caught In Cross Fire
11. Taking Charge
12. Saving Lives
13. Getting Relieved from Villa Verde
14. The Lingayen Gulf
Introduction
Following is a manuscript written by Felix Herrman. Felix was my uncle on my Mothers side. It wasn't until I saw this manuscript, after both my mother and Felix passed away, that I new he was a World War II Hero. He serving his country in the Philippines and received a Bronze Star for his heroic actions. I'm transcribing his manuscript on this dedicated page to share with the world his experience, in his words. There are a few exceptions: the addition of some photos, spell check corrections and added titles to help index it for easier reading. The content is all his! If it isn't complete at the time you open this page, please come back after a couple of weeks, it will be worth the visit for the completed manuscript and additional supporting documentation. Even better, sign up for an email notice and you will get notifications as I update.
The Villa Verde Trail
An unaltered eyewitness
account of one of many similar battles fought in the Second World War. This one
in the Philippines, on the island of Luzon, in 1945.
Manuscript 1975
Author: Felix Herrman
On November 27, 1941, ten days before the
Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, General Douglas MacArthur in Manila, received
the following message:
“NEGOTIATIONS WITH THE
JAPANESE APPEAR TO BE TERMINATED TO ALL PRACTICAL PURPOSES WITH ONLY THE BAREST
POSSIBILITIES THAT THE JAPANESE GOVERNMENT MIGHT COME BACK AND OFFER TO
CONTINUE PERIOD JAPANESE FUTURE ACTION UNPREDICTABLE BUT HOSTILE ACTION
POSSIBLE AT ANY MOMENT PERIOD IF HOSTILITIES CANNOT, REPEAT CANNOT, BE AVOIDED
THE UNITED STATES DESIRES THAT JAPAN COMMIT THE FIRST OVERT ACT PERIOD THIS
POLICY SHOULD NOT, REPEAT NOT, BE CONSTRUED AS RESTRICTING YOU TO A COURSE OF
ACTION THAT MIGHT JEOPARDIZE YOUR DEFENSE. . . “
Army Commander
General Short, in Hawaii, received a similar message from Gen. George Marshall.
On the same day,
Admiral Harold R. Stark dispatched to Admiral Kimmel in Hawaii, and Admiral
Thomas C. Hart, of the Asiatic Fleet in the Philippines:
“THIS DISPATCH IS TO BE CONSIDERED A WAR WARNING X
NEGOTIATIONS WITH JAPAN LOOKING TOWARD STABILIZATION OF CONDITIONS IN THE
PACIFIC HAVE CEASED AND AN AGGRESSIVE MOVE BY JAPAN IS EXPECTED IN THE NEXT FEW
DAYS X THE NUMBER AND EQUIPMENT OF JAPANESE TROOPS AND THE ORGANIZATION OF
NAVAL TASK FORCES INDICATES AN AMPHIBIOUS EXPEDITION AGAINST EITHER THE
PHILIPPINES THAI OR KRA PENINSULA OR POSSIBLY BORNEO X EXECUTE AN APPROPRIATE
DEFENSIVE DEPLOYMENT PREPARATORY TO CARRYING OUT THE TASKS ASSIGNED IN WPL
(WAR PLAN) 46X. . .”
Rumors of War
Rumors of a big war with Japan had been in
the air for some time, worsening as one event followed another.
In 1931 Japan attacked and quickly overran
Manchuria, north of Korea. Then it was China itself, in 1937. By the end of the
year, Nanking had been seized in a disgraceful manner, historically known as
“The Rape of Nanking”.
By October of 1938, it was Canton in
southern China that fell victim to the Japanese. The American embargo on sales
of scrap iron and war material to Japan happened in December 1940.
All this time the United States and Allies were
supplying and giving support to the Japanese resistance, the Chungking regime,
led by Gen. Chang Kai Shek. America and Britain had to much at stake in China
and the Southwest Pacific, to do otherwise.
Tension mounted; something had to happen.
It did. In mid-summer of 1941, Japan moved into Indo-China, this was quickly
followed by the United States, Britain and the Dutch East Indies imposing embargoes on the sale of oil and steel to Japan.
By October, the Japanese navy was consuming
four hundred tons of oil per hour, and oil became their main bargaining chip
for peace. But it was not oil that relieved the tension, it was blood and a lot
of it. On December 7 the Japanese attacked our pacific fleet at Pearl Harbor,
and the rumors of a big was had become a reality.
On December 7, 1941, the Japanese Empire
declared war on the United States of America and Britain.
* * *
“We hereby declare war on the United States
of America and the British Empire. It has been truly unavoidable.
More than four years have passed since
China, failing to understand the true intentions of our empire, disturbed the
peace of Asia.
Although there has been re-established the
National Government of China with which Japan has effected neighborly
intercourse and cooperation, the regime which has survived at Chungking,
relying upon American and British protection, still continues its fratricidal
opposition.
Eager for the realization of their
inordinate ambition to dominate the Orient, both America and Britain, giving
support to the Chungking Regime, have aggravated the disturbances of East Asia.
Moreover these two powers, inducing other
countries to follow suit, have increased military preparation on all sides of
our empire to challenge us.
They have obstructed by every means our
peaceful commerce and finally have resorted to a direct severance of economic
relations thereby gravely menacing the existence of our empire.
This trend of affairs would, if left
unchecked, endanger the very existence of our nation.
This situation being such as it is, our
empire, for its existence and self-defense, has no other recourse but to appeal
to arms and to crush every obstacle on its path.
USS Arizona at Pearl Harbor From Wikipedia |
Early War in the Pacific
For almost a year they blitzed the Pacific
Islands. Gen. Hideki Tojo, had just replaced Konoye as Prime Minister of Japan,
on Oct. 17, and his name was fast becoming a household name, a distasteful one.
The island of Guam fell by the third day,
Dec. 10 followed by Wake Island Dec. 23. The Philippines fell with the surrender
of Corregidor May 6, 1942. Japans main goal was the oil fields of the Dutch
East Indies, south of the Philippine Islands, they were moving fast in the
direction of this area of great wealth, in tin, rubber and oil.
It was on June 4, six months after
attacking our fleet that they met their Waterloo at Midway Island. What looked
like another sure victory for Japan at first, ended in shameful defeat, when
our much smaller fleet turned back the Imperial Navy, after inflicting very
heavy losses. This defeat so hurt the pride of the Japanese government, that I
with-held details from its own people. But there was more of this to come. The
sleeping giant had awoke and started stretching and growling.
Guadalcanal, Tulagi and Florida in the
Solomons were our first invasion. This grueling but victories campaign lasting
from Aug. 7, 1942, until Feb. 9, 1943, left 25,000 Japanese dead, while
American dead were 1,490.
These victories were followed by a
retaliatory air attack by the Japanese that was to have dire consequences.
Relying on unconfirmed and erroneous reports of a successful attack, led
Yamamoto on his morale boosting tour that was to cost him his life.
A message of this coming tour was monitored
by a US Navy station, which made possible a successful ambush. Yamamoto took
off from Rabaul, just east of New Guinea and was greeted at Bougainville by
American twin-tailed Lightning P-38’s.
Adm. Isoroku Yomamoto the planner and
executioner of the infamous attack on Pearl Harbor died at his own game April 18,
1943.
1944 saw the invasion and fall of Saipan,
Tinian and Guam. Tojo resigned. Our troops landed at Tacloban Leyte, and some
of our ships that were sunk at Pearl Harbor, had been raised and were seen
fighting the biggest naval battle in history, in the gulf of Leyte. Our B-29’s
were now bombing the Japanese mainland.
At the same time that American forces
invaded the Philippines, the Japanese were organizing the Special Attack Corps.
Under the command of Vice Adm. Takihiro
Ohnisha, this new approach to a Japanese victory would not go unnoticed. It
soon became the main topic of conversation. Japanese pilots were diving their
planes into our ships.
Kamikaze Pilot From Wikipedia |
In both cases, as if by the hand of god a
violent wind arose and devastated the invading armada. These events became a
legend that led to a reliance, something to hope for in the hour of need.
In this modern war, with one island after
another being lost to American forces moving every closer to their homeland,
Japan was in need of a Divine Wind of a magnitude not likely to exist in
nature.
At nearly 50 Japanese airstrips on the
Philippine Islands, this new approach to save the homeland was explained to the
pilots. The response was tremendous; young and old, every pilot was ready to
die for the Emperor. These men that dove their bomb laden planes into our ships
were the force behind this wind.
The pilots looked only ahead, at the target
and their on the way, they perished. To the people of Japan it appeared that
once again their land would be spared by the Kamikaze, the Divine Wind.
The highest honors were bestowed upon these
men. They dressed in recognizable garb, and walked the streets to receive the
blessing and homage of the people. They were celebrated, immortalized and
attended their own funeral ceremonies
Letter Home Mar 13, 1945 |
It was early in the night, March 11, 1945,
when our troop transport the USS Eberle, dropped anchor in the Gulf of Leyte.
After thirty-one days at sea, we were ready for land, and Leyte Island would be
as good as any. It was here at Tacloban that General Douglas MacArthur waded
ashore on October 20, 1944 to retake the Philippines. It was here that he said,
“I have returned.”
USS Eberle From Wikipedia |
It was exciting to hear and feel the sand
scraping the bottom of the barge as it came to a smooth stop. There was just
enough star light so we could see the beach, groups of men, and the outline of
trees along the shore. After we got our group back together, we were marched to
an encampment not far from the beach. Stumbling around in the darkness-like the
rest of the men-I found my way inside one of the tents. There were not enough
cots, and some of us had to sleep on the ground. Stretched out on my blanket, I
went to sleep wandering what this strange place would look like in the morning.
The unique thing about sleep is that we do
not know where we are at, how we got there, or what shrewd awakening awaits us.
Till now it was a whistle, the bugle, or someone yelling, “Up and at it – rise and
shine.” Our first awakening here at Tacloban was none of these. It was as different
as everything else would be from then on.
There was a terrible noise not far from out
tent; everybody jumped up expecting an enemy attack of the worst kind. But it was more like waking
up in the Sunday Funnies. There, by dawns early light was this big fat army
cook with a skillet in his hand, raised high in the sky, dressed only in shorts
and chasing a bantam rooster around the kitchen tent. I shook the sleep out of
my head, and realized I was not dreaming. The rooster was shrieking and running
for all it was worth. The cook, cursing and swearing, was knocking down empty
garbage cans, as they went around the tent, with tail feathers flying as he let
him have it with the skillet.
Our heroic men that defended Bataan and
Corregidor Islands, and survived the death march, had been suffering in prison
camps since Bataan fell in April, 1942, an American heartbreak that could not
heal until these men were liberated.
Sitting on the ground, bewildered,
confused, and somewhat amused, my first thought was, “holy cos, that’s how they
fight the war in the pacific and I didn't bring a skillet!” It seems that this rooster had been crowing just outside the cook’s tent the last few mornings and
the cook’s cup had finally runnith over.
It was a beautiful tropical sunrise. Out at
sea we were Promised Land on the other side of the ocean, and now we got our
first look at the – Promised Land. Some were not at all happy; I found it
fascinating. The tropical vegetation, reminded one of creation day, and it was
obvious that when god created this island, he forgot where he put it; and only
the army would ever find it. After breakfast that morning, we assembled for a
lecture. The commanding officer broke the silence by saying, “men-and I call
you men because I think you are men-you are now overseas.” With that I heard a
discontented GI behind me saying, “yes we know, where else would you get
dehydrated eggs for breakfast.”
It was nearly five months since the first
troops landed at Tacloban; it now served as home for the 5th
replacement depot and a supply dump to satisfy the appetite of a hungry war.
There was a lot of work to do; like moving
stacks of supplies from one place to another, and back to where it was. There
was enough kitchen, guard, and latrine duty to give everybody something exciting
to write home about.
Map From Manuscript |
One of the better things we had going here
at Tacloban, was the bath or shower house. About six or seven feet high, this
flat top structure had a number of oil drums filled. Solar energy was used to
warm the water. All day and half the night, men would be using the shower to
clean up after work, or just to freshen up.
One morning after doing my bit for the war
effort, filling those water drums, I sat on the ground on the shadow side to
rest; here I was to be entertained by a most unusual performance.
The stage was a mountain range not far
away, the actors – two of our war planes, a bomber and a small fighter plane, the
ticket price – one human life. In a most playful manner, the small fighter
plane was attacking the huge bomber. From high in the sky, with its engine
roaring, the plane made one practice dive after another. Like in actual combat,
the pilot skillfully dove in, first from one side and then from the other,
every faster, ever closer.
Although I was highly entertained, I
swallowed hard and help my breath, as he swept uncomfortably close over the
bomber. “That next run had better not be any closer,” I told myself, as once
more he pointed the nose of his small craft toward the heavens. It zoomed high
into the sky, leveled off, and then made its dramatic descent. Like a hawk
coming down on its prey, with the engine roaring, it made the approach from the
front right side. Faster and closer than ever, now flying a head-on collision
course, the pilot tried to pull out and away from the bomber, but human error
had already laid a firm hand on the controls.
The pilot needed some extra seconds of
time, to pull away. I clinched my fists, I felt like I was in the plane helping
him pull the rope, but to no avail. With the plane flying on its left side, its
right wing pointing up, as if drawn in by a powerful vacuum – it hit.
The wing of the fighter plane was severed
from the fuselage. The small plane went into a power dive, running wild and
gaining speed, its engine screaming as if it could feel the pain. It
disappeared from sight over the mountainous horizon, it’s frightening roar was
abruptly silenced, as it crashed. The wing, like a feather, descended lazily
out of the blue sky and also disappeared off stage, to the fading hum of the
bombers powerful engines.
Our stay at Tacloban was brief, only two or
three weeks. Our next stop was the 4th replacement depot at Manila,
on the island of Luzon.
News from Home
It was here, while we were digging holes
for some new toilets, that we got the sad news of President Roosevelt’s death.
One of our men had gathered our canteens and went back to the kitchen for some
fresh water. On his returning, at some distance, I could hear him repeating in
his Mexican sing-song style, “Roosevelt kick the buckeeet, Roosevelt kick the
buckeeet.” From down in the hole I looked up as he, handed me the canteen, and
asked, “Just what the hell do you mean, Roosevelt kick the buckeeet?” He looked
at me for a moment, and then slowly went on to return the rest of the canteens,
still repeating his, “Roosevelt kick the buckeeet.”
Now in those days we did not have
presidents, we just had Roosevelt, that was all we ever heard. He first took
office on March 4, 1933; I was only seven years old. Then, for 12 years
Roosevelt was a house hold name, we heard it from those that liked him, and
heard it for sure from those that didn't.
He took when the depression was at its
worst. Investors were jumping out of tall buildings, there were foreclosures by
banks; and then the banks were closing. It was said that the merchants didn't have enough money to change a dollar bill, but there was no need for worry;
there wasn't a dollar bill in the county.
By the mid-thirty’s, the drought in Kansas
was so bad the sun could no longer shine through the clouds of dust, yet
somehow Roosevelt with his fireside chats always seemed to shine through. He
also went on the biggest money spending spree of the time. For this he was
criticized to no end, even by some with their hands in the pockets of new
trousers that they bought with their allotment money. You could always tell
when the allotment checks arrived; you could see and smell the new blue denim
in our little one room school house.
The 4th replacement depot at
Manila, like any other such depot, was a lonely place; lonely in what you were
unattached unassigned, a nobody living with a lot of other nobody’s, doing
whatever odd jobs you might be called upon.
It was quite certain that from here we
would be assigned to a division; the question was which one. There was talk
about the different outfits and where they were at. The hardest fighting was to
the north and they would be the most likely to need replacements. This was
anything but a pleasant thought.
On April 20, my name among others was
called and we were told to get ready, that we would be leaving the depot. There
was no mention of where we were going, but once we got out on the road it wasn't long before we could see the trucks were heading north.
Had it not been for the thought of war,
this would have been a most enjoyable trip, even on the back of a truck. It was
a panorama of quaint little villages, grass houses and caribou, or water buffalo
slowly drawing their carts in the hot sun. There were small women carrying big
baskets of laundry on their heads, while other sat in the rivers pounding their
laundry on rocks with wooden paddles, as little boys washed down the family
caribou, nearby in the same water. Everything was so different, but
interesting.
Our journey ended about 120 miles north of
Santa Maria. It was a nice location that had for some time been cleared of all
enemy activity. There were only a few tents in the area, mostly administrative
and supply tents, the rest of the men were out on the front line.
32nd Infantry Division From Wikipedia |
We were met by a First Sergeant, he told us
where we were at and that we had been assigned to Company ‘A’ of the 128th
Infantry. This was the 32nd Division, the Red Arrow, one of General
Krueger’s 6th Army Division, commanded by Major General William H.
Gill from the state of Virginia.
After a few minutes of stretching our legs
and finding our friends again, we were put to work. The Sergeant told us to
setup more tents and sleeping cots. He said, “The men are coming in from the
front line this evening, so let’s have everything ready when they get here. They've been up there in the hills for some time and they are going to be
tired, very tired.”
War takes on a different aspect after
traveling thousands of miles with only a few more to go, and your only minutes
from meeting the men coming back from the trenches. Anxiety increased as the
minutes passed by. It was getting closer to sundown; and most of the tent and assembly
area was already enjoying the late afternoon shadow of the trees along the
river bank.
‘A’ Company had been replaced by a
reconstructed one. The cycle went on and on, when a company got to burned-out
to carry on effectively, it was pulled back and rebuilt with fresh
replacements, but only to go back up front and fight again; to replace another.
A number of muddy trucks finally came down
the road, turned at the headquarters tent and slowly rolled into the assembly
area. We moved up closer to the trucks as the men slowly dismounted. For some
time they had been living in mud holes, going hungry, suffering while fighting
a war and they looked like it. They were dirty, bearded, and so tired they
slumped to the ground only a few feet from the trucks.
There were not very many, maybe two dozen.
Most of them just sat there with their heads down, looking at the ground. Some
stretched out flat on their back using their helmet for a pillow and gazed at
the sky as if looking for an answer. They looked like they had locked horns
with the devil and won, by a narrow margin.
Like curious fawns we inched closer to hear
what they might be talking. One of them looked slowly to the right, then to the
left and asked; “where is private ----?” We didn't get the name, another man,
with his head still down, mumble, “he got killed just before we left the line.”
With that we moved back a few steps.
After a few more chilly remarks like that I began to wonder if I even
wanted to be a part of this outfit.
These men were expecting replacements but
were not at all happy with what they were getting. I heard one of them say as
he turned around and looked at us; “What’s happening, are we losing the war?”
Another one answered; “Looks like it, they are sending the kids.” The kids had
enough of this and slowly went back to their tents, stretched out on their cots
and minded their own business.
A good night’s sleep has healed many
wounds, and so it was here; there seemed to be an entirely different atmosphere
the following morning. The men were shaved cleaned and most of all they looked
more rested. They were friendly and very nice to visit with.
There was this one thing however that did
not change a bit overnight; we were still kids. There were a number of nineteen
year old boys here; I had turned nineteen about four months earlier.
We were sitting in our tent when the First
Sergeant came along and called for Private Herrman. I stepped outside wandering
what trouble I already got into on the second day. The Sergeant extended a hand
and said, “I want to congratulate you on being the youngest man I ever had in
‘A’ Company.”
This did not make me stand any taller in my
boots; it just made me a little more scared of what lay ahead. That handshake
and the honor of being the company’s youngest man was blessed with problems
that I was to you to understand at that time, and would have to learn the hard
way.
The smallest unit in the infantry is the
squad, each consisting of seven riflemen, an automatic rifle team of three men,
a squad leader and his assistant. Three of these squads combined to form the
rifle platoon, and a company consists of three such platoons plus a heavy
weapons platoon and a headquarters group.
To be an effective part of such a company
each man is carefully assigned a job for which he was trained. As instructed,
we were assembled in the shade of the trees, waiting for our individual assignment.
We were greeted by Captain Itzen, a slender
battle hardened officer, the commander of ‘A’ Company. He was a naturally likable man and at once gave us that impression. He sat down at his makeshift
table and started rebuilding his battered company.
To those few men who had so far survived
the ordeal went the task of squad leading. Not to argue with anyone, but it
always seemed to me that the squad leader had the most difficult task of all.
He was not only responsible for his own life but also for that of everyone
entrusted to him. His every wrong decision would be a victory for the enemy.
As for the replacements – like an invoice
attached to the merchandise – every man was accompanied by his service record;
these had been neatly stacked on the table. One by one the Captain picked up a
records folder and called the man’s name. He would hastily walk up to the
table, salute, and with the greatest respect present himself to his new
commander, the distinctively different in each case. For the first time we were
individuals and just a bunch of kicked around draftees.
M1 Riffle from Wikipedia |
When my name was called, like the rest of
the men I walked up to the table, saluted the Captain and identified myself.
Once again I was reminded of my age, or lack of it. Like with the rest of the
men he asked if I had a weapons preference, I said, “Yes sir, the M1 rifle.” He
responded with, “It seems that everybody wants to carry the M1 rifle, we need
some machine gunners too.” To that I answered, “Sir, I didn’t do so good on the
machine gun in training.” He looked at my records in front of him and without
hesitation said, “you didn't do so good on the M1 either.” But then went on to
say, “A man functions best with the weapon of his choice, if it’s the M1 you
want, it’s the M1 you get.”
He made it clear that on the front line the
machine guns and the automatic rifles were never left unmanned, that there
would be times when I would have to operate these rapid fire weapons. With that
he assigned me to the First Platoon; pointed at a man to his right and said,
“Meet your squad leader, Sergeant Fannen.” With all the men assigned, he told
us that after a few days of rest and some training; ‘A’ Company would be going
back up in the hills, to rejoin the division on the Villa Verde.”
We were taken more serious now, there were
not so many wisecracks about our age. Perhaps these men realized that boys age
faster when being shot at, that would not be long now. For the next two weeks
there was an air of togetherness among these men that I had never seen before –
or since – and it was as genuine as the blood in their veins.
Each of our tents accommodated about six
men. The first few days I lived with Sergeant Fannen, his second in command,
Sergeant Foo, and three others.
That first evening, something not at all
unusual was to happen that would determine my role in the company’s final days
on the Villa Verde.
With our days’ work done, the men scattered
out to spend their time as they wished. Most of them went to the river for a
swim, others went to see their friends, and some were magnetically drawn to the
dice games.
Fannen and I were alone in the tent writing
letters until it got to dark. With everybody else gone, the Sergeant suggested
that we see the movie that would be starting in a few minutes. Because I always
found enough companionship in my own lower rank, I never intermingled with the
higher ranks; but it was his idea and it seemed like a good one.
We walked slowly to where the movie screen
had already been roped between two trees. It was only a short walk, but somehow
in those few minutes we welded a friendship; a friendship that lead to a
fighting team that was to get its share of the action on the Villa Verde. It
was destined to be short lived and come to a tragic ending.
We were issued our rifles, bayonets, steel
helmets, cartridge belts and all the other equipment that we would need o the
front line. Most of this equipment had been on the line before and like the
men, it looked like it. We spent the next few days cleaning and repairing
things; most of it turned out just fine.
I was not at all happy with my rifle, it
would not always reload, I would not have trusted it on a bear hunt, least of
all in combat. One morning before going out on a training exercise I applied
some shoe duping around its gas operated piston to give it a better compression
seal. While climbing a hill I fired the rifle, the recoil was so powerful, it
not only reloaded, it also sent me rolling half way down the hill. I was the
only one on the hill not laughing, when Fannen yelled, “Did it reload.”
Gen. Yamashita from Wikipedia |
The heavy fighting to the north, in the
Caraballo mountains, was the result of the enemy’s near perfect defense system,
master minded by none other than the dreadful General Yamashita. The same
Yamashita, that defended dreaded Leyte Island against some of these same
American troops; commander of the 1st imperial division, the pride
of Japan.
Lt. Gen. Tomoyuki Yamashita had already made
a name for himself long before he ever go to the Caraballo’s. Because of the
way his troops were dug in along the trail, he acquired the name – ‘Gopher of
Luzon’ along with, ‘Tiger of Malay’ and the ‘Butcher of Bataan.” All of these
were some of the nicer names we had for him.
He made the headlines early in the war when
he marched two divisions, 35,000 men against 80,000 British troops in Malaya.
With only 1,793 men killed and 2,772 wounded, he stormed south through the
miles of jungles in Malaya to knock on the back door of the British fortress –
Singapore.
With its guns pointing to the sea, it was
soon overtaken by ground forces and General Percivals surrendered his troops
Feb. 15, 1942. But it was not without a fight, Yamashita lost another 1,714 men
killed and 3,378 wounded. We too lost something; with the fall of Singapore
went much of our rubber supply; an inconvenience felt by every American.
General Yamashita was a much hated man, but
this proved his ability as a military leader. Where other more famous, but less
effective lines were built with millions of dollars’ worth of concrete and
steel, the Yamashita line in the Caraballo’s was nothing but holes in the
hills, built for a few yen, and yet almost indestructible.
After the successful invasion of Luzon,
General MacArthur was anxious to get to Manila. Not until he marched down
Manila’s parade street, the Escolata, was his promise to the world, “I shell
return,” fulfilled.
General MacArthur from Wikipedia |
General Griswald’s 14th Corps
was to accomplish this by moving south, to Manila, from the landing area in the
Lingayen Gulf. The might of the Japanese army however was to the north in the
Caraballo’s. They would be a real threat to any of our troops moving south.
Although MacArthur was ever so anxious to
move south, General Krueger was more concerned about the dangers to the north.
It was with some difficulty that he finally got MacArthur to see the
possibility of annihilation, from this enemy of unknown capability.
The 32nd division was not in the
initial landing Jan 9, 1945. It did land in the same Lingayen Gulf area, less
than three weeks later, on Jan 27th. It was included in General
Swift’s 1st Corps, which was to swing northeast, while Griswald’s
men mover south to Manila.
So, to General Krueger, and MacArthur the
bloody conflict o the Villa Verde was not without sane cause. An army does not
turn its back to a renowned man, like General Tomoyuki Yamashita.
A military defense line or system has to be
built to fit the terrain. The Japanese built the Yamashita line with man made caves in the Caraballo Mountains. To attack and overpower any defense system a
suitable strategy must be employed. The Yamashita line was severely crippled by
the continuous artillery fire, and aerial bombing. But because of the large
number of Japanese troops, about 150,000, and the many well place caves, yet
another more costly strategy had to be employed. We had to get up close, and by
hand, with explosives, seal up every cave, as in the tow photographs below.
From the Manuscript |
At Santa Marie, on May 3, the day before we
broke camp, Sergeant Fannen and I went shopping among the village vendors. We
were looking for something to send home, something that was very much like the
islands. There was little to choose from until a vendor tried to sell us some
colorful grass skirts. We laughed at the idea and walked on, only to come back
and buy two colorful grass skirts.
The Villa Verde Trail
On the Morning of May the 4th we
loaded our equipment on the waiting trucks, and took on last look at the camp
site that we would never see again and not likely ever forget. Here, everybody had made new
friends, and every man, or kid, had found at least one very close buddy that he
would live with, fight with, and perhaps die within the next few days.
After a short drive we got into the foot
hills of the Caraballo Mountains. These grass covert, rock-less, treeless
hills, looked much to peaceful at this point for anyone that had not yet been
there, to imagine the human suffering and merciless killing that was taking
place only a few more miles up the trail. As we got further into the hills the
nature and the mystery of the Villa Verde slowly began to unfold. The shell
craters, the abandoned fox holes and dugouts that had served their purpose, all
told their ghastly story of war.
The truck drivers started shifting into
lower gears as the mountains became more challenging. With every mile it became
more obvious why this operation was taking so long, now in its ninety-fifth
day. It also became more a question of how these men every got this far.
The Villa Verde Trail was one of life’s one
way streets; nobody came back down the way he went up. He either got his plow
cleaned or pants pressed his steel hardened or laid to rest. It made little
difference which side he fought on.
Why anybody would want to pay so dearly –
us or the Japanese – for something as worthless as the Villa Verde was a
question on everyone’s mind. It seemed to have no military value, so narrow it
would not even accommodate a jeep, least of all a tank or truck. It was only a
foot path, and not a very good one at that.
But, because it would not accommodate motor
trucks or tanks, may have been General Yamashita’s best reason to fortify the
Villa Verde to such a great extent. After all, he had no tanks or trucks to
speak of and why make it handy for us. To Yamashita it was a matter of – I have
it, if you want it, come and get it.
That we would even attempt to build a road
through these steep mountains to his fortress in the sky was unthinkable. But,
right there with the infantry, our engineers were doing just that; unrolling a
road before his very eyes, right up to his door steps.
From Manuscript Map of Villa Verde Trail |
We came to a place where the trail had been
widened enough to allow the trucks to pass each other. Our trucks pulled up
close to the wall and came to a stop. From here we could only see a few hundred
feet of the winding trail; we had no idea what we were waiting for.
The road here was treacherous. The muddy
black dirt had been worked over good by the traffic and had little or no
footing. It was as hard or harder to bring a truck down the steep incline as it
was going up. At this point there was about a four hundred foot drop on the
outside of the trail, and because of this there was only one way to bring a
truck down the Villa Verde – very, very, carefully.
Coming around the hillside just that
carefully and slowly, we saw what we had been waiting for – THE PARADE OF HEROES. It was a string of trucks bringing our dead soldiers out of the hills.
Truck after truck, with body’s lashed to
stretchers; not just in the back, but also on the front fenders. It was a sight
few of us were prepared for. The Red
Arrow was as concerned about its dead as it was about the wounded. Wrapped in a
blanket and laid out on a stretcher, each man was respectfully transported as
if he was the only one that ever died for this country, although, by the power
of the army’s code of uniformity, they all looked alike.
It was a somber procession that passed by.
Accompanied only by the whining and grunting of truck gears as the drivers
struggled to control the attitude of their machines. The reality of the event
would leave an indelible impression on the minds of its observers.
Here in reality was that proverbial – some
mother’s son, some women’s husband, some little child’s daddy or big brother.
Just as real, these were the men that we had come to replace. Death, the end
product of every battle of all wars, for these men the Villa Verde Trail, was
the end of the trail.
Since nobody cared to join the parade,
nobody looked back as the last load passed by. The men sat in reverence, each
entertaining his own thoughts and perhaps igniting the fire on the torch of
vengeance. If someone had asked which way we chose to go, I believe everyone
would have cleared his throat and hesitantly said, up.
The trucks took us to within a few hundred
yards of the front line. Shielded by a mountain, we walked up the trail to a
small supply dump in a ravine. By now we were up in the clouds, the weather was
a miserable drizzle and light fog. We were already wet and so cold no one could
tell if you were shivering from the cold, or fear.
We slung extra bandoleers of ammunition
over our shoulders, and took all the hand grenades and cans of food rations we
could carry in our over-sized pockets. We were told that here is where the
training ends and the real thing starts. No convincing demonstration was needed,
as the smell of burned gun powder and the stench of death, hung heavy in the
cold wet air.
The Captain gave us our final orders. One
of them was that we were to blow up every cave regardless how harmless it might
look; that we could not afford to leave anything alive, behind our backs, lest
we be attacked from behind. He spoke as if he was speaking his last words.
There seemed to be not even a grain of doubt in his mind, that some of us would
get hurt, and that some would get killed. There were no smiles; if there ever
was down to earth business, this was it.
Our platoon officer, Lt. Claude W. McBride,
then instructed his squad leaders who in turn put their men in combat
positions. Sergeant Fanned gave our first and second scouts their instructions;
a few riflemen were to follow them. The Automatic Rifle team along with some
more riflemen got their instructions. All this time I stood next to the
Sergeant wandering were I would fit in. He went on down the line to the last
man, Sergeant Foo, our second in command, he was to bring up the rear, and I
still had not been looked at and was getting very restless about this thing.
His final words were, “OK men let’s move out, Herrman you stay with me,” with
that we started fighting as a team.
Joining the Battle
We scarcely got out into open on a small
ridge, when we heard mortar shells falling from the sky. We got down close to
mother earth as the shells exploded around us. If these ere from the imperial
welcoming committee the greetings were well received on our end. Fragments flew
over our heads and it rained mud with every explosion. Nobody got hurt, but we
had the baptism by fire and our first genuine scare.
The war had just passed through these
hills. The enemy was slowly being pushed back and their casualty rate was high
to say the least. Because, they could not get to their dead, they were left to
lie where they fell. I could see that there was nothing inferior about these
troops. Even stretched out on the ground, dead as a wooden anvil, they seemed
to demand some soldierly respect, as we walked by.
Most of the enemy were blown up and buried
in the caves from which they battled, the rest were left to rot on the
hillsides and in the gullies. The smell of decaying, maggot infested human
flesh was sickening and the sights were horrible; but all this was only the
aftermath of a violent battle.
We stopped for a brief rest on top of a
small knoll. The Japanese wore split-toe rubberized boots; one of these served
as a dry seat, even if not so comfortable. When we got back on our feet to move
on, closer investigation I found that a dead jap was still wearing the boot, an
explosion had buried the rest of the body. These were some of the little things
that we would have to get used to. By now the sky had cleared somewhat and the
warmth of the sun was most welcome. At least it relieved some of the unusual
chill.
We stopped at the foot of a hill where we
were told to remove our field packs to lighten the load. Some of the men moved
up to near the top of the hill as we started to swing around its left side. The
shooting would start any minute.
Inside their man-made caves the japs were
waiting for us. Across the ravine, a hill similarly fortified, would be our
biggest menace. It also, was under attack by ‘A’ company men. Who in turn would
be getting fire from the enemy in our hill. As we swung around the hill, a few
small shells exploded in the area and then the sniping started.
It was only a few minutes and only a few
shots had been fired, but one of our men got hit. He was two or three yards
behind me, and had a severe leg wound. He was bleeding badly. Two other men
quickly got him back down the hill to safety. In their haste they left his
rifle where he fell. The Sergeant said, “Herrman there’s your chance, you’re
not happy with yours.” To make it useless to the enemy – should it get into
their hands – I removed and discarded the bolt from my rifle, never having
fired my own rifle on the line, I swapped it for the abandoned one, which
proved to be a very reliable weapon.
Although the enemy could see us, we could
not see them. The cave openings were very small; there was no tattletale dirt
to reveal these excavations. Some of them were not discovered until we got to
within a few yards of their entrance. Hard as they were to find, finding them
was the easy part. In spite of all our modern weapons, there was still only one
way to get your man on the Villa Verde. We had to crawl up to their caves with
explosives and literally shove it down their throats. This was about as
difficult and costly as one would imagine.
Soldiers from 3d Battalion, 126th Infantry are descending a hill as they head toward Santa Fe, Luzon, Philippines Islands, or 1 June 1945. This picture came from the 32nd Red Arrow Veteran Association |
Two riflemen, one
on each side would advance on a cave. One would pump bullets into the entrance,
while the other would reload and move up closer. At some caves we stuck our
rifles into the entrance and fired away. In all cases a hand grenade was pitched
in to stun the enemy, so that the more awkward pole-charge was a homemade
weapon, consisting of an explosive tied to the end of a long stick.
No, it was not
that simple, these caves were built for one purpose – defense. Yamashita had
built his defenses well. Every hill was a guardian to its neighboring hill. We
not only had to fear the fire from the hill under attack, but also that from
the one across the ravine. This sniper fire was frightfully accurate. At times
it seemed like every time a rifle cracked, one of our men fell. I could not
believe it; it was like waiting in line to get killed.
One of my jobs was
to fill-in where a man got killed or wounded, until another man could be
assigned to that position. Sergeant Fannen and I soon understood each other
quite well; when a man got hit, I looked at Fannen, if he nodded; I moved in
and took that man’s place.
It was a common
saying that you learn more the first day in combat, then in all your training
put together. In training, the machine guns fired high over our heads and the objective
for the day always was – not to hurt anybody. But with the first day in combat
we could see that blood and death was the name of the game; the day was lost
without it. This we had to learn in the classrooms of the Villa Verde. The
enemy was our instructor, and mistakes were punishable by death.
The caves in this
hill were many and close together. We worked our way up to three of them only a
few feet apart. When we got to the second one we heard an explosion inside the
cave; it seems that the enemy chose to destroy themselves. This was not new,
but unfortunately it was not common enough. We moved on to the next one; with
only a few more feet to go, the man advancing with me got hit. Working fast, a
man nearby moved in and threw a grenade; my rifle was down to its last round.
Like in all other
walks of life, some of the boys become very skillful at some of the many arts
of the small cave opening at any distance; to miss would be a live grenade
rolling down the hill and no place to run. Some of the men were so good at this
– with right or left hand – they never missed. These men were called on for the
more difficult jobs, and they were a great loss when they got hit. The job I
found myself doing most often was crawling up to the caves and holding the
enemy down with rifle fire until the grenade was thrown.
The hill in places
was so steep you had to be a mountain climber just to hang on. At one cave the
japs pulled the fuse on three of our pole-charges, rendering them inactive. A
small charge with a very short fuse was finally used; this set off the other
three charges and shook the hill like a small earthquake. This also shook some
of us loose, sending us rolling and sliding down the hillside.
I found a Japanese
sword in my path and drew its polished blade half way from the scabbard. I
could see it had value; it was worth some money back in Manila. Some of these
swords were very old and had a colorful history. The value of a sword is
determined mostly by the quality of the blade, a good blade is of incredible
value.
How the sword got
there is an interesting question. I doubt very much that the owner dumped it as
excess baggage. The sword was to the Japanese what the Colt 45 was to the
American Cowboy, and more.
Only a few minutes
after I picked up the sword, I could see that this thing was a real nuisance to
me. Regardless how I tried to carry it, it was always getting in my way. In
Manila they were paying about three hundred dollars for a good sword. We were a
long way from Manila, and where we were at, money had no value. For whatever it
was worth, to the owner or anybody else, to me it was excess baggage, and I
left it only a few yards from where I found it.
One of the caves
was so well located the riflemen could not to it. The Bazooka Team was called
on to work on it, but the fragments from the rockets were too dangerous at such
close range.
I saw blood
running down Fannen’s left check. I crawled up to him so I could take a look at
the cut below his eye. It was not serious. He wiped it with his dirty shirt
sleeve and let it go at that.
The flame-thrower
was then brought into the show, and the enemy was burned to death with its
dragon-like tongue of flaming oil.
We were slowly
inching our way along the hillside from one cave to the next, when I happened
to recognize someone on the slopes of the neighboring hill across the ravine.
Back at Santa Maria I made friends with this man from one of the other
platoons, and we were seeing a lot of each other. He had been on the line
before and told me things they did not teach in training. He was a very likable young man that could have found much better things to do then fight a grisly war.
Because of a small
incident that took place at Santa Maria, I had a personal reason to value his
life. Late one afternoon while splashing in the clear water of the Agno River,
I waded downstream into the deeper water under the bridge. With the water up to
my neck I turned around to walk back but found I could not move my legs against
the strong undercurrent. I dug my toes into the sand and called for help. This
young man was a good swimmer, he also knew the depth and danger of this water,
and he wasted no time getting to me. I could swim just enough so that with a
little help we were soon back in shallower water.
Now, while I was
watching him fight his way up the hillside, yet another though came to my mind.
He was always telling me how scared he was to go back up on the Villa Verde;
and the night before we left Santa Maria he came up to my tent and again told
me how scared he was. “I just had to come over and talk to you, I bet I’ll be
the most scared man on the line,” he said.
Shaking in my
boots, I reassured him the best I could. Watching him now, I wandered if there
was much difference between the river of water and the river of fear; if he was
the most scared man on the Villa Verde he would not show it, nor let it hold
him back. I have no knowledge of where the authorities on human behavior would
draw the line between fear and valor under such conditions. But, with my next
glance across the ravine, I saw him as far out front, as the front was at that
moment; in fact, the front line was marked by my dear friend’s dead body.
Late that
afternoon we reach another difficult cave; near the top and forward end of the
hill. Two of our boys that had been working together as buddies, were nearest
to the cave. Pumping bullets into its entrance, they tried to work their way up
to this enemy snipers nest. They had moved up only a few yards, when one of
them came rolling back down; he lay dead in front of me.
His buddy made a
daring advance on the cave. We tried hard to call him back, but nothing could
stop him now, he had but one thought – to avenge his buddy’s death.
I was directly
below and in the best position to give cover fire; but my fire – angle too, was
very bad. With help from some men on my right, we managed to keep the Japs in
the cave from taking a shot. As he moved up the hill he also moved more into my
line of fire.
I was shooting
only inches over his right shoulder. He was about six feet from the cave
entrance, when he tried to pull the safety pin from a hand grenade. In so doing
he raised his body a few more inches; completely blocking my line of fire. The
enemy would not pass-up their last chance to live, quick but lucky shot put a
bullet through his jugular vein. Blood gushing from his throat enriched the
soil around him, as he came twirling back down the hill. Face down, he came to
rest and died, appropriately, alongside his buddy.
End of Day One
End of Day One
The officers
commanding his attack had apparently been depending heavily on the success of
this final episode. Immediately following it failure; came the order to
withdraw. I started back, dragging one of the boys by his ammunition belt. What
started as an orderly withdrawal, soon turned into a run-for-your-life ordeal.
When I saw that I was not keeping up with the rest of the men, I turned loose
of the boy’s body and ran back to safety; in a storm of bullets, some only a
few inches from my ears.
When I asked
Fannen why we pulled back after we got so near to the top of the hill, he said,
“you don’t take ground you can’t hold through the night.” The company had lost
a lot of men that day, and we would have lost a lot more. It was feared, there
would not be enough men left to fight the enemy counter attack that was sure to
come that night.
After we got
reorganized we moved back up on the hill; this time not so far forward. Fannen
sent me to the other side of the hill to bring back some of our field packs, so
we could start digging-in.
After recovering
his and my own pack I started back up the hill. I took a short cut near the
front of the hill where some very hard fighting had taken place and was still
in progress. Near the top, I came to a place where a number of our dead men
were lying so close together, that the blood from their bodies flowed together
and formed a ribbon of crimson, about four fingers wide down the western slope
of the hillside. It was an awesome painting of the day’s events, illuminated by
the rays of the late afternoon sun.
With much
hesitation I crawled through the stream and on up the hill. One of our men came
running from where the fighting was still going on. He was carrying some of his
intestine in his cupped hands. I asked if ye needed any help, and as he passed
me he said, “no thanks, I’m all right”.
Although we gained
some ground, we paid for it with human lives. Our company had lost a lot of
men. That night, just before dark, Sergeant Fannen was called back to the
company command post. Covering each other, we worked our way back. Other squad
leaders were also there, for this same reason, to identify their dead. Our
friends were being wrapped in army blankets. A yellow identification tag was
tied over the blankets around their necks. They would be tomorrows – Parade of Heroes.
“Fannen – CP!” That familiar call meant
that the Sergeant and I would once again report back to our platoon CP (command
post). This was always a dangerous move, there was little time to be careful,
and our movement was easily detected by the enemy I gave him cover fire while
he moved back a few yards, from where he could then cover my movement. This was
one of my jobs in the squad; this was what the sergeant meant when he said,
“Herrman you stay with me.”
We were back at the command post at the
foot of the hill, listening to the Lieutenant, when an interrupting voice came
in on the sound power telephone. “Able CP, calling Able One – Able CP, calling
Able One” First Platoon. Some of B Company’s men on our left were in trouble,
low on ammunition.
Why the call came down to our unit I don’t
know; we were probably in the best position to help. What concerned me most was
that there was no argument between the Sergeant and the Lieutenant as to who
would carry the ammunition over to these men; they were hanging bandoleers on ammo around my neck from both sides.
Another man was called to carry machine gun
ammunition; shielded by the mountain, we started carrying our heavy load along
the muddy trail. We soon reached a point where I had to get off the trail and
start climbing to get to B Company’s riflemen I was walking back and forth,
looking for a place to leave the trail; a tall soldier dressed in clean cloths,
and standing alone on the trail, was watching me. I was too preoccupied to give
him my attention.
The wall of the trail was steep, and too
high to climb. A ravine intersecting the trail was the only exit, and it was
eight or nine feet high. After climbing the wall halfway a number of times, and
sliding back down, I could see that my efforts were in vain. I could not see
them, but from not far up I could hear the riflemen, ammo!, ammo! They were
calling, and the cracking of rifle fire was getting less and less.
Looking
around in frustration, I saw this clean soldier walk up to me; “Here let me
give you a hand,” he said. I leaned my rifle against the wall and raised my
right foot; he grabbed it and raised me high enough so I could get a hold on
some tree roots and pull myself the rest of the way up. Down on my belly, I
turned around and reached for my rifle, which he was handing me.
As I grabbed my rifle and looked him in the
eyes I said, “Thanks Joe.” It was then that I noticed the polished eagles on
his shoulders; it was the colonel, our regimental commander. I found myself
speechless and froze to the ground. If it is true expressions speak louder than
words, my apology must have been deafening. Not another word was spoken; he
just waved at me with an expression of approval and walked away.
I walked about fifteen yards between two
hills: here, the ravine turned sharply to the right. I got down on my hands and
knees, and crawled ahead just far enough to get a good view of everything to my
right. This was the battlefield; from here I could see the riflemen fighting
their way up a small hill halfway encircled by a much larger ridge, starting
from my position.
I could see all I cared to see; the high
ground where the enemy’s fire was coming from, the dead soldiers on the
hillside and in the ravine. All this told me one thing – getting the ammunition
to the riflemen would not be easy. All I could hear was the call for ammo, the
men could see me now; they were waving me on. Crawling out into the open and so
concerned about the conditions on my right side I failed to notice the dangers
to the left.
I had crawled only a few yards in the mud,
when someone screamed into my left ear. I spun around and saw a hand reach from
a fox-hole to knock another hand away from the trigger of one of our machine
guns. I was shocked to find myself staring down the barrel of this machine of
instant death, only about three feet from my nose. The thirty-caliber bore in
that barrel looked so big, deep, and dark, it was terrifying. I was momentarily
senseless, and couldn't move.
The two men behind this gun had been swapping
fire with a Japanese machine gunner dug-in up on the high ground. Their gun was
adjusted to the target; all they had to do was reach up and pull the trigger to
return his fire. The gunner was doing just that when his assistant saw me
moving into their line of fire; he screamed and knocked this hand away from the
gun, and not a second to soon.
As I moved away from our gun, the Japanese
gunner took full advantage of the situation and mauled the ground around me
with bullets. I was temporarily blinded by a splash of mud, as the mud in front
of my eyes performed the bullet dance. Our gun that almost laid me apart was my
only salvation now, it returned the fire and somewhat restored order.
There are many different things that impel
a man to keep moving forward in combat; in this case it was the men still
calling, ammo!, ammo! They reminded me of what I had set out to do in the first
place. Like a snake in the weeds, I worked my way along the ravine; the two
machine guns swapping fire over my back. The lowest ground was a shallow,
natural ditch, along the base of the steep hill formation. At first it offered
some protection, but that was getting less as I moved forward.
What had started out bad was worsening. The
Jap was shooting from a small rat-hole in the hillside; I would not see him,
but he could see me. He could see I was carrying ammunition right under his
nose; he did not like that, and tried hard to stop me. I already crawled over
several dead soldiers, when I reached two more – one on top of the other. Every
time I tried to crawl around or over them, the Jap responded with a burst of
bullets. If like a cat, a man had nine lives, I had spent eight, and he had me
right where he wanted me.
As much as I dreaded the thought,
eventually I would have to get on my feet and make a fast move across the open
ravine to the hill on the left. I had hoped to stay on the ground for at least
another ten yards, but he was calling the shots, and the word was, no!, not
another foot. I burst of bullets dug into the ground a few inches from my right
elbow, and with that help, I made up my mind.
To me, it was no longer so much a matter of
getting there, but to get as close as possible, so the men could recover the
ammunition if I got hit. I made a quick study of just what I would do and how I
would do it; once I got up, there would be no time to think and no change in
plans. I fixed my eyes on the nearest rifleman, got up, and started running.
When I regained my senses, I was back and
standing atop the wall where the Colonel handed
me my rifle. I had the rifle stock resting on the toes of my right foot, and both hands resting on its muzzle. My first thought was of the ammunition, it was gone. At first I could not recall what happened after I got up and started running. But then, there was a vague picture of someone reaching for the ammunition. I noticed a considerable increase in rifle – fire. But most of all there was no more calling for, ammo. With the satisfying feeling that I had done my job, I looked down on the trail a few feet below me and reprimanded myself with, “Now look kid, you just don’t say – thanks Joe, to the Colonel.”
me my rifle. I had the rifle stock resting on the toes of my right foot, and both hands resting on its muzzle. My first thought was of the ammunition, it was gone. At first I could not recall what happened after I got up and started running. But then, there was a vague picture of someone reaching for the ammunition. I noticed a considerable increase in rifle – fire. But most of all there was no more calling for, ammo. With the satisfying feeling that I had done my job, I looked down on the trail a few feet below me and reprimanded myself with, “Now look kid, you just don’t say – thanks Joe, to the Colonel.”
I slid down onto the trail and slowly
stared walking back to my squad. Once again shielded by the mountain, the walk
was just what I needed to regain my composure. Those guys back there had a
fight on their hands, and I was glad I had nothing more to do with it. Again
back on our own hill, I called for cover fire as I crawled the last few yards u
to the small foxhole where Fannen was waiting. As I let my tired bones role
into this mud hole, I could better understand the old saying, “There’s no place
like home.”
Sergeant Fannen greeted me with, “What in
the world took you so long?” I pushed my steel helmet back, looked at him
smilingly and said, “I stopped for a cold beer on my way back.” There was no
more mention of this.
He told me what all took place while I was gone, and what
to expect next. Among other things, he said “I just got word that the Colonel
is up here someplace inspecting the line.” I said, “Yes I know, I just had a
few words with the old man.”
Caught In Cross Fire
Caught In Cross Fire
It was the morning of about May 10, and
things at first started out like any other morning. We were preparing for
another attack on one of the massive ridges along the trail, but when the
Captain gave us our orders there was something distinctly different, although
nobody knew just what. He said that our air observations reported no enemy
activity in this area. “However,” he said, “That doesn't mean they are not
going to be there.”
Instead of working with Fannen, I was told
to stay with Sergeant Foo, who was to bring up the rear of the squad. In a
single column, our squad started moving up. Others on our right and left side
were moving up according to their instructions. The lifeless ridge had been
mercilessly bombarded in preparation for this attack. As the forward men
started moving up the ridge, suspense and tension started mounting. Not a shot
was fired. There was something different; as if the Japs had all left the
island overnight. The quiet and peacefulness that hung over the mountains, was
so unusual, it was nerve wrecking. This was just not the way to fight a war.
This was not the Villa Verde. As the men moved up the ridge they got closer to
the ground, and it took more coaching from the lieutenants and sergeants to
keep them moving.
Our biggest fear was from a neighboring
hill to our right – at least to the men on the right side of the ridge. There
was not a trace of life on this hill. We seldom got to see our enemy, and the
caves were always hard to detect. The difference was, normally they would not
let us go that far; they would try to hold us back from the very start, and
here, some of our men were already on top of the ridge.
And then it happened. It was like the
curtain opening up on a huge outdoor stage. The Japs opened fire with every
machine gun and rifle they had; all at the same time and as fast as they could
fire them. The air was full of snapping bullets and the ground seemed to tremble;
perhaps, form my own fears. One of the men ahead of me tried to dash into a
nearby shell creator, he flung his rifle through the air as his bullet riddled
body crashed to the ground. Other never moved – they just died where they were.
It was like being trampled into the ground by the hoofs of a thousand
stampeding cattle.
From my position I couldn't see how big an area was under fire, but the right side of the ridge was getting
hit in a big way. A few men from our squad had found cover on top of the ridge
before the fire-works started. Sergeant Fannen was with the men up front and
was calling for Sergeant Foo to bring up the rest of the squad. He didn't know
that Foo and I was all that was left of the rest of the squad – and we were in
big trouble. We could no longer follow the original plans; that portion of the
ridge was under very heavy fire. We would have to swing over the ridge to the
left side where we could have some cover.
Sergeant Foo, with his head at my heels,
was giving me instructions. I turned around and looked at him so that I could
better understand his orders, but the I was the full width of his shoulders
open up as a bullet ripped him apart, releasing a flood of blood. In disbelieve
I tapped his steel helmet with my foot and called his name; Sergeant Foo would
not respond. He was dying.
He was on the left side of the ridge, I
could not see him, but I could tell by his voice that Fannen was moving back
into our area. He was still calling for Foo to bring up the rest of the men. I
called out to him, “Foo go hit – he’s dying; don’t come back, we are under
heavy fire. Don’t come back – you’ll get killed.” The two men were close
friends, and had been fighting together for some time. Fannen did not take
unconcernedly the fate of Sergeant Foo. He wanted to get him.
A Jap machine gunner that had been trying
hard to at least hit the ridge was doing little more than shoot the air full of
holes; but like everything else, he too was getting on my nerves. Others were
more demanding. A sniper straight across the ravine, on that fearful hill to
our right, was our biggest problem. He had taken a few close shots at me, and
the pattern of flying mud was the same fire angle as the cut across Foo’s
shoulders. These shots were coming from the same sharpshooter. He was a real
problem.
Crawling backwards like a craw fish, I saw
Fannen coming over the ridge. Again I called out
to him, “Don’t come back here – don’t come back.” With his boots within my arms reach, he raised his head, resting his weight on his left elbow, still trying to get the attention of Sergeant Foo. I laid my rifle hard across his legs, telling him to get down; then, momentarily I saw the ugly mark of death on his forehead as he collapsed. It was all over. Fannen was dead.
to him, “Don’t come back here – don’t come back.” With his boots within my arms reach, he raised his head, resting his weight on his left elbow, still trying to get the attention of Sergeant Foo. I laid my rifle hard across his legs, telling him to get down; then, momentarily I saw the ugly mark of death on his forehead as he collapsed. It was all over. Fannen was dead.
Along with the snapping of bullets and
chatter of machine guns I could hear Lieutenant McBride calling from the left
side of the ridge. He was calling for Sergeant Fannen. “Fannen is dead,” I
called out. “Where is Sergeant Foo?” he asked. I said, “Foo is dying sir,
there’re all dead back here.” The he asked, “Who is this I’m talking to?”
“Private Herrman sir,” I answered. “Herrman take charge of the squad, have the
men dig-in and hang on,” was his command. With that I inherited what little
there was left of a once proud squad. With some difficulty I got the order to
the men up front.
Taking Charge
Taking Charge
The Japs had built tunnels along the
hillside; these were narrow ditches covered with logs and dirt. A shell caved
in one such tunnel. I took cover in this, but with the enemy looking down on us
from higher ground, it offered little protection. I knew about where the
sharpshooter was at; but with all the excitement I never could take enough time
to see just where he was hiding. Now that he had Fannen he seemed even more determined
to get me. A bullet struck the ground only inches from my nose, another snapped
over my neck so close I could feel it. My luck would not hold out forever,
somehow I would have to get out of here. The ditch was mostly filled in. There
was only a very small opening at my feet. I didn't know what to expect inside
this dark hole, but had to take that chance. When I tried to slip backwards
into the tunnel, I found myself entangled in something; I was on top of a dead
Jap partially covered with caved-in dirt, and my cartridge belt was caught on
his belt.
To free my belt, I rose up a little and
stuck my left elbow out – to far, he fired. The bullet struck a log next to my
elbow; for that bullet to hit where it did, it had to pass through the small triangular
space between my bent arm and my back. I got into the tunnel before he could
fire another shot. There was little feeling of security inside this narrow
tunnel; I could not see behind me, and had no idea what to expect. While
worrying about my predicament I suddenly felt someone take hold of my boots.
The blood in my veins turned to ice water. I closed my eyes and hung on to my
rifle while being drawn along the tunnel.
It was only a few yards, and when I opened
my eyes, to my surprise I was sitting in a fox hole on the other side of the
ridge, with Lieutenant McBride. From the other side they could see that the
tunnel was safe and one of the men crawled in to pull me through. I just sat
there dumbfounded, looking at the lieutenant as he talked to me. I knew it could
not be far from the Villa Verde to heaven; but I was expecting a more colorful
reception.
In a few minutes I was on my way back up;
this time on the left side of the ridge. I got into a position where I could
look over the top, and for the first time I carefully observe the area where
the sharpshooter was hiding. It wasn't long before I detected a movement behind
a bush, about where I expected to find what I was looking for. Pointing out the
location to the man alongside me – the lieutenant sent him along up, we waited
until he too saw the movement. Then, together we took careful aim. Together we
fired. Together we missed. But we come so painfully close that we flushed him
out of hiding on the first go-around. Others now opened fire on him as he ran
back to safer ground, in a storm of bullets. We had the louse out of our hair;
but like in all other legends of war, the damage was done. Although it was only
a few minutes, it seemed like a lifetime since the first shot was fired, and
for some indeed it was. It was still early in the day, the battle was a
stand-off; we could not advance, and would not retreat. The sporadic,
monotonous sniping went on all day. A shot here, a shot there; you never know
when you would be a picture in someone’s rifle sights. There was nothing to do
but lie there on the ridge in the hot sun, just watching and waiting.
For the first time I was beginning to feel
the overpowering weight of war. For the first time I became aware of my hunger
pain. We had very little food since we broke camp; I had nothing the last two
days. , but the one thing we needed more than anything else, was sleep. We had
been fighting practically day and night, and some of the men had very little
sleep. Out buddy’s that had by now been take from us, left a vacuum that cannot
be measured by known standards. For the first time I looked up at the sky and
asked, “Why, Why?”
The morning hours never passed, it seemed
would give way only to sleep – the one thing we could not have. When it finally
got dark, it would not get dark enough and we had to wait until near midnight
for the fog to move in. The infantry is forever hampered by nice weather and
bridges, and must wait for the weather to change to sneak in and blow up the
bridges.
When the fog got so dense we could no
longer see the sights on our rifles, things once again started moving.
Lieutenant McBride called me to his command post for my next instructions.
Another man and I were to move along the left slope of the ridge, and then
climb on top near its forward slope: there we were to wait and make contact
with a patrol led by Sergeant Truman, moving up from the right side of the
ridge.
We made our way to the top of the ridge
somewhere near its forward slope. After a few minutes of waiting we heard the
sound of men moving about; this would be the patrol. In a low voice I called
out and identified myself. When the sound got to about twenty five or thirty
feet out; I felt relaxed with the thought that we had made contact. Again, in a
low voice I called out, “Truman can you hear me? We’re right here.” This time
we got a reply – in loud Japanese jabber. I turned to the man with me and said,
“them’s Japs out there.” He was already on his way down the side of the ridge.
I took a few long steps and showed him a good race to the bottom.
We could not see them, but it sounded like
an enemy patrol of about a dozen men; more than the two of us could fight or convert.
We went back and reported this to the Lieutenant. In a few minutes we were on
our way back up, this time with two more men and orders to dig-in. The enemy
patrol had turned back; they must have feared more men than we really had. We
never did make contact with our own patrol. A small shell crater saved some
digging; we shaped it into a dugout.
The night was no improvement over the day
that just past. The tensions were well nourished by the many scary sounds of
the enemy crawling around on the forward slopes of the ridge. Some sounds real,
some imaginary, and all of them enhanced by the occasional explosion of a hand
grenade. I didn't know it that night, but in this dugout I was to spend the
rest of our time on the Yamashita line. In this dugout I was to spend the most
lonely and frightful nights, and trying days of my life. We had moved to a higher
classroom on the Villa Verde.
The men with me in the dugout were from the
other squads; our own squad was dug-in to our right. I took the first watch for
as long as I could stand it, and then woke one of the other men. It was
important that anything heard or seen was passed on to the next watch. I had
been seeing a movement to our left and slightly forward. Though the thick fog
it looked like someone digging-in next to a small tree on a knoll. I pointed
this out to the next watch. He saw and watched. We knew we had no men that far
out; it had to be a Jap. All night long we kept an eye on this mysterious
movement.
I arranged the hours of the guard so that I
would have the early morning watch. It was still pitch dark when I was
awakened. I shook the sleep out of my head and relieved the retiring guard. The
stubborn darkness of the creepy nigh was slow in yielding to the inevitable
dawn. I strained my eyes hard to get a look at the terrain and the next
horizon, which we had not yet seen. My first surprise was that of the
mysterious movement. There was no Jap or tree; in fact, there was no knoll. We
were near the edge and there was only the forward slope of the ridge and the
ravine far below. Because of the embarrassment, there was no mention of this
the next morning, or later. What we really saw the movement of the clouds
through the ravine, and over the ridge. The rest was imagination spurred by
fear.
By the time the first picturesque streamers
of sunshine kissed the mountain sides, I had made a study of the enemy’s
advantage over our own position. To our front left the ravine swung ahead, or
away from us, thus leaving only the forward slope of our ridge to worry about.
But to our front right, across the ravine, was a wide hill that stood in all
its majesty like a fortress on the desert sand. To our far right were the
domineering heights of the hill that erupted with gunfire the day before. If we
ran out of food, shells and endurance, one thing was quite certain – there
would be plenty of entertainment.
Please come back soon as I post letters home and some additional information related to Felix's Manuscript!
Our needless worry about the Jap that did
not exist was small compared to our nest surprise. The Japs were dug-in all
along the forward slope of the ridge, some only a few yards down from us. We
were literally sitting on top of them.
Our morning news did not come by radio or a
newspaper on the porch; it came by word of mouth, and by this slow and
primitive method I learned how some of the men survived the night and how
others perished. It was the list of men that got killed in the attack the day
before, that was sickening and heart breaking. I know many of them. The
privates that came with me to Santa Maria, the sergeants and lieutenants that I
got to know while working with Fannen. But the lowest blow of all was the news
that Captain Itzen, our Company Commander, too, was dead.
I was told that the captain was on top of
the ridge with some riflemen, not just giving orders, but fighting along with
the men when he got killed. This I understand took place about thirty yards to
the left of where I was now dug-in.
In that same locality some men used a
poncho as a roof for their dugout; it saved their lives when and enemy grenade
fell on this roof and rolled off, exploding at a safe distance.
We spent most of the day improving our position.
WE dug deeper and sand bagged. The one I was in, we shaped into a small ‘L’
shaped trench, about three feet wide and eight feet long. We dug connecting
trenches to join our positions. These trenches were shallow and narrow, just
something to crawl along and not any more than we had to. The sniping went on
all day and too many of our men were getting hit. At best we were just hanging
on. Early that night there was that unusual quiet again, that calm before the
storm that would make even the animals restless. The officers had been acting
and working nervously all evening. Some extra men were brought in and
everything was being reinforced in one way or another. All this could mean but
one thing – an attack was anticipated. The later and darker it got, the quitter
it got; suspense was mounting. Everybody was watching and waiting for something
to happen.
Then, from dugout to dugout went the
relayed order in a low whisper, “fix bayonets.” I passed the chilling order on
to the men in my sector, then listen as they passed it still farther along the
ridge. Like a wisp of wind it faded away, to be followed by the clicking sounds
of bayonets locking-in on the muzzles of the rifles.
When I was satisfied that the order was
being carried out, I drew my own bayonet from its scabbard and attached it to
my rifle.
Bags of hand grenades were being passed
along the connecting trenches; everybody laid on a good supply of the handy
little peace makers. The darker it got the more we would have to depend on them
to hold back an enemy attack.
I had some very good men with me. I knew
them well enough to feel that we could work together – come what may. And come
it did, louder and bigger than we expected. It was not a sneak attack; they
made all the noise they could.
By now it was too dark to see the white of
their eyes at any distance; so we tried to hold them back from the start. The
fragments from our many exploding grenades were like a cast iron wall between
us and the enemy. Bag after bag of grenades were coming up the back side of the
ridge, we were throwing them as fast as we could pull the safety pins, but
still they came, ever closer.
Some of them got close enough to throw
grenades up the ridge. We stayed close to the
forward wall of the dugout; it
was our only shield. Then there were explosions all around us; something hit me
in the neck, it felt like a needle, I jumped with the sharp pain. I tell it was
nothing big; but instinctively, with my hand I check for blood, never thinking
that I could see nothing in the dark.
WWII Grenade |
Ever since basic training I always had the
greatest fear and respect for our own hand grenade. Its spring loaded firing
mechanism was held open by a narrow metal strip, running from the top along the
side of the cast iron body. This strip was place in the palm of the hand and
the grenade held with a firm grip before pulling the safety pin. Now, once the
grenade left the hand, the metal strip flew off and the five second fuse was
ignited. It was alive.
Our working quarters were very crowded.
That along with our fast movement created a very ideal condition for what I
feared most at that time, and it was destined to happen.
The man to my left pulled the safety pin
from a grenade; in swinging his arm he got entangle in my left arm, he said, “I
dropped a live one.”
To leave the dugout would have been
suicide; to stay was five seconds till doomsday – unless we found the grenade.
It was too dark to look for it, we had to feel our way around. We felt each
other’s toes and held hands, over and over again. There was nothing funny about
the thought of that grenade exploding in our faces.
It was, five, four, three, two, “I found
it,” said the man that pulled the pin. We lay hard against the forward wall, as
he threw the grenade. It exploded in midair just outside the dugout, so close
that the back wall of the dugout was showered with its cast iron fragments.
It was by such narrow margins that the men
along the line held their ground and lived through another night. Since we could
not see down into the ravine, I asked the men entrenched to our right, next
morning, “did we do any good last night, can you see anything?” One of them
called back, “you bet, the tax payers got their money’s-worth last night.”
After a cold wet night the morning sunshine
was always a comfort from heaven, it was as if someone cared after all. We were
sitting in the dugouts not only enjoying the warmth of the sun but also the
unusual tranquility that hung over the mountains.
Then, the crack of a snipers rifle was
followed by the most horrible scream of a young man rolling down a hillside. He
was on the far side of a neighboring hill were we could not see him; but we
could tell by the sound that was the voice of youth and he rolled a long ways.
When his body came to rest his screams changed to painful moaning, each moan a
little longer and weaker, and the last one chillingly fading away like the last
note of taps – never to be forgotten.
On the other side of the mountains was the
village of Santa Fe. This was our objective. Not that it was of any military
importance, but to get there, we would have to annihilate something that was.
To encourage ourselves to keep going, we would talk about the coffee and
doughnuts waiting for us at Santa Fe. It was such an enjoyable though that no
one ever questioned how the Red Cross would get there before we did.
That night some burlap bags with bread and
wieners were brought in along the connecting trenches. It was the first time
most of us had ever seen unleavened bread. The inside was very firm and the
crust was not much unlike saddle leather. At first we could neither break, nor
cut it. One of the men held it across his knee while I drove a bayonet into it.
Working the steel back and forth we managed to break the bread.
Unleavened bread is very heavy and filling,
we still had some for the next day and no place to store it. It seemed so wrong
losing that half loaf of bread.
I carved a niche in the dirt wall, and in
it stored the bread, with the crust to the outside. It rained all night and I
worried more about losing the bread then I did about my life, but the durable
crust shed water like a tin roof. The bread was not only good eating next
morning; it was in better shape than anything else on the line.
It was the morning of about our third day
on this ridge; just hanging on would not win the war, at all cost we had to
move forward.
While some of us had orders to support the
attack from our dugouts, others prepared to attack the forward slope of the
ridge. With everything in readiness the mortars were called on to shell the
slope and the ravine in front of us. The shelling went on and on. Starting down
in the ravine, our exploding shells were working their way up the enemy’s side
of the bottom of the dugouts as the debris started falling from the sky.
One of our men, with his back to mine,
calmly said, “Herrman, do you want some fresh meat?” Giving it little or no
thought, I extended my open hand back to him; he laid in it something soft and
warm. It was a small chunk of muscular meat. A few more pieces fell on us. It
was raining human flesh.
Our shells were falling still closer; we
could see that something was going wrong. The base
of the mortar tubes were settling in the soft wet earth and slowly changing the trajectory beyond their intentional adjustment. All along the ridge the men were calling “cease fire.” Because of the noise, we had trouble getting our word back to the gun crew. By the time we got things under control, shells were falling all around us, some even behind us.
of the mortar tubes were settling in the soft wet earth and slowly changing the trajectory beyond their intentional adjustment. All along the ridge the men were calling “cease fire.” Because of the noise, we had trouble getting our word back to the gun crew. By the time we got things under control, shells were falling all around us, some even behind us.
The men started moving out through the
connecting trenches and down the forward slope of the ridge. With all the odds
against them, it was not surprising that our losses would be great. All of the
men were out of my dugout and I was ready to take on the wounded. It was about
eight o’clock in the morning, in a few minutes the battle gained full fury, the
wounded stated coming into the dugouts.
Back at Santa Maria, Captain Itzen assured
us that if he had to, he would sacrifice the whole company to help a wounded man,
that no one should feel abandoned if he got hit. The captain was dead now, but
his word was still alive.
One of our men got hit badly and others
were getting hit trying to help him. On a stretcher, they were working him
uphill and toward my dugout, the “L” shape trench. This movement was slow and
extremely dangerous.
In the safety of the trench our medic gave
him a shot of morphine, while I tore his cloths and got his wounds ready for
dressing. He had a bad abdominal wound – in one side and out the other. About
my age, I got to know this lad a few days before we broke camp.
All this time I noticed that one of the
wooden stretcher handles was broke off. Private Hummel, a friend of mine from
Nebraska, told me later that he was working one end of that stretcher. His
story was, “we were almost up to your dugout when a bullet hit in front of my
hand, and I sat there with the shot-off handle in my hand.”
As the medic started dressing his wounds, I
raised up slightly to get out of his way, and back to my position. I exposed my
head and shoulders only momentarily, but a sniper was waiting and fired. The
bullet would have hit me high in the shoulders had it not been for a slight
deflection. When the men brought in the wounded lad, we left his steel helmet
and rifle just outside the trench. The snipers bullet hit and blew apart the
rifle stock went through the helmet changing its course to the right and down.
It hit the medic down in the trench and left him with a belly wound not much
different from the one he was dressing.
I don’t know about the rest of the dugouts,
but I now have five badly wounded men on my hands. The stretcher took up most
of the long section of the “L” shape, I was at the top end, the other four men
were sitting in the lower or short section. Conditions were very crowded for
all of us, but patience endured. The enemy had us pinned down; to move these
men out seemed unthinkable.
On the back side of the ridge a rescue
party had already started digging a ditch. It was a long way from where the
help started to where it was needed, I had my doubts that it would get there on
time. The minutes dragged on through the first hour. If I stood up I could see
the men diffing, but I had to do this fast and even then I drew fire. With over
a week of hard fighting these men were already exhausted and the digging called
for energy they no longer had. Lying down in the ditch, they had to work one at
a time. With a small entrenching shovel, they were digging the ditch a hand
full at a time, and there was no other way.
Most of the fighting in our area was at a
standstill by now, it was mostly a matter of keeping eyes on the enemy hills,
and throw them an occasional shot.
Although these men were not left to die
alone on the battle ground, they were a long way from the hospital; it looked
like at best they would get to all die together. The Japs had moved into
position on the two hills to the front and right, even the slightest movement
drew sniper fire from both hills.
The dugouts were not deep enough to stand
erect, we had to stoop over. This was very uncomfortable and tiring. While
keeping an eye on the hills I was also watching the wounded men behind me. Some
of them were beginning to weaken and would not last much longer. The young man
on the stretcher was not looking good at all; he was getting restless.
It did not surprise me to hear him calling
behind me, but it was most disturbing to hear him calling for his mother, I
feared that his time had come. I stepped over his body, knelt down and raised
his head. Believing in myself I told him we would somehow get him out of there.
He returned at once to the world of reality, and through his feverish lips he
said, “No I’m dying, I’m bleeding on the inside.” He closed his eyes, turned
his head and died. As his body relaxed, the last of his blood ran noisily from
the perforations in his body, to the pool under the stretcher. He died young
and hard. He died slow, but patiently. He died in my arms in a mud hole, high o
the Villa Verde.
I sat down in the trench and took a hard
look at the rest of the men, I didn't like what I saw. One of them had a bullet
pass through his wrist; he and the medic could hold out a little longer, but
with the other two men it was a different story. One had a wound much like the
man that just died, and he was getting very weak. He was sitting in the mud,
his face pale and lifeless, and just enough strength to hold his cigarette. The
other was getting harder for me look at. A bullet hit his foot and came out
near the knee. The leg turned blackish blue, and as big as a stove pipe, he
need help bad. All of them should already be in a hospital, on beds with clean
sheets.
I got into a very hard argument with the
senior officer in charge of the rescue party – telling him the conditions were
much worse than he could imagine that we would have to try something else. I
sat back down and buried my face in my hands. I had wiped my muddy boot on the
threshold of insubordination, and wondered if it was the right thing to do.
Joe Cammarano, our communications man, took
the risk crawled up the ridge, and rolled into the trench. Sitting in the mud,
he pushed his helmet back, took a look around and said, “Oh my god!”
Cammarano was probably the best thing that
could have happened to these men, and me. Our first thought was to lay a smoke
screen, but the enemy’s intelligence, even half asleep, would conclude – where
there’s smoke, there’s something going on. You cannot see through a smoke
screen, but you can shoot through it. They are not a shield, only a blind. The
idea seemed so risky that we ruled it out completely. Furthermore we had not
yet seen a smoke screen on the Villa Verde.
For the next few minutes we did some very
hard thinking. We came up with only two possible ways to get these men out of
there. To dig a ditch or lay a smoke screen. Even the though was frightening;
But we would take that chance. If it worked, a few men would get another chance
at life. If it didn't work – well, the world know after the smoke cleared.
With practically no trouble at all we sold
the idea to those in command. One of the men was lucky in getting the first bag
of smoke grenades to us. Joe took one of the pint size grenades and hurled it
into the ravine. The white smoke rose slowly to the sky as it drifted to the
left, the air movement was perfect, the wind gods had mercy on the poor souls,
but it was so spectacular it could alarm even the emperor back in Japan; from
now on we would have to work fast – and we did.
Saving Lives
Saving Lives
For the next few minutes everybody worked
like a bunch of mad dogs. We threw the smoke grenades as fast, and far out as
we could, covering a wide area. Cammarano did such a fine job with the smoke
screen that I let him engineer it all the way. After we had every window and
peephole closed we started to move the men.
While Cammarano replaced the burnt-out
grenades, I helped the men out of the trench; the rescue party took it from
there. Two of these men were much heavier then I was, it was extremely
difficult for me to get them out of the trench. By now, completely helpless, I
had to handle them painfully rough to handle them at all. The whole operation
took only a few minutes, and no one got hurt. When the smoke finally cleared,
everybody was gone. We did not remove the lad on the stretcher until after
dark.
Late that afternoon a clean shaven soldier
in clean cloths was assigned to my dugout. Although he was very much needed in
our sector, he was not with us very long; I didn't even get to know him. The
first thing he said after he crawled in , was, “Who is in charge here.” I
sensed some disapproval when I told him, “I am.”
He looked at the mess in the dugout and
made it clear that he did not approve of my house keeping. The blood was
beginning to smell very bad in the hot sun, but I could see no reason for
adding more to it, least of all mine. I felt it was best left until after dark.
Mountain Perimeter - Red Arrow Men |
He picked up a small trench shovel and
started cleaning. He was not wearing his steel helmet and with every shovel
full that he threw out, he raised his head up a little higher. In a nice way –
if I still had one by then – I told him, “Keep your head down, and wear your
helmet, this place is being fired on in the worst way.” He went about his work,
ignoring me completely. I repeated myself, “Keep your head down, and that’s and
order.” He said, “Who am I to take orders from a kid.”
It was only minutes later, as he raised his
head, a bullet snapped and I saw blood run down his neck. The back of his head
was cut open, he was bleeding badly. It was only a flesh wound; he went back
down the ridge while he could still move on his own. I couldn't understand his
behavior; perhaps he was on the line before and had his guts full of it.
After dark, two men from our Battalion
Headquarters crawled into my dugout and outlined the Majors orders. We were to
dig and sand bag an observation post about forty yards to the right of my
position. There, the ridge swung a little forward and would give the Major an
excellent view of the hills, and the ravine – this pit of demons.
My assignment was to take one man from each
dugout and accompany them to the location. Then, after a few minutes of
digging, bring them back and replace them with a new or rested group. The men
by now were very tired and the digging took most of the night. It was expecting
an awful lot, but we had strong hope it would help the Major relieve this bad
condition.
The Major worked his way up the ridge and
got into position before the break of dawn next morning. I waited anxiously,
anticipating something good to come from this, but it was not to be. The
message came to me simple and brief, “The Major is dead.”
I slumped down in the mud and once more
asked, “Why, lord why.” Someday the Villa Verde would be ours through sheer
ownership by conquest, but the price was sickening.
Later that morning I got a message that the
Major had some very complementary words for the men that built the observation
post under such trying conditions, but while he was looking out over the sand
bags and observing the battle area a sniper put a bullet through his head.
Mountains have always been a challenge to
man. The Caraballo Mountains must have been such to the man that first carved
this trail or foot path through these treacherous hills. About fifty years
before the war, a Spanish priest, Juan Villa Verde, and his catholic followers,
with hand labor, built this trail to bring the word of god to the natives of
the Cagayan Valley in Northern Luzon.
Because of the nature of his work and its
purpose, it is not likely that he ever dreamed that along this trail, so many
men would someday take the – Jornada Del Muerto, (the journey of death). Nine
hundred and six-teen Americans, and nearly nine thousand Japanese were to
perish, and thousands more maimed or wounded.
A dirty, bearded
and rugged looking machine gunner was entrenched only a few feet to my left. I
had lost most of my close friends, I was looking for new ones and this one was
handy. Because of his location I could see him better than I could see the men
of my squad; we soon go acquainted.
During daylight
hours we were almost always alone in our dugouts. Standing stooped over behind
his machine gun all day was very tiring, and it was beginning to show on him.
Since our field of vision overlapped completely, we could occasionally relieve
each other. Because the machine guns were never left unmanned, I would crawl
along the connecting trench over to his position and give him a few minutes to
sit down and stretch his legs. He would then return the relief. His name was
Boodie and he was a fine neighbor.
It was late in the
afternoon, while Boodie and others were standing watch, I sat down to rest. I
was sitting on my favorite – and only – seat, an empty ammunition box with my
folded poncho for a pillow. A large waterproof sheet with a center hole for the
head, the poncho we were told could be used for almost anything. Snaps along
two sides not only let you close the sides, but they are arranged so that any
number of ponchos can be snapped together for a tent, a tent as long as the
supply of ponchos and about five feet wide. It was what was left after someone
tried to improve the raincoat.
Regardless how or where we sat, we always sat on edge and ready to jump;
jump is what I did when one of the men yelled, “grenade!” I threw myself to the
far end of the short section of the “L” shaped trench. There was a tremendous
blast in the longer section where I had been sitting a second earlier. At first
I saw only dirt and smoke. Since fragments do not turn corners, I did not get
hurt, but I was stunned, my body felt numb and I was scared to look at my legs.
Then I saw Boodie standing erect in his dugout firing away with a carbine. He
was shooting over me and I heard him swearing when the carbine jammed.
Nobody knew just
where he came from, but a Jap came up from behind me. I was told later that he
threw the grenade into my trench, ran through the smoke and jumped over me,
with Boodie shooting at him.
After the smoke
cleared I crawled back to my ammunition – box seat. A black hole in the trench
wall just above the box was record of where the explosion took place. Not that
I ever really missed it, my poncho was a hopeless mess.
The following day
was one of those tiresome and dismal ones. Because of my own weariness I could
see over to him, and got behind his machine gun so he could sit down and get
some rest. The warm afternoon sun was very relaxing and I’m sure he enjoyed
every minute of it.
It was very seldom
that we got to see our enemy, but a strange thing was happening on the hill
across the ravine. As if they were unconcerned about our presence, some
Japanese started crawling from the caves along the hillside. I couldn't believe
it. I stated adjusting the machine gun. Slowly they came out, about a dozen of
them, standing erect and close together.
I looked back at
Boodie, he was snoozing in the warm sun, but awoke and looked at me when I
called his name and said, “I have about a dozen of them in the gun sights, it’s
your gun, what do you want me to do?” He half ways raised a tired arm, saying,
“Leave the bastards alone.” That was probably the best philosophy of the war.
Had the Japanese done so at Pearl Harbor, there never would have been a war.
Besides we were in no position to pick a fight.
About half way up, in a single column; they
walked around the mound and disappeared from sight. I didn't know it at the
time, but through those gun sights I was witnessing an historical event; The
Yamashita line was slowly beginning to yield, they were moving back into the
Cagayan Valley.
Getting Relieved from Villa Verde
Getting Relieved from Villa Verde
If there was one
thing the army always had enough of, it was rumors. In training it was those
long vaccinating needles that went in one side and out the other, some even had
fish-hook barbs on them.
On the ocean, a
hair-raising rumor had it, that so many ships, in crossing the international
date line, get the line entangled in their propellers and got pulled down to
the bottom of the sea.
But on the Villa
Verde somebody dreamed – up an eye opener. On May 18, after fourteen hellish
days and night, it was rumored that we were being relieved by another company.
It started early in the morning and nobody knew where it came from. Someone
either had a very bad night or a very good dream.
A little later that
morning it was confirmed, we would be relieved. Burlap bags with new stockings
and cans of foot powder were passed along. There were two of us in the “L”
trench and while I stood watch the other man sat down and for the first time in
two weeks, pulled off his wet boot, and then we could see what the new
stockings were for – his stockings had completely rotted away from his feet.
There was a little bit of them left on his legs and the top of his feet. I
could not help but humor him about his “spats.” He seemed a little offended, or
at least until I pulled my boots off and we saw the spats on the other foot, my
foot. For the first time in fourteen days we saw something a little funny. At
about eight o’clock, the boys from our relieving company started coming in through
the connecting trenches. It was a sight and feeling that was uncommonly
gratifying.
Happy as I was to
see these boys come along to relieve us, there was something very disturbing
about it. As they slowly moved through the trench and down the forward slope of
the right, I could see in the eyes of these young faces that they were scared.
I could see that most of them were new at this, so new it made me feel like a
seasoned veteran. In a few minutes they would for the first time meet their
enemy. In a few minutes, some of these young, clean shaven faces would lie dead
in the mud, along the Villa Verde Trail.
We walked back
down the muddy trail; it was like walking away from a horrible nightmare. The
waiting trucks took us back a few miles to a small medical unit in a ravine.
Here, on the surrounding hills and ridges, we took position in some already dug
fox holes.
These hills were
not so steep; it was easy to get around and reasonably safe. After moving on
our belly for two weeks, it felt great to walk on our feet again.
A few men at a
time went down to the kitchen tent and for the first time had a hot, decent
meal. It was canned wieners and bread with the taste of a T-bone steak. A clear
water spring gave us a chance to wash our face, hair and hands. We also got rid
of those uncomfortable beards.
We enlarged the
bottom of our small fox holes enough to stretch our legs. With some dry grass
for bedding, the whole thing was too good to be true.
After walking up
and down the hill for about three days, and always passing someone that looked
familiar, I suddenly realized who it was. He was clean shaven now and looked
nothing like himself; it was Boodie, the machine gunner. We got reacquainted
and had a friendly chat on the hillside, that time under more normal
conditions.
The medical unit
was fired at one morning and sent everyone running for cover. We could tell
about where the fire was coming from and took a patrol out in the hills to look
for them. It was a hit and run attach, we could not find them and they did not
return, but it always let us wondering – when next.
We were moved to a
ridge further off the trail where there was some enemy activity, the japs still
held some ground and we were to hold them at bay. Our food supply was running
low and a Piper Cub was circling the ridge to attempt a food drop.
Piper Cub |
After feeling –
out the air current he released some package laden parachutes. Teasing us with
their slow descent it looked like they were going to land in our laps. But the
closer they got the more they drifted off course to land on a lower knoll
between us and the japs. Tempting as it was to us and the japs, the packages
were still there when we left the line. Altogether we stayed in the medical
unit area for one week, and then moved all the way back to the Lingayen Gulf.
Carved in the mountains
On central Luzon,
Only a foot path
And not much to walk on
Build by a messenger
A man of good faith,
To spread the word of god,
To love and not to hate
Little did he know
What yet lay ahead,
That someday this trail
Would be strewn with dead
Twenty-four miles long
Five thousand feet high,
The nearer to heaven
The harder they die
Conquered and fortified
By a man of ill fame,
General Tomoyuki Yamashita
Was his name
Ridge after ridge
And hill after hill,
For one hundred nineteen days
It was kill, kill, kill
Nine hundred Americans,
And Japanese ten times more,
Lay dead in the path
Of a merciless war
The very last shot
Was fired at the Japs,
It echoed through the hills
Like the last note of taps
The Yamashita line
Would stop the best of them,
It succumbed to the force
Of the RED ARROW men
Here at the Gulf we finally got to clean-up
and change our filthy cloths. There was plenty of hot food and hours of rest.
We slept in canvas tents and ate mostly outdoors, but it was a heavenly
improvement compared to what we left behind.
Like “A” Company had done so many times
before, we took on some new boys to replace what we lost on the line. Most
every day we took these boys out to teach them the art of combat, like we had
been taught by those before us.
I was called to the First Sergeant’s tent
and after a short visit was told that I had been recommended for a promotion.
He did not say by whom, but that I had passed the test of leading the squad
under fire, and that with the promotion would be mine to keep.
For some time there had been much talk
about the big invasion of the Japanese mainland and that this could be one of
the hardest battles ever fought. In preparation we were doing some training for
just that.
As yet the world had not heard of the
atomic bomb and the Japanese were preparing for an invasion that they were
determined to resist, to their last man or woman if it had to be. Women and
children were being trained to fight off invaders with pointed bamboo poles,
should all other means fail.
While the Sergeant was talking about the
promotion, my mind was wandering back and forth from the shores of Japan to
that dugout on the Villa Verde where I was told, “Who am I to take orders from
a kid.” As yet, I had not aged much, and could still hear that work ‘kid’
ringing in my ears.
Until now I had a perfect relationship with
the Sergeant, but that was about to change, he jumped to this feet and was
angered when I refused the promotion. He yelled, “this is your was as much as it
is mine, and I can draft you for this job if I have to.” He so lost his temper
that he ordered me to leave the tent.
Walking slowly across the company square to
see one of my friends, the strangest feeling ever, went through my body, being
at war with the Japanese Empire was bad enough, and now, conflict with the
First Sergeant. The thought was unbearable. After standing in the square for a
minute, I turned around and walked back to the sergeant’s tent.
I explained to him what happened on the line
and how I feared a repeat performance in the big invasion where the 32nd
was to be among the first to land. I explained how my lack of age could stand
in the way to perform.
He did not accept this as valid grounds to
reject the promotion, however he was understanding. It was his decision that I
lead the squad like I had been until other arrangements could be made. The big
problem was that there were not enough sergeants to go around, a condition that
I never saw in the states, and found hard to believe.
We usually had a bulletin board near the
kitchen tent. ON this was a list of names for guard, kitchen duty and other
work, also there were other things of importance or interest. It was shortly
after we got here that I saw on this board a new War Department order. It was
probably the highest I had ever been lifted – and dropped. It read in part that
nineteen year old boys would no longer be used for combat duty. This would
include me for sure, but it went on to read “Except those with combat experience.”
We were close to the ocean, and got our
share of sand and salt water. There were outdoor movies every night, but I had
seen some of them so often, it seemed they were stuck in the projector.
Although hard to come by, a pass to Manila was the best in entertainment.
Prisoners were almost impossible to get and
were very much in demand for questioning. In fact, so much in demand that a
case of beer and a pass to Manila was the bounty on live Japs. This certainly
did not give them and better reason to surrender. In spite of the many Japs in
the hills, there would not be much beer drinking or fun in Manila. High up on
the trail, I did see one badly wounded prisoner lying helplessly in a small
trailer hitched to a truck.
However, there was another way to get to
Manila. The First Sergeant walked up to our tent and explained that some
volunteers were needed to build a small chapel. Because the laborers for work
of this nature had to be volunteers, there was a price of three days in Manila
for anyone helping to build this chapel.
Three of my buddies and I, felt that the
reward would more than justify the little effort called for. Many of the others
apparently had the same feeling; there was plenty of help. The building was a
wood frame with a gable roof. The roof and part of the walls were covered with
corrugated, galvanized metal. There were shade trees all around the building
and working area. Under a shade tree, I cut most of the metal. The cutting tool
consisted of a pair of two-by-fours nailed together at each end with a steel
wire fasted to one end. This wire was placed under the metal with the
two-by-fours on top. Walking along the tow-bys’, the wire was pulled through
their 1/8 inch spacing, so cutting the metal.
In a few days we had the building nailed
together and were on our way to Manila. The army maintained an encampment in
the city; here, men could sleep, eat and keep clean. This was our first stop.
This was the big city of the islands and
the war got to it in a big way. Most every place we went, we saw only the ruins
of things once important to these people. We stood in the doorway and looked at
the junk of what was once the city light plant. The dynamos that once
illuminated the lives of these people, had been reduced to bombed and burned
junk. At RIZAL Memorial Stadium we looked at the bullet marks in the concrete
of the players’ dugouts.
We spent the first evening at a tavern on
the water front. It was a quaint little place were mostly service men gathered
for refreshments. Built at right angle to the main bar, was a short section of
bar only a few feet in from the door. This is where we stopped and ordered a
drink. The main bar was well attended by all sorts of men and a few women.
The drinks that we were served, would have
been a disgrace even to the towns drunk, and one of the boys with us was very
much offended. He said, “I know there’s got to be better whisky then this, and
we are going to get some of it.”
He called the bartender and asked him why
he wasn't out in the hills fighting with the rest of the men. The bartender – a
small, handsome Spaniard – told us how he hurt a leg in a bicycle accident. In
some English, Spanish and a lot of body motion, he tried to explain how much he
would like to help fight the war, but his bad leg was just killing him. I wasn't long before he started limping. We looked at each other, winked, and
took it all in. We gave him a load of sympathy that almost made him cry.
He took our drinks off the bar and said,
“here, my friends deserve the very best.” From under the bar, he pulled out a
bottle of whisky that was of the finest quality and it was on the house. He
introduced us to some of the women in the place and tried hard to entertain us.
With two of these women, we sat at a table
near the door and got acquainted. At first it was quite entertaining and we
enjoyed the evening, but I soon got the feeling that we were only kidding
ourselves. We were trying to escape from something that was following us around
like our shadows.
Leaving my drink on the table, I walked up to and leaned against the
open door frame, it was a calm, beautiful evening. I looked out across the bay,
there, illuminated by the light of the moon; lay the pages of history and the
devastation of a senseless war.
Protruding from the water was the wreckage
of the sunken ships, ships that were once alive and proudly sailed the high
seas, alive with the hustle and bustle of the crew and their powerful engines.
There is something creepy about a dad ship and even from this great distance it
was as if I could hear the hollow sounds of the emptiness that inherited these
rusting hulls.
Across the bay lay a grimmer picture, the
outline of Bataan Peninsula and nearby Corregidor Island.
What happened here was one of the things
that spurred me – I’m sure many others – to keep going. ON December 12th,
only five days after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the Japanese landed at Legaspi
in southeast Luzon. A little over a month later, by January 6, all of our
troops on Luzon were on the Bataan Peninsula, and on Corregidor Island, to
stage their courageous and unforgettable stand against overpowering odds.
In the most malaria-infested place in the
world, with only a fourth of the American and Filipino troops still in shape to
fight, these ill-equipped men held their ground for two and a half months.
When 22,000 new Japanese troops landed on
the island in March, followed by heavy bombing and artillery fire, Major
General Edward King, Jr.; saw no reason for the fruitless sacrifice. On April
the 9th he surrendered his sick and starving troops on Bataan, while
General Wainwright held his defense on Corregidor.
From Mariveles, on the southern tip if
Bataan, most of the 76,000 battle weary Filipino and American troops started
their 60 mile Death March to San Fernando. The atrocities that took place along
this march can only be narrated by the men that marched, suffered and survived
this act of human shame.
There are different opinions as to why the
Death March ever came to be. Some feel it was to give General Wainwright
something to think about if he did not surrender his troops. While other say it
was to make clear to the Filipinos, from the start, just who was boss.
I have my own thoughts. Like all other
greedy and conquering people, they made the common but foolish mistake of
overlooking the possibility of them themselves being conquered. Shielded by the
armor of such stupidity, even the most inhuman act needs no justification.
The sick and tired that could not keep up,
were beaten and struck with rifle butts, mostly to aggravate the condition.
Once a prisoner could no longer carry out the commands of the guards, he was
shot or bayoneted, and this they tried to justify on the grounds that he was
disobedient.
The hot sun caused a great want for water,
but they were not allowed to drink the clean water from wells. If they walked
out of line to reach such water, they were shot. Yet, those that could not
resist drinking dirty water along the road were at liberty to do so. As a
result, many of these died from intestinal infections.
The Japanese seemed to enjoy the barbaric
act of beheading, and many of the marchers died by such uncommon means. Some
were even buried alive.
The small island of Corregidor took a heavy
pounding from Japanese bombers and artillery guns, now firing from Bataan. Near
Midnight on May 5th, the Japanese invaded the island. The following
day General Jonathan Wainright, surrendered all American troops to Lt. General
Masaharu Homma, Commander of the Japanese troops in the Philippines.
And now, looking across the bay, one could
almost hear over a crackling radio the icy words of General Wainright, “Corregidor
is now falling,” followed by two and a half years of radio silence.
BACKGROUND
Since November of 1944, our B29’s had been
bringing the war to Japans’ homeland. Paper and bamboo houses were being
reduced to ashes as hopeless fire storms ran their course. The first four raids
alone destroyed thirty-four square miles of Tokyo, hitting hard the industrial
areas. They were also creating havoc at Yokohama, Osaka and Kobe.
With over 100 square miles of its principal
cities destroyed, Japan was now facing domestic problems for which the warlords
had no solution.
Lack of raw materials, steel, aluminum,
coal and others, was curtailing production in such vital areas as aircraft and ammunition's. Japan’s big problem and main reason for going to war, its need for oil, was worsening.
The food shortage, so loyal to war, was
being aggravated by the worst rice crop in forty years. Valuables were being
sacrificed in exchange for food.
Although the Japanese military was still
set on winning the war, other groups were doing the unthinkable – entertaining
the idea of surrender. Among these was the Emperor Hirohito himself, he didn’t
think much of the war idea in the first place.
Behind closed doors, this unthinkable sin
was first discussed on May 12 by a six man cabinet. The Prime Minister Kantaro
Suzuki and Foreign Minister Togo, four military chiefs including, Admiral
Yonai, Army Chief of Staff Umezu, and War Minister General Anami.
Admiral Yonai suggested, and all but Togo
agreed, that Russia asked to act as mediator. Togo saw this as a waste of time;
after all, Russia had just refused to renew her nonaggression pact with Japan
the previous month. He advised that cease-fire negotiations be directly with
the United States.
On June 3, contact was made with the Soviet
Ambassador, Yakov Malik, not far from Tokyo. This contact was as fruitless as
Togo had predicted.
The Japanese army officer found many of his
directions in the ancient Buchido code. It called for fearful leadership, and
rock-hard discipline. This and the fact that he was to kill as many as
possible, is one thing, but he too was to die; Bushido so directed. This one
ingredient alone would make him different by most military standards, where the
thought of going home is foremost.
This one ingredient alone would explain
much of his behavior on the battle field; the savage treatment of his victims
and the suicidal Kamikaze attack. To die for the Emperor was not just an honor;
it was a have-to.
Most bizarre of all was the Bushido dictate
of a painful form of suicide in the event of failure or disgrace. Not a bullet
in the head, but a slow carving of the abdomen with a sword; Ceremonial
hara-kiri.
The Samurai warrior of centuries ago was
fashioned by the Bushido code. These professional soldiers lived and died by
the sword.
The familiar long sword known as the
Katana; was used for combat. It was the shorter Wakizashi that was used for
Seppuku or hara-kiri.
These
two swords together are known as the Daisho and were worn only by the Samurai.
A stall shorter blade, the Tanto was used for beheading a defeated enemy; the
head was presented to a superior as proof of kill.
The Samurai sword was not just a weapon, it
was also a religious symbol, it was looked upon as the soul of the warrior, and
was handled as such. When handed from one to another, it was first wrapped in
silk as it was not to be received in the bare hands. To touch another man’s
sword in any manner was offensive enough to spring into fights.
The blade was rarely drawn from its
scabbard without good reason. A request to see the blade of a sword was seldom
fruitful, and then only a portion of the blade was drawn.
About the time that Russia was asked to act
as mediator, the Japanese Supreme Command informed the cabinet that Japan would
fight to the bitter end. Foreign Minister Togo could see no victory in this for
Japan, nor could he get support for his own plans.
On June 8, the cabinet and ministers met
with Emperor Hirohito, to get his approval of the Supreme command’s decision.
Emperor Hirohito, like his adviser Marquis
Kido, and Togo wanted very much to end the war, he could however do little more
than approve the decision.
To the people of Japan the war had lost its
popularity, they could see themselves losing everything, and the coming
invasion of their homeland was as disturbing to them as it would have been to
us. It was mostly the military that was hell-bent to fight to the end. Little
wonder that in some cities it was not safe to be seen in uniform.
THE CAGAYAN VALLEY
We
left the gulf the last week of June; it was back on the road again, this time
heading for the other side of the mountains. We did not take the Villa Verde
Trail through the hills. Our convoy moved east to Highway 5, then north through
the Balete pass, the front door of the Cagayan Valley.
The
Balete Pass had also been the scene of hard only a few weeks earlier. Not far
to the left lay the hills where we had been fighting such an immovable force.
It was hard to look in that direction, hard to believe that these hills were
now at peace with the world.
About five miles from the pass we came to a
small wooden sign by the roadside; someone had obviously done his first sign
lettering. SANTA FE, it read. This was the Santa Fe we had dreamed about in the
fox holes. Not very much to begin with; that little cross shaped sign and half
of a cart wheel among the ashes was all that was left of our fantasy of whisky
and wild women. Santa Fe was not more.
Farther down the road, this vast valley
seemed to open up and welcome us to all it possessed, mostly Japs. Here we had
an entirely different kind of war from what we encountered in the hills. The
enemy was scattered over a large area; our company was equally scattered; small
groups moving in different directions, sometimes miles from each other.
The
Philippine Army was very active in the valley, they worked with us and were a
great help. Sometimes half of a patrol group was Filipino troops. Some of them
spoke English quite well; there was no big communication problem. They were
well disciplined and respectful; I enjoyed working with them.
One of our many problems in the valley was
the children. In the Bambang and Bayombong area we first found these hungry,
poor souls – some of them orphans – following us.
They would stand near our field kitchen and
watch us eat. With their rusty tin cans they patiently waited. When we finished
eating, they ran up to the garbage pail and took out everything we dumped in.
President Truman was in Potsdam meeting
with Churchill and Stalin. It was the evening of July 16 when a cable from
Washington arrived at Potsdam:
OPERATED ON THIS MORNING.
DIAGNOSIS NOT YET COMPLETE BUT RESULTS SEEM SATISFACTORY AND ALREADY EXCEED
EXPECTATIONS. DR. GROVES PLEASED.
America had just exploded the first atomic
test bomb.
Before the blue sky had wiped the atomic
dust from its eyes, the arguments whether or not it should be used had already
started.
Truman saw it as a military weapon and that
it should be used. His Chief of Staff, Adm. William Leahy had moral
reservations. General Arnold supported conventional bombs. The war with Japan
is already over, was General Eisenhower’s opinion.
So, while some were debating the necessity
of the new bomb, the bomb was already on its way to Tinian Island. While the
Emperor was trying to get help from Russia, Russia was preparing to turn on
Japan.
Till now our troops in the pacific always
had to get along with what little they had, the war in Europe had priority, but
that was changing now, troops, planes and supplies were heading our way in
preparation for the big invasion of Japan.
As the Hiroshima bombing was nearing its day
of reality, another secret weapon of a psychological nature was on its way to
Japan. Like all other people in the world the Japanese had their share of
superstitions. Taken very serious was the belief that the “fox spirit” would
forecast a coming disaster.
With much of Japan already on fire, and
with all the talk about an invasion, what if some night somebody saw a glowing
fox dance across the road, panic and disorder would follow. Well, on their way7
to do a devilish little act was not one, but 30 luminous painted foxes.
While all this was going on we were still
setting one tired foot in front of the other, through the rice paddies and
jungles, from one little village to the next, we were still saying “The Golden
Gate in Forty Eight”, the end of the ware lay somewhere on the north end of
Japan. We couldn't see it any other way.
There were little bits of field bread,
dehydrated potatoes, spam and such, although the scraps were eatable, and the
army keeps its garbage pails – even pots and pans, it was just not the way to
feed hungry children.
We soon started putting left-overs in their
cans. Then we saved a little something the children might like; they liked all
of it. The next thing we know, some of the men – especially those with children
at home – ate very little, they gave their food to these children, and really,
we had very little.
It was like sitting down to eat and at
first enjoying it very much, till you notice hungry dog sitting in front of
you, looking you straight in the eyes, licking his mouth and swallowing hard
when you do. It was more than most of us could take.
It seemed that most of the older children
had one or two smaller ones by the hands. Most could speak enough English to
say – as they squeezed hands = “My brother” or, “My sister.” It was sad, very
sad.
Then it was back to school. We were
lectured; told that we could not let our feelings stand in the way of our
purpose. It was made clear that we were not the welfare department; others
would follow to take care of such matters. We were reminded that we had a long
way to go, we needed the nourishment, if we didn't make it, many more would
starve. It seemed so cruel, yet so true.
Many of our patrols served a double
purpose, the last part of our assignment was to go deeper into enemy territory,
to spy on the enemy, reconnaissance work, or recon’ as we called it.
On
one such patrol we came to a jungle. The bottom growth was so thick we had to
form a train and literally push the first scout through, using his rifle for a
shield or bumper. This was hard on bare hands and face, even harder on nerves,
we had to change scouts every few minutes.
The taller growth completely hid the sun
from our view. After much hard work, pushing and at times cutting our way
through, we finally found ourselves sitting in the shade at the edge of the
jungle.
While resting, studying our map and the
terrain around us, there seemed to be a complete state of confusion. The clearing looked so familiar – as it
should – we were sitting not over a hundred yards from where we entered. After
all that hard work it was obvious that we had lost that one. It was a long walk
around the jungle growth, but that’s how we solved the problem.
Perhaps on this one or a recon’ patrol like
it, our scouts came upon an enemy detachment, late one evening. They were
camped on the opposite bank of a creek.
Some of us crawled up to the creek. They
had a small camp fire and were preparing some food. By the light of the fire we
could see every move they made. We were so close we could hear their laughter
and everything they said. To us it was just a lot of meaningless jabber.
On a recon’ patrol, the orders always were
“don’t shoot unless you have to.” We too, were a detachment and to far from our
company to call for help. Like snakes in the weeds we spied on them for quite
some time, then moved to a hill about a half mile away, where we spent the
night.
Next morning, in the darkness, we sneaked
out and started our long walk back to our encampment. That night on the hill,
our big problem was not with the Japs so much as the mosquitoes. During the night
I slept with one hand out from under my blanket, by morning my hand was swollen
with one bite on top of another. These mosquitoes were the much dreaded malaria carriers.
Working our way along Highway 5, it was one
patrol after another. Most of them combat patrols, if enemy activity was
reported someplace, we went out after them. Five to twenty miles one-way and
mostly on foot, we moved slowly through the heat of day, resting at night. We
carried a good supply of ammunition, very little food or water. We lived off
the land; but food and water was big problem, hunger and thirst was common.
The flat land did not lend itself to a good
defense line; they were constantly on the move, mostly north. As if they were
watching us – and undoubtedly so – it was not unusual to find only evidence
that they had been there, but moved out. Only to have us follow them, breathing
down their necks. If not us, there would be another patrol, then another, and
still another, but that was their problem.
Some of these patrols took us a
considerable distance from the highway and into all kinds of wild country,
where all kinds of things could happen. Very few people lived in these wilds,
and the few that we found were a valuable source of information. They told us
if they saw Japs in the area, about how many and which way they were heading.
In one such case we came to a clearing in
the jungle; a few chickens, cloths on the line and other evidence indicated
that the rather large bamboo house was occupied. The question was, would they
be friend or foe. We could never be sure.
Someone would have to go up to the house. I
volunteered. We put the troops in position in a half moon formation, hiding
behind whatever they could find. I worked my way around our left flank and up
to the side of the house. With my ears to the wall I listened; there was no
sound. About thirty weapons, M1 rifles and automatics were pointing at the door
as I slowly moved up to the porch. It was not without fear that I knocked on
the bamboo porch with the stock of my rifle and waited, with my finger already
putting pressure on the trigger.
Through the door walked a young woman that
knocked be, and thirty other rifle men off guard, in a manner that should be
outlawed by international laws of war.
In this area it was the custom for a woman
– while nursing a baby – to cut two holes out of her dress, completely exposing her breasts; for the sake
of convenience – I’m sure, and this one had no quarrel with tradition. It was
one of the many uncertainties of war.
Felix Letter Home July 18 |
On the morning of July 18, Hummel and I
were called on to relieve some bridge guards along one of our main supply
lines.
The trucks were already loaded with
supplies and there were five guerrilla troops for each of us. Lieutenant McBride
accompanied us to the bridges, some distance apart. We had food rations for
about two days, after which time we were to be relieved, or supplied with more
rations.
The men that I had with me were very
soldierly and we got along just fine. The tents were already setup a few yards
from the bridge, in the afternoon shade. There was little to do but have one
man walking on the bridge and changing the guards.
The mosquitoes, in the evening were about as
bad here as I had ever seen them. A flashlight beam looked like a Kansas
blizzard. There was little we could do to protect ourselves against the mosquitoes own little war against mankind.
One of our young men went down with
malaria; it was not his first attack. He was a very sick man; we nursed him as
best we could. He tossed and rolled, suffering and fighting the fever, at one
point saying, “why do we have to have malaria anyway.”
Other things started going wrong, we had
used the last of our rations, relieve was overdue, I feared that the Lieutenant
had forgotten us. The fact was that the ‘A’ Company ran into some fighting
further up north.
The guards wanted my permission to let some
men go out and look for food. My orders however, were, without exception that
no one was to leave the post, after reminding them of these orders, I soon
noticed it somewhat cooled our warm relationship.
By evening our relationship had turned
quite cold. For the first time there was measurable distance between us, as
they sat and talked in a language I could not understand, and frequently
looking at me.
Sitting alone on my cot in the tent, I
could not help but worry and wander what these war hardened men who for so long
had lived by the law of the jungle, might be planning. I could not rule out the
possibility of a mutiny. For me it was a long sleepless night.
Morning came and the hours passed, but
still no McBride. I talked to some of the truck drivers, but nothing happened,
no message or food. Later in the day the guerrillas own commanding officer came
along to check on his troops, again they gathered in a huddle and talked,
frequently looking at me.
The officer and his staff came up to me and
introduced themselves. We talked about our problems and my orders. He was a
very polite and understanding military man.
Although not suggesting it, he somehow gave
me the feeling that the time on my orders had expired to the extent that I
would have to use my own judgement where the food problem was concerned. I
assured him that I would let two of the men go after some food. My big worry
was that McBride might come along to pick us up and find some of the men gone.
Late that afternoon some women and children
walked by. The guards talked to them; the women were most eager to help. It was
explained to me that they would prepare some food and we were to pick it up at
a given time, they pointed at some buildings about a mile across the rice
paddies.
Food not only satisfied the hunger, it also
removed the tension that had been building up. Things returned to normal about
sundown, as we once more sat down to eat together and chat.
The menu was crayfish, and the inevitable
rice, which I always hated. They fixed me a generous dish, and I started with
the crayfish. The crayfish is a cousin to the lobster and looks just like him.
It is much smaller, a fresh water creature; we used to catch them in the draws
on the farm back in Kansas. Only these were still smaller, about an inch long;
maybe they were young once.
I carefully removed the tail from one of
them and painstakingly tried to remove the shell from the tiny piece of meat
inside. I must have been most entertaining, they all stopped eating and
breathing, they just sat there watching me and my strange eating habit. They
had obviously never seen anything like it.
One of them finally interrupted with, “No,
that not the way. Here I show.” He took a handful of the little creatures and
as they were, dumped them in his mouth. Now I was being entertained. The rice
wasn’t so bad after all.
There was little rest for any of us. When I
finally got relieved from the bridge guard, I was called on to lead one of the
squads on another patrol that would take us deep into enemy territory.
With about thirty men we left the camp on
trucks taking us to the area that we were to patrol. As we passed the kitchen
tent, one of the cooks waved at us, saying, “If you bring back prisoners, you
are not getting anything to eat.” He added, “I’ll give it to them.”
In July, the divisions mopping-up operation
sent 1825 japs to the promised land and took only 210 prisoners. The previous
five months, with many more killed, only 56 prisoners were taken, but that was
only because they would not surrender. It could be they heard of the cooks
offer.
After two days of walking, our scouts came
to a clearing in the jungle where they spotted some japs in a bamboo building.
The rest of us moved up to where we had a good view of the building, and on
command, all guns opened fire. The building seemed to shake as the many bullets
riddled it and everything in it. The blaze that followed set their large stock
pile of ammunition into action; it sounded like a popcorn popper and looked
frightening as the whole thing vanished in a roaring blaze.
On the morning of August 13, the First
Sergeant came up to our tent saying, “I know you’re all worn-out, but it looks
like we need to send another patrol.” There was no more You, You and You, it
was mostly volunteers, men that felt they could still drag their bones around.
Our new medic that was treating my cold
told me to avoid all but very light duty; I had the best excuse to sleep this
one out. Slowly, one after another, the men and boys in our tent and those on
either side of us, sat up, got into their boots, threw their cartridge belts
over their shoulders, picked up their rifles and walked out.
Hummel was stretched-out on his cot with
his sore feet stuck outside the tent, bathing them in the sun. That was the
only treatment we had for sore, bleeding feet, and his were really bad, but
Hummel too, sat up and got into his boots.
I could not stand to see these men go while
I stayed behind. What if some of them got hurt because they were shorthanded,
after all the sergeant said it would be a motorized patrol, there should be very
little walking. At any rate, it made a good excuse to go.
After traveling only a few miles, I could
see my mistake, our trucks pulled up to a river that had come up through the
night. The trucks could not cross the river, we had to start walking. The icy
water was wide and chest deep in places, just what I needed for my cold.
We walked all day; we had actually traveled
only a few miles on the trucks. By late afternoon the walking in the hot sun
had caught up with both Hummel, and me. Since the main part of our assignment
was by now behind us, the patrol sergeant had Hummel and I take a short cut to
one of our small detachment camps, where the rest of the patrol would meet us
the following morning.
After a brief rest we started walking into
the sunset along a narrow cart trail. Thoroughly exhausted, we moved at snail’s
pace, from one horizon to the next, we know only that we were getting closer,
with no idea how many more to go.
A small bent-over old man, wearing a big
straw hat, guided his docile caribou onto the trail; he was going our way. His
drag was already loaded, but the kind old man made room for our field packs,
bandoleers, and belts, which were heavy with ammunition and knives. We also
rested our rifle stocks on the edge of the drag to relieve some of the weight.
He stayed with us for some time and was a heavenly help.
The helpfulness of this strong animal
somewhat improved its forbidding looks, and its slow pace was probably never so
appreciated. The full value of this small blessing was not realized until the
old man stopped and told us he was turning off the trail, from here he was
going in another direction.
Now it took the last of our resources to
keep going. Our equipment seemed just twice as heavy now. Hummel’s feet were
bleeding and the pain was reflected in his face, he was in misery. We had
stopped talking; at times we looked at each other as if to say, “Think we’ll
make it?” We had too; we could not stay out here after dark.
By now I was running a very high fever, and
fever is to some degree anesthetic, I could no longer feel all the pains in my
body. I told myself to just keep setting one foot in front of the other; that
nest horizon would be the one. It better be.
But beyond the next horizon was only
disappointment and another horizon in the distance. The sun was looking us
straight in the eyes now, it would not be with us much longer, and it all
seemed so hopeless.
The sun went down; hanging its reddish
afterglow in the western sky, with it went all but the last grain of hope. I
just hoped Hummel could keep going, and I’m sure he was hoping I could keep
going; nether one of us could do much for the other. We kept going.
Then, as we once more reached the high
ground, I saw the most beautiful picture I had ever seen. Silhouetted against
the dying embers of a long hard say, was the United States Flag, waving in the
breeze as if to say, “Come on boys you can make it.” As if all America, was
waving us on.
A few more steps and we could see the small
encampment, only a few hundred yards away. A burst of energy went through my
body and I felt like I could walk another hundred miles. Draped over one of the
tents, was a white cloth displaying the Red Cross, I fixed my eyes on this tent
and lost all contact with the rest of the world. The closer I got, the more I
felt like I could walk till the end of time.
After all those miles, with only one more
step to go, my legs never made it. As I reached for the tent pole my vision
doubled and the earth slapped me in the face.
When I awoke I was stretched out on a cot,
looking at the flame of a lantern hanging from a tent pole. It was pitch dark
outside, I didn't know where I was at; I was scared. I though they finally got
me. A medic walked in, talked to me and assured me that everything was all
right. After a little more sleep on the cot I was taken to another tent were I
slept on the ground with some other men.
I slept through it, but my fever got so bad
and I perspired so much that by morning my body was outlined on the dry sandy
soil.
Later in the morning after we got back to
the company I reported to our medic and told him what had happened. After
examining me, he informed me that I had pneumonia.
Being new at the game of war, he also
reminded me that endangering my health as I had done would be in violation of
the articles of war, and that it was his duty to write out a court martial
report, which he did. Such is war.
Our circuit doctor was making his morning
rounds and stopped by to check the sick. The medic made no attempt at covering
up for me or my mistake. As outlined by regulations, he read the report to the
medical officer. In it, he made clear the fact that I was not to take part in
patrol or similar hard work, and that I did not follow his instructions, that I
did in fact go out on a patrol. I sensed some pride in this military genius.
By now I was much too sick and weak to care
what he wrote or read, or how the doctor might react. It took all my strength
just to stand up straight.
In conclusion the medic asked, “Sir, what
do you think?” The doctor, standing next to me, put his hand on my shoulder and
said, “I think he’s a good soldier.” He completely ignored the report.” Such is
war.
The last ambulance had already been
through; there would be no more transportation till next morning.
The doctor was concerned about my condition
and that I get to a hospital, he told me to get in the back of his jeep, and
told the driver to turn the thing around and go back to the hospital.
The doctor had made only part of his
circuit, this would cause him to be late the rest of the day. However, jeep
drivers had and instinctive way of knowing short cuts, or enjoyed finding new
ones. He said, “Hang on I’m taking a short cut,” this meant we would bounce
across rice paddies, jump ditches and run over everything that got in our way.
The back seat of a jeep is a peace of very
hard wood, right over the axle with only a thin coat of paint for padding. When
I was going down, it was coming up to meet me, jeeps have no rhythm. Most of
the time I rode with my body elevated using my arms for springs.
The doctor helped me into the hospital
tent, gave me and others some quick instructions, wished me well and
disappeared. He was one of those men you never really knew, yet never forget.
I was in the hospital two days when they
circulated a mimeographed bulletin with a big two work headline; WAR ENDS, it
read. There was no shouting or celebrating, as if nothing important had
happened.
Although it seemed to me that my condition
was improving, it was actually worsening. On August 18 I was moved to a bigger
hospital in the Lingayen landing area. Here, for the first time since I left
the states I slept on a mattress and pillow.
By the 24th of August, I along
with others was sent to a hospital near Manila. We were traveling in a C47 (DC
3). It was a nice clear day as we flew over Baguio, the summer capital of these
islands.
Once again I found myself on a hardwood
seat that ran along each side of the plane. The mountainous air was very rough;
it somehow reminded me of the jeep ride. One of the boys had a small monkey, he
let him look out the window; the poor thing was so scared of the height it
panicked and hid behind our backs, it shivered like it was freezing to death.
He must have fallen out of a tree at one time.
After a few minutes in the air the plane
landed at Clark Field. The pilot opened the door and said, “There will be a
short delay, I have to call ahead for flight instructions, if it gets too hot
in here get out and sit under the wings”
He didn't explain what he meant by flight
instructions, we could only humor the thing, even if he never flew a plan before,
he was doing all right so far.
The delay was much longer than expected and
the hot afternoon sun was determined to get us out of that plane. By the time
the pilot got back we were all sitting on the hot asphalt under the wings.
This next one was still a tent hospital and
very hot, but had better equipment, like the X-ray machine which I was
constantly being taken to.
By September 9th, I was in the
35th General, one of the best hospitals on the island. It was here
that a doctor told me that I was going back to the states.
The same doctor and his Jeep driver took me
back to our field hospital. Only two days after I left my outfit, a one page
mimeographed bulletin was being circulated: WAR ENDS! Read the headline.
After being assigned to the 32 Division “A”
of the infantry a rebuilt unit, went back up on the Villa Verde with 160
rifle-men. After 14 days only thirty of us came back as a unit. Forty men died
on the line and ninety were wounded, many of them would never again know a
normal live.
The 32nd Division spent 119 days
on the Villa Verde Trail and saw 916 of its men get killed and many more wounded.
The Japanese had over 8000 of their troops get killed in this battle.
In all the battles of the Second World War,
292,131 Americans died. The last one to die – on the day the war ended – was
from “A” Company of the 128 Infantry.
1 comment:
Truly a gripping story! Thank you so much for sharing this. My grandfather fought there, but he never talked much about the war.
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