Published: October 22, 2009 10:14 pm      

Here’s one day in the life of a U.S. Marine

Billy Menges and I met in a bowling league years ago. He was a retired lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Marine Corps and a veteran of World War II and the Korean War. A gracious, friendly, loving man whose service to his country continued all his life, Billy died last week.

He had given me his written account of what happened one day in his life, long ago. In it, he said, “The battle of Iwo Jima produced and brought forth the finest virtue in man and likewise the worst in human endeavor. The activities of men in this battle served to illustrate the meaning and understanding of what war is all about. And, that is: War never proves who is right or wrong, only who is left ... Amen.”

I’ll share it with you today, so you can see what some have endured so Americans and others around the world can live as free people. It is graphic ... but so is the price of freedom.

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One Afternoon

One Afternoon is a World War II chronicle as seen through the eyes of an 18-year-old Marine rifleman. This was not the first nor the last of many devastating events on Iwo. However, it was all so typical of many other afternoons.

On Feb. 19, 1945, a small island in the Bonin Island Group in the western Pacific named Iwo Jima was assaulted by the 5th Amphibious Corps of the United States Marine Corps. By this action World War II was taken to the very doorstep of the Japanese homeland. This landing resulted in a momentous battle that lasted for 36 days and claimed death or injury for nearly 50,000 human beings.

The battle of Iwo Jima produced and brought forth the finest virtue in man and likewise the worst in human endeavor. The activities of men in this battle served to illustrate the meaning and understanding of what war is all about. And, that is: War never proves who is right or wrong, only who is left ... Amen.

It was now D plus 5, the 24th of February, and like D-Day it has lived in my memory in great detail ever since. This was the day the Second Battalion of the 27th Marines moved into the area of Iwo Jima known as Death Valley, which proved itself to be appropriately named. Because of the open ground in front of Fox Company, the company to which I belonged, the attack was planned to take us off to our left before swinging northward into the open end of the valley. Easy Company on our left moved westward to make room for us as we came through.

Some 300 yards to our front was a deep indentation in the terrain with a steep ridge beyond it which guarded the approach to the high ground toward the north end of the island. Our immediate objective was this low stadium-shaped piece of ground with the enemy entrenched in the higher ground around it in an arc-shaped defense.

In the morning and early afternoon hours prior to our attack, mortars and artillery, accompanied by air strikes and naval gunfire, pounded the area to our immediate front. At 3 in the afternoon my platoon (the first platoon of Fox Company) moved to the left and the second platoon who was on our right followed. As we began to move the enemy mortar and artillery fire picked up from its intermittent stage to a continuous shelling. This was soon added to with rifle and machine gun fire and turned the whole area into a veritable curtain of steel. As we moved in short, low crouching rushes the front line squads initially made rapid progress.

By some circumstance, I was near the rear of the platoon and shortly after we entered the mounded and shell-pocked area at the head of the valley, I found myself next to Robert Goff, one of the two bazooka men in the assault squad of our platoon. We were both lying in a big shell crater to avoid an incoming artillery barrage. In so doing, his bazooka had become filled with sand and ash. He asked me to stay with him until he could get it cleaned and operating again. I agreed, and we stayed put while the rest of the platoon moved on forward.

As Goff began to clean his weapon we heard a series of the “Whistling Nellie” shells being fired. These were very large but slow-moving mortar shells that we had been introduced to several days before. They were so slow-moving you could see them in flight, and to our great concern one seemed to be right on our line. I can clearly remember Goff saying, “My God, Menges, it’s coming right in here with us.”

We did the only thing we could do, we lay flat and burrowed into the sand as best we could. The shell hit right on top of the crater, and dust and sand rained down on us until we were nearly covered. Very shaken but uninjured we dug ourselves out, and shortly thereafter Goff got his bazooka cleared and we started off down the valley to catch up with our comrades. They were easy to follow because of their tracks in the sand and the sound of heavy rifle and machine gun fire ahead, which served as a direction guide.

As we neared the end of the valley, which opened up into a stadium-like bowl, we stopped to get our bearings. From our vantage point, we could see our platoon and Second Platoon pinned down in an arc-shaped line to our left front. By creeping and crawling and in short sprints, we joined our buddies of the First Platoon.

Lying on the ground and bleeding profusely was Adolf Fang, the other bazooka man from our platoon assault squad. Fang had attempted to get a shot at a pillbox immediately to our front about 40 yards away, and he took five bullets through his chest for his efforts. A corpsman was already on the scene and working on him. I also learned that our platoon leader, Lt. Tilghman, had the bottom of his nose injured but that he was all right. Sgt. George O’Keefe, the assault squad leader, had taken a bullet through his left eye and was lying off to our right. The good Catholic that he was, he was saying a rosary and believed he was dying.

No sooner had I arrived when someone, and I don’t remember who, asked me if I could get one of my patented rifle grenades into the pillbox that was giving us so much grief. I had some success with this back on D-Day and now was being called on again. I agreed and started looking for a good firing position. There was none available, so my only alternative was to look over the escarpment that we were lying behind and try to get a fix on the pillbox.

I crawled a few yards to my left where Bill Bainter, a B.A.R. (Browning Automatic Rifle) man in our squad, was on a slightly elevated mound firing into the pillbox and the other bunkers beyond it. As I began to rise up to look over the escarpment, I heard Bainter say, “My God, B.C., be careful, this guy can really shoot.” I raised up quickly and in an instant I fixed the pillbox location.

However, in that same instant, a quick spray of sand splashed onto my face. I later surmised that my perfectly rounded helmet shape appearing over the escarpment edge had to be an inviting target. Luckily for me, that shot was just a little low, and had the Jap in the pillbox had one more click of elevation he would have shot me right between the eyes.

Needless to say, I ducked down and took a deep and thankful breath.

At this point, Bob Goff, the other bazooka man whom I had stayed with earlier when his weapon was full of sand, said he was ready to take a shot and crawled over to a spot near me. He took his helmet off and started to raise his bazooka.

Simultaneously, several of us yelled to him to put his helmet on, but he complained that he could not sight properly with it on. No sooner had his bazooka cleared the escarpment when everyone heard that ominous “wock” sound. He had taken a round right through the top of his forehead and it split his head wide open from front to back. The cry “Corpsman!” went out, and Bill Bainter and I hurriedly got out combat dressings and applied them in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

However, our efforts were to no avail as his head swelled very rapidly and his brains began to ooze out along the sides of the bandages. A corpsman arrived quickly and told us to move on to our job and he would take care of him. It made no difference now, because we both knew his survival hopes were gone.

Off to my left I spied a clump of overhanging bushes with a flat opening underneath. I told Bainter to keep that guy in the pillbox busy with his B.A.R. while I crawled up into the bushes to try a rifle grenade shot. No sooner had I reached the spot when along came Corporal Ed Schumacher of the machine gun platoon with his squad. Ed asked me if they could take the spot because it looked like a good position for them to set up and bring heavy fire across the whole front. I reluctantly backed out of there and moved off to the left rear looking for another position.

During this time, mortar fire kept coming into our area and this, along with the rifle and machine gun fire from the Jap pillboxes, kept most of our company pinned down and unable to move. Our company commander, Capt. O’Rourke, had been gut-shot, and our executive officer, Lt. Miles, assumed command. However, this occurred out of our platoon area and I was not aware of it until some time later that afternoon. The heat of the battle and our difficult position made communication between units impossible.

Easy Company on our left flank was also having a hard time, so tanks were brought up to help bolster their portion of the attack. However, these tanks became prime targets for Jap mortarmen. Several were knocked out immediately and many nearby infantrymen were killed or wounded.

When Corporal Schumacher set up his gun and began to fire, a big cloud of dust was stirred up, which is often the character of an automatic weapon. One of the tanks to our left rear spotted this dust and mistook it for an enemy position. Soon the tank’s machine gun fire began to clip the tops of the overhanging bushes and I knew disaster was at hand.

A few seconds later, a 75mm. shell from the tank followed, and it was right on target. The shell hit Schumacher’s foot, severing his left ankle. He crawled out of the bushes in front of the gun, screaming for the firing to stop. I could see his foot dangling and being dragged by a few tendons as he moved toward the rear. Bill Ryan, an ammo carrier of the gun squad, had been lying at Schumacher’s feet and when the shell hit it took off most of his face.

At this point, Clarence Milburn, another member of the squad, yelled to Ryan to come on, that they were getting out of there. Not knowing what had happened and seeing no movement, Milburn turned him over. Seeing his condition, Milburn broke down and went into deep shock.

Previously, on D-Day, Milburn had taken a bullet through the top of his helmet, and this incident was enough to take him over the edge. Obviously, this was to be the end of his battle experience and he was led away by another member of his squad.

We were now several hours into this mess and darkness was beginning to set in. It was decided to withdraw Fox Company and bring Dog Company into the fight. Thus far, this brief interlude had cost Fox Company six dead and 31 wounded. In addition we were somewhat disorganized and in need of ammo, water and food. To withdraw under fire is a difficult movement and often hard to control. However, it did produce the most courageous act of leadership I have ever seen or read about.

When the word was passed to withdraw, Staff Sgt. James Gibson of the Second Platoon stood up in clear view of everyone, friend and foe alike, on a piece of high ground and directed us back up the valley the same way we had come in. He had yelled in his high pitched voice so that all could hear that every man coming out was to bring a wounded man with him and any one empty handed would be shot by him.

Meanwhile, enemy machine, gun and. rifle fire continued to spray the area and mortar and artillery fire was still incoming. How Gibson survived that day, standing up there exposed and directing traffic like he did, I consider solely a miracle from God. He stood there like a rock and directed that withdrawal, which unquestionably saved many more casualties.

I have often wondered since, where were our company officers and other senior NCOs at this point in time. Why did the job fall to Jim Gibson? For me, he was at that moment the epitome of what a brave and dedicated soldier is all about. However, Gibson’s heroic efforts that day were not yet finished and he was to do much more.

On the way back out of the valley I helped several of the walking wounded. I arrived back at the head of the valley and saw that a collecting station for wounded had been set up and tanks had been brought forward to evacuate them.

Darkness was now beginning to approach and it was at this point that i saw bazooka man Adolph Fang again. It was to be the last time for many years to come. He was being held up by Mike Ladich from our platoon and another man and they were preparing to put him up onto a tank. As I approached him I could see he was covered with blood, ashen grey and starry eyed. He looked at Ladich and said, “Mike, do you think I will get a purple heart for this?” I almost broke down. Here was a man with five machine gun bullets in his chest in obvious shock and extreme pain, not knowing if he was going to live or die, and still had a sense of humor. No one present thought he would make it back to the beach alive.

I’m happy to say that he survived and lived in Davis, Ill., until his death in 2006. We called each other frequently and kept up with the activities of the other survivors from our platoon.

Unfortunately, Bob Goff did not survive his wound and Ed Schumacher lost his leg. Ed died in 1994 and was a bitter man to the very end. Fortunately, George O’Keefe survived and miraculously, his sight was unimpaired. He died in 2008.

After the wounded and dead were gone, we were herded into a low-lying area surrounded by some bunkers and scrubby brush and organized into a night defense, mainly through the efforts of Gibson. No sooner had I and two other troopers completed our foxhole when here comes Gibson again. He didn’t know me by name, but he knew I was a Fox Company man and he said, “Come on big guy, I need you for a job.”

Having helped the company into an organized defense, he now recruited me and 10 other guys to go back to the battalion supply area for ammunition, water and food that we badly needed. He loaded me down with a dozen bandoliers of M-1 rifle ammo strung around my neck and shoulders, and then handed me a five-gallon can of water.

I must have fallen five times on the way back to our company area., but the other overloaded guys did likewise. Despite our difficulties, Gibson just kept pushing us along. When we arrived back at the company, he dismissed us and I returned to my fox hole and instantly fell asleep.

For his efforts that day, Jim Gibson was awarded the Bronze Star. This was a recognition not even close to his accomplishments. I believed then and still do today that Jim Gibson should have been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. He earned it.

Thirty more days were to follow this experience before the campaign ended. However, none were quite so expensive in terms of human suffering and sacrifice. Many more exciting events were to occur, but these only served as painful reminders. Such is the nature of war. What a waste.

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Thanks for your friendship, Bill, and thanks for what you did to preserve our freedom.

SEMPER FI!