Guadalcanal Diary Read online

  There were also older favorites like “Old Mill Stream” (with harmony) and “Massa’s in de Cold, Cold Ground.” I heard the song at several parts of the ship.

  In the calm of the night, with only the sound of water rushing past the ship for accompaniment, there were the usual tales of this or that girl, this or that adventure, passed in the darkness. And I heard some more of the now-familiar “grousing about food,” the marine tradition of complaining that the “slum” (stew) served was no good.

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 1

  At breakfast this morning, the conversation revolved about a favorite topic—home. We had beans for the meal, and this brought up the word Boston, which was enough to start a course of reminiscing about Boston (for the majority of those aboard are Easterners), about New York, Bay Head, N.J. Said Lieut. Ralph Cory, a former diplomatic attaché who is now our Japanese interpreter: “I’d like to be back sailing a boat on Chesapeake Bay.”

  Said “Doc” Stevenson, a Navy warrant-officer in the Medical Corps, “Hell, if I was back there, I wouldn’t be out in any boat.”

  “That’s right,” said Cory. “I’d settle for the White Mountains, or Cape Cod.”

  Passing down a companionway to my room, I heard one marine say to another, “What’s on at the Regent tonight, Jack?”

  “Man, don’t talk that way,” said the other. “You make me feel bad.”

  At 11:30 the beep-beep-beep of “general quarters” call sounded, and there was a great rush along decks and up and down ladders as the speaker system barked: “Man all air defense stations.” At 11:50, however, the stations were secured. The unidentified aircraft which had been spotted was identified as friendly.

  I saw the colonel on the wing of the bridge. “These boys are anxious to get into the scrap,” he said. “They’ll fight.”

  “If it works out I’ll have a good story,” I said.

  “You mustn’t think of it any other way than that it’s got to work out,” he said.

  I stopped to talk to Lieut. Snell (Evard J. Snell of Vineland, N.J.), who is in charge of much of the paper-work involved in this effort, and he estimated that probably one in three boats will reach the shore in our attack attempt, for, he said, we will probably be faced by very strong forces. Probably, he said, three out of four of us would survive the assault; that was his estimate.

  When I saw the memorandum which had been prepared on the terrain which we are to take, I could understand his high estimate of casualties.

  “From our landing point,” said the memorandum, “our forces will have to cross a stream about twenty feet wide and 400 yards south of the beach. The name of the stream is the Ilu and it runs westward and parallel to the shore into the Tenaru River. Actually it is backwater from the Tenaru and except in the rainy season is still and stagnant. Its banks are steep, boggy and from five to six feet high. The bottom is silty. One method of crossing would be to cut down the banks and throw the excavated ground into the stream, filling it up. If necessary this crossing could be topped with trunks of cocoanut trees.

  “On the south bank of the Ilu,” the memorandum went on, “is high grass averaging four feet in height which affords possible positions for machine guns, riflemen, etc., with a field of fire extending across the stream toward the beach.”

  Another river which our forces will have to cross, said the memorandum, is the Tenaru. “The banks of the Tenaru average eight to ten feet in height and are covered with grass and thick brush affording possible positions for riflemen and machine guns. Just beyond the west bank of the Tenaru are deep holes about six feet deep and 100 feet long, which have been scooped out by the river during the floods, thus forming natural, concealed positions.

  “The Tenaru follows a serpentine course with a current averaging four knots. During the rainy season and floods the water rushes at much greater speed. The river is full of deep holes well over a man’s head.

  “After fording the Tenaru our forces will advance across the Tenaru plantation.… This consists of cocoanut trees planted regularly in groups of four in a diamond formation. The result is that lanes of observation radiate in all directions. Most of these lanes are twenty-seven feet wide. Others are of lesser widths. Now they are beginning to be overgrown, but nevertheless afford good observations and fields of fire.

  “On leaving Tenaru plantation our forces will emerge onto a grassy plain. Here the grass, if it has not been burned out by the Japs, is about four feet high. Though the ground is mostly firm, after a half mile it becomes swampy in patches and wooded at the headwaters of Alligator Creek.

  “At this season these headwaters are usually dried up and easily crossed. The woods however are dense with a visibility of hardly five yards. There are no roads or paths. Between the trees are thorny vines and thick low underbrush through which it is necessary to cut passage.”

  That did not sound like an easy—or safe—terrain through which to advance. I suppose many others aboard shared my qualms about the approaching ordeal. However, we could not expect that it would be easy.

  There was a meeting for platoon leaders in the ward-room this afternoon. For two hours, the roomful of men sweated and steamed, while orders were read. There were new, larger maps of the beachhead on the wall.

  Lieut. Col. Maxwell, commanding officer of a large group of assault troops, presided. It was three o’clock when the meeting began.

  “Gen. Rupertus (Brg. Gen. William H. Rupertus of Washington, D.C.) is taking the other islands,” said the colonel. “We are going to capture Guadalcanal Island.

  “When we land on this beach here” (the colonel’s Southern background was noticeable in the way he pronounced “heah”), “the first thing we strike a few hundred yards from the beach is a creek. It’s quite an obstacle. We didn’t know about it until a few days ago. It’s too late to change our plans, so we’re going to land here.”

  The colonel went through the details of our landing plan, and concluded, “Now that’s enough of the background to get you started. Capt. Gale will now read the orders.”

  Capt. Gale began, “Order No.—. Plan of landing Annex D landing diagram … Co. B will advance … fire on targets of opportunity.”

  Everyone was waiting for the item which would name the day of landing. But we were disappointed. For, finally, when Capt. Gale reached it, he read, “Paragraph X: Day and zero hour to be announced.”

  Col. Maxwell read an estimate of enemy strength, which placed their numbers at an ominously large figure. He spoke of the indications that the Japs are well equipped with machine guns and artillery.

  Then a lieutenant rose to read “Annex E to General Order No. 3,” which ended with “Paragraph D: Burial: Graves will be suitably marked. All bodies will bear identification tags.”

  The order “Naval Gunfire and Air Support Annex,” however, lent somewhat of a cheering note to the meeting. It told of a terrifically heavy concentration of fire and intensive dive-bombing attack to be directed against Japanese shore installations before our landing.

  There was a detailed account of the intensity and location of fire each participating war vessel was to deliver. The list ran on for half an hour, and the sum total was vastly impressive.

  There were other orders, and then Col. Maxwell rose to deliver the final “pep talk.”

  “This is going to be a difficult matter,” he said, “with the rivers to cross, the grass four to five feet tall, and the drainage ditches.…

  “But it can be done and it must be done and we’ve got to lead the way.

  “There’s only one thing to do,” cautioned the colonel. “Get out of the boat, say ‘Follow me,’ run like hell and take these people with you.…

  “It’s the first time in history we’ve ever had a huge expedition of this kind accompanied by transports. It’s of world-wide importance. You’d be surprised if you knew how many people all over the world are following this. You cannot fail them.”

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 2

  Church services were crowded this
morning, for the day of our landing is drawing close and more and more of the men aboard, “the Padre,” Father Reardon, told me, want to settle themselves in some sort of spiritual self-understanding and be prepared for at least the possibility of death. The general feeling is that our landing will take place some time before next Sunday; that therefore this is the last Sunday for Communion and the straightening of souls.

  I watched Father Reardon, his face pale in the flickering light of the votive candles, as he chanted the mass. He was kneeling, rising automatically as if mesmerized, with his eyes half shut and his lips moving only faintly, as in a dream.

  I saw the marines filing out of services, stopping in the companionway to kneel against a bare wall which for the time being was a holy station. In another hour or two it would again become merely a wall, and the church would become the mess hall. I watched one particularly well-muscled fellow, whose broad, sinewy back and heavy arms gave the impression of tremendous physical power. His broad face was passive and dreamy as he knelt by the wall and made the sign of the crucifix.

  After the Catholic ceremonies, came the Protestant, also crowded. There was a sermon, with a proper dash of science, on memory and its part in duty, delivered by a fat young man in blues. There were hymns, and, after the services, Communion.

  After lunch, I went into Hold No. 3 to watch the occupant of a neighboring cabin, Lieut. Donoghue (Lieut. James V. Donoghue of Jersey City, N.J.) telling his machine-gun platoon about the plans for landing. Today was the day on which, all over the ship, platoon leaders first passed the details of our attack plan along to their men. Donoghue’s session was typical; his men are going ashore in the first wave of assault troops.

  Under a yellow electric light in the dingy hold, Lieut. Donoghue, a huge, beefy fellow who used to play football for Notre Dame, unfolded an already well-worn map.

  “Company B will land here at zero hour,” he said, pointing with a stubby finger. “You know we’ll be with ’em. We’re in the first wave.” There was no sound from the circle of men.

  “We are the assault wave guide,” continued Donoghue. “See, here’s where we land, to the right here.” Then he went through the details of the operation.

  “I recommend you take along a change of underwear,” he said, and that brought a laugh.

  “Well,” concluded the lieutenant, “that’s the dope. You want to go in there expecting the worst. I expect the naval bombardment will soften the place up a lot. I’m depending on you to take things over if I get knocked off.”

  At 2:30 in the afternoon the leaders of the assault companies, Capt. Kaempfer of A Co., and Capt. Hawkins of B Co., met with their platoon leaders in the ward-room. For two hours they pored over plans. And that, they told me, was only the beginning. It will take days of study and mental drilling to get the facts of the planned operation down to the last buck private.

  At 3:30, general quarters was sounded, but it was only a rehearsal. There was practice firing into the bright blue sky with our anti-aircraft machine guns and small cannon. It was pleasant to watch the streaks of tracer bullets branching up into the blue, and then, as they burned out, shrinking into bright glowing spots clustering like stars for a moment, and then fading.

  Up on the bridge, I found a happy group of ship’s officers and men. Now at least we are on our way directly toward our objective. The watch officer told me that our base course is pointed straight at the Solomons.

  In the beautiful white sunlight on the open signal bridge at the top of the ship, I found Col. Hunt and his staff officers relaxing. The colonel, seated in a canvas chair under an awning, was reading a magazine with as much contentment and calm as if he had been sitting on his front porch of a Sunday afternoon back home.

  At supper tonight, it was made known that the day of our landing is to be Friday, August 7th, five days hence. The zero hour is not yet known, but it will be in the early morning.

  After supper, Maj. Milton V. “Mike” O’Connell (a former New York newspaperman and public relations counsel) gave a lecture to the officers on Japanese jungle-fighting tactics. Genial, portly “Mike” drew a laugh when he warned the lads to be as silent as possible while advancing against the Japs.

  “We can beat the Japs at their own game of silence,” he said, “if you don’t yell back and forth. You know how the marines are; some marine’ll yell to his buddy: ‘Hey, Bill, is that C Company over there?’” Maj. O’Connell waved his short arms wildly, mimicking the enthusiasm of his typical marine.

  “Don’t let your men get curious and run over to see if B Company is over there, or what kind of chow [food] they’ve got. If your man gets too curious, he’ll be chow himself.”

  The major warned of the Jap sniper’s trick of tying himself in a tree, waiting until you have passed by, and then shooting you. “Don’t take any chances,” said the major, “it’s better to shoot a few cocoanuts than miss a Jap egg-head.”

  In our cabin tonight Capt. Hawkins and I talked over the coming offensive. He said the men were ready. All over the ship, he said, he had seen them sharpening their bayonets, oiling their knives, cleaning and sighting along their rifles. “And they do it without being told,” he said, as if awed by the phenomenon.

  MONDAY, AUGUST 3

  After lunch today I walked out on the bow of the ship, where there were groups of marines scattered over the piled gear, boats, ropes, hatch covers, ammunition boxes and assorted machinery that filled the deck. The sunshine was bright and there was a pleasant cool breeze.

  Some of the men were still whetting bayonets and knives, and others were cleaning and oiling their guns. Others were grouped around a four-handed game of cards. One little group of men lounged by the starboard rail, idly watching one of their number who was throwing half-dollars over the side. He had a big stack of them in his left hand.

  “He’s trying to make ’em skip on the waves,” one of the group explained to me.

  Now another marine, armed with a pile of half-dollars, also began to throw the money over the side. “I won’t have no use for it anyhow,” he explained.

  “I’ve seen many a guy make liberty on as much money as they’re throwin’ away,” suggested a sailor who was watching.

  “Oh, hell,” said one of the marines, “money don’t mean a thing out here anyhow. Even if you stay alive, you can’t buy anythin’.”

  Brownie, the sailors’ dog, began to bark. On the bow some of the men were hosing down the decks, and they had excited him.

  “Did you know Brownie got his tetanus shots, just like us?” asked one of the marines. “He’s got a tag marked with his name and the date of his tetanus shot; and it says on there, ‘Class, Dog.’”

  By this time the crowd of marines and sailors in our particular group had increased in size. Spotting my “C” arm band, they knew I was a news correspondent and had come up with the pleasingly straightforward idea of getting their names in the paper.

  I asked where the majority of the marines aboard came from. “Boston and New York,” said one of the boys. “We take a poll every day. Right now Boston’s leadin’.”

  As we were talking, a short, chubby boy with a shaved head came up and stood at the edge of our circle. “There’s the youngest guy on the ship,” said one of the marines. The lad told me he was just seventeen, and that his name was Sam Gearhart and he came from Allentown, Pa.

  “You must have joined up before you were seventeen, Sam,” I said.

  “I did,” he answered. “But they can’t throw me out now.”

  An even younger-looking lad ambled by on the deck. I asked him how old he was. “Eighteen,” he said. He looked about fifteen at the most. He said his name was Thomas H. Pilant and his home was in Harlan, Ky.

  The other marines told me a story about Pvt. Pilant. “His face is so small,” said one of them, “that he can’t get into a regular gas mask. They won’t let him go in with the assault wave.”

  The other, older marines, kidded Pilant about his fate. “That’s all rig
ht,” they said. “You’ll go on galley duty.”

  Col. Hunt issued a mimeographed notice to his troops this afternoon. “The coming offensive in the Guadalcanal area,” he wrote, “marks the first offensive of the war against the enemy, involving ground forces of the United States. The marines have been selected to initiate this action which will prove to be the forerunner of successive offensive actions that will end in ultimate victory for our cause. Our country expects nothing but victory from us and it shall have just that. The word failure shall not even be considered as being in our vocabulary.

  “We have worked hard and trained faithfully for this action and I have every confidence in our ability and desire to force our will upon the enemy. We are meeting a tough and wily opponent but he is not sufficiently tough or wily to overcome us because We Are Marines [the capitals were the colonel’s].

  “Our commanding general and staff are counting upon us and will give us whole-hearted support and assistance. Our contemporaries of the other Task Organizations are red-blooded marines like ourselves and are ably led. They too will be there at the final downfall of the enemy.

  “Each of us has his assigned task. Let each vow to perform it to the utmost of his ability, with added effort for good measure.

  “Good luck and God bless you and to hell with the Japs.”

  In the late afternoon, I listened while Lieut. Harold H. Babbin of New York City, a swarthy, cheerful fellow with a good Bronx accent, passed on his instructions to his platoon. Most of his talk centered around the Japanese tactics of jungle fighting. The circle of tough lads, many of them with unshaven faces, listened good-naturedly, interrupting occasionally, but not too often, with remarks.

  Lieut. Babbin warned against booby-traps, such as helmets, bayonets, or other items of interest which the Japs might leave about with a rig of wiring to cause an explosion when they were picked up.

  “When you see a .45 or something with beautiful pearl” (he pronounced it “poil”) “on it and beautiful engraving, don’t pick it up,” he said. “It might blow up.”