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Old 11-19-2003, 08:44 PM
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Post Nov 20th 1943 Battle of Tarawa by Gil Ferguson

This is a Battle that always intrigued me as a kid Today is the Anniversary of that Fateful day and battle over 50 years ago.

"Hell Revisited"
by
Gil Ferguson
The battle for the island of Tarawa marked America's first major offensive in the Pacific war. It was also the first attempt to make an amphibious assault against a highly fortified enemy position. It wrote a new page in military annals, as one of America's and the Marine Corps' bloodiest battles. And though I fought in three wars and dozens of battles, I will never forget Tarawa: It was living Hell.
"Last week some two to three thousand U.S. Marines, most of them now dead or wounded, gave the nation a name to stand besides those of Concord Bridge, the Bonhomme Richard, the Alamo, Little Big Horn and Belleau Wood. The name was Tarawa." -- Time Magazine, December 6, 1943.

It began when the treads on our amphibious tractor hit the edge of the coral reef surrounding and protecting the island. Suddenly, we stood dead in the water. Then, just as abruptly, the driver, PFC Ed Moore, shifted to land drive, taking us over the coral reef and into U.S. Marine Corps history. The battle for Tarawa had begun; the war would end aboard the Battleship Missouri, in a Japanese harbor, two years later.
I was a Marine Private in my teens. I had a safe job teaching rifle markmanship to Marine recruits in San Diego when one of my three brothers, each of us in different branches of the military, was killed. I, like most every American during our country's finest hour, just had to go join the fight.

Volunteering turned out to be the easy part. The next thing I knew, I was, in the middle of September, in the snows of New Zealand, with the 3rd Battalion, 2nd Regiment of the 2nd Marine Division. They had been sent there to rest and recuperate after stopping the Japanese march across the Pacific, at the battle of Guadalcanal.

I was assigned to a Machine Gun Platoon as a "runner." My new duty meant I'd be the human telephone between my Platoon Leader, Lt. Cogdil, and Capt. O'Brien, our Company Commander. I barely had time to learn much about the Marines I had joined, other than they were a very tough bunch who considered themselves "old salts," in the best tradition that title deserves in the Corps. However, once aboard ship, my Sergeant told me not to worry, that combat was not nearly as bad as my new mates' war stories had described. In a very short time, both he and I would experience battle and war in its most brutal and horrible form.

It took us several weeks aboard the troop ships to get to Tarawa and the Gilbert-Marshall Islands. Tarawa was a small, flat coral island, shaped like a long-tailed bird. It was only about 700 yards wide at the head and beak and about two miles long. But, after the first 2000 yards, it wasn't much wider than 100 yards. There was a narrow airstrip running down the middle of the island, and the entire island, part of a chain of small islands, was surrounded by a dangerous coral reef.
Tarawa itself was surrounded by a rock-and-coconut log wall about five feet high, with anti-boat guns set in pockets along the wall. There were huge guns, taken from Singapore, on the corners of the island.

The island was literally covered with pill-boxes, bomb shelters, gun bunkers, trenches and barbed-wire. The Japanese said their island fortress was impervious to attack. Of course they had never met Marines.

"A million men could not take Tarawa in a hundred years!"-- Keiji Shibasaki, Tarawa Defense Commander and Rear Admiral for the Japanese Imperial Navy.

Since I was the runner, I was to go ashore in the first wave and point out targets to our machine gunners. They were to arrive in the succeeding waves. The battle, primarily hand-to-hand combat, one of the most ferocious in history, is now 50 years past, but I still marvel at the irony of that order. Those that managed to live long enough to step on Tarawa certainly didn't need anyone to point out the enemy, they were overwhelmed with targets.

"On a barren atoll, you come in and the foe is right there. He meets you with all his firepower as you come ashore. He must stop you there or never."-- Lieutenant General A.A. Vandegrift.

On the way to battle, we practiced getting into the small boats and being lowered from our big Coast Guard troop ship, into the water. Since we would eventually do this at three o'clock in the morning, we practiced in the dark every night. That itself was hair raising, because the boats, like outside life boats on a cruise liner, hung about three to four feet off the side of the ship and the upper deck was about five stories above the water.

The night before the landing, it was difficult for any of us to sleep. At about two o'clock in the morning they called us for breakfast, and we later assembled and were led in prayers by a Corporal we all honored and respected as a very good man. We were all clean shaven. The doctors said it would make it easier to operate. While this was kind of a gruesome thought, I remember that all the shaving lotion made the mess hall smell good for the first time.

"They were the bravest youngsters I've ever seen," said Lieutenant Herman Brukardt, M.D. Later, he would remark: "They were torn and shattered by all types of projectiles but most of them were calm and quiet when we got to them."

At three o'clock, on that very dark morning, I stepped across to the small boat along with part of an Infantry Platoon that I was going in with. As they began to lower us into the water, we could see a great orange light on the horizon. We knew what it was, it was Tarawa burning. As we moved away from the ship we could see the flashes from the big Navy guns blasting the island.

"We do not intend to neutralize (Tarawa), we do not intend to destroy it. Gentlemen, we will obliterate it." -- Rear Admiral Harry Hill.

Just as it began to get light, our small boats met up with the new-fangled metal monsters that were going to carry those of us in the first three waves onto the beach. I was assigned to the first one in the first wave. We called these new amphibian tractors or tanks, "Alligators." Since we were in the middle of the ocean and our boat and the Alligator were both bobbing up and down, it made our transfer, loaded down with gear as we were, difficult and dangerous. But we were all young, athletic and in superb physical condition; nothing was too difficult in those days.

Our Alligator, with about 30 of us in its open belly, bobbed up and down, making endless circles while the driver waited for the word to go in. We could see the dive bombers strafing and bombing. They appeared to be destroying every last grain of sand on the island, and we began to feel a bit down at the thought that there would be nothing left for us to do.

"We're going to steam roller that place until Hell wouldn't have it." -- General Holland M. (Howling Mad) Smith.

Just about the time everyone was getting sick from bobbing up and down in that metal box, we got the signal to go in. Crouched down now, we could see nothing but the sky and hear nothing but the loud roar of the engines and the clanking of the steel swimming cups on the tank's treads. We were unprepared for the abrupt change when the tank treads grabbed onto the coral reef protecting the island.

The sudden quiet was broken by two artillery rounds bursting almost overhead. At the same time we cringed at the sound of bullets raking the outside of our iron Alligator. This profane introduction to Tarawa silenced the "Ta-ra-wa-boom-T-A" we had been singing to the tune of the cancan music. For the first time, it hit me that I was in the first boat in the first wave and that there were people I didn't even know who were trying to kill me.

We started across the 600 yards of jagged coral that protected the island, headed fore Red Beach I. Sometimes the treads would be swimming through deep water, most of the time they were just grinding across the coral in shallow water. But every inch of the way told us the enemy wasn't dead. And as we got closer and closer the sounds of guns and explosions became so loud that they drowned out the tractor noises. And the bright morning sun was quickly hidden by dense smoke from the fires and the guns. I began to feel sick. The faces of all young men around me appeared pale as if drained of blood.

With a start and a lurch, we felt the tractor raise up out of the water and onto the few yards of beach before it rammed into the sea wall. We nearly tipped over in the driver's courageous attempt to get us over the wall.

Immediately, the engine stopped. The Platoon Sergeant, in the front of the compartment, stood up and yelled, "Everybody out!" just as a machine gun raked the side of his head. I was in the rear and, like the others, was immediately splattered with his blood. He had been a hero at Guadalcanal. I thought he was dead, but I learned many years later that he lived through it. My heart was pumping so fast I could actually sense the adrenaline rushing through my body.

Knowing we were the number one craft on the right flank, I jumped out the right side. I didn't think there would be any enemy there. There wasn't; just water, water to the right and behind me. Most of the men in the platooon had gone out the left side with their Sergeant. I started around the rear of the tank to join them and ran face to face with the two largest Japanese soldiers I was ever to see. Life stopped for a moment and I found myself back on the side of the tractor. I quickly checked my rifle to again make sure it was loaded. It was not. The bolt was back with only a gaping hole where the eight bullets should have been. I loaded in a micro-second, thanks to all the ceaseless training.

I felt like a fool as I cautiously slid to the rear of the tank to do what I should have done the first time. The soldiers were still there. They were lying dead in the water with my empty ammo clip beside them. It was only then that I realized the barrel of my weapon had been fired; it was burning my hand.

"Tarawa fell because every Marine who died had a shot at the Japs before he went down... finally so many Japs were dead that the (rest of the) Marines were able to get on the beach." -- New York Times Correspondent Robert Trumbell.

I stepped over them and joined the other Marines at the wall. They had knocked out the weapon, but some of the enemy were hiding in the tunnel under the wall that connected their gun in- placement to the inland side of the wall. We tried to shoot them as they hid in pockets in the tunnel, but we were not very successful. Finally, a Marine threw a grenade in and it was all over.

Crouched against the sea wall, I looked out to the sea behind me. It was an awful, terrible sight. The small boats carrying Marines in the waves following ours could not get over the coral lip. The boats dropped their ramps and the men jumped out and began to wade ashore. We could see some drown as their big packs and heavy gear took them down when they inadvertently stepped into water-filled bomb craters, or into some natural deep spot. All the time, they were under murderous machine gun and mortar fire as they slowly waded the 600 yards to shore.

Some stopped on a spit of sand to rest, and the Japanese,on the inland side of the wall, had "zeroed" in on that spot, would quickly kill them with mortar fire. Then as fate would have it, a wave would come and wash the dead away so that those next to arrive never knew it was a death zone. In desperation, to warn them, I fired over the heads of some of them but they just thought it was the enemy, and they kept coming.

"We are in the presence of the last great enemy, Death." -- Chaplain Harry R. Boer.

Within a matter of minutes I realized I was almost alone among the living still on the small beach. I could not stand the sight of those Marines wading to their deaths and the dead ones in the water near me, so I threw myself over the wall where I knew the enemy machine gunners must be. I lay still on the other side of the wall, trying to take in the macabre scene where men were fighting hand-to-hand and shooting each other and throwing hand grenades. It was like a big bar-room fight, to the bitter end. Just as I was about to get up, I heard a "pop." It sounded like a cap pistol. That was the first time I was to hear the frightening sound of the enemy arming one of their grenades by banging it against their helmet. I saw only his hand as he threw it toward me from his hole. I kicked it away from me just as it exploded.

I woke up thinking I had been unconscious for a long time; actually, it must have only been a few minutes. I felt the warmth of blood on my leg. I had been hit just above my knee and it felt like my leg was on fire. Fortunately, their hand grenades had too much powder for the amount of metal they carried, and the shrapnel that hit me was very small.

Fearing that I had been out of it a long time, since there was only dead and dying near me, my immediate concern was that my platoon had landed and was probably thinking I was dead or afraid to go forward with them. I learned later that it's the kind of fear all Marines share; they don't ever want other Marines to think they are cowards.

I started forward once more. Within a few bounds I came across one of the men from my platoon whom we called Andy (because he looked like Andy Gump in the funny papers of that day). He was slumped against the stump of a coconut tree. His jacket was covered with blood; his combat-painted face was ashen. I knelt next to him trying to see what was ahead. Suddenly, old Andy spoke right next to my ear, "You gotta smoke, Fergie?" I swallowed my immediate reaction to say, "You're dead," and instead, yelled for a Corpsman. I gave him my canteen, and ran forward to find my Lieutenant.

There were about a dozen Marines trying to find an opening to a garage-size bunker. Just as I joined them they let loose with the flame-throwers and the back blast of the heat knocked several of us down.

Three Marines lay dead in a row along the right side of the bunker. They were dead -- a grim testimony to enemy snipers. One of them was the Corporal who led us in prayer that morning.

An older looking Marine, he was probably 25, yelled for me to help lay down a base of fire at a sniper believed to be off to the right in a tree. Our fire would allow other men to go forward around the big bunker. I joined two others firing into the tree-top as several Marines made a dash forward. Within a second, one was killed and another wounded. I didn't know the

Several other Marines joined the base of fire and the older Marine looked at me and said, "Let's go." With no thought of asking "Who are you" or any other question, I and the Marine next to me got up and started to run forward with him. The bigger fire base now blasted away at the tree. We ran as fast as we could trying not to trip on the bodies that had preceded us.

My new partner and I made it; the Marine who ordered us forward did not.

Their deaths hurt even worse the next day when I learned that the sniper wasn't in the tree, he was under it, hidden among the giant roots that came out of the trunk about four feet above the ground. Another combat lesson: Never assume the obvious.

With my new friend at my side, we began running forward, jumping in and out of shell holes while firing into pill-boxes and throwing hand-grenades as far to either side as we could.

After awhile, we realized we were alone. Pausing at the bottom of a big bomb crater, we decided something was very wrong. Just then we heard American voices. We dove into the crater, landing among some six live Marines and several dead at the bottom.

We all appeared to be Privates except the old Master Gunnery Sergeant whom I immediately recognized as one of the heroes of Guadalcanal.

He told us to "stay down," and continued to calmly examine the 45-caliber pistol of one of the dead Marines. He explained to us, as if we were in a classroom, just exactly how a piece of shrapnel had damaged the slide making the gun useless. He also told us that our error in coming six-hundred yards, clear across the island, had helped depress and divert enemy fire, thereby helping those Marines still attempting to land. He further told us to ignore the taunts and curses of the Japanese who continued to rake the top of our shell hole in their frustrated attempt to get at us. He warned us to hold tight until the sun went down, when we would all make a dash back to find our units.

Dash we did. It was like running across a 600-yard checker board, with all the checkers shooting at us. We spread out so as to give each of us a better chance. Unbelievably, most of us made it.

I was almost back to the sea-wall where I had landed when bullets kicked up sand all around me. It was my own platoon firing at what they believed to be a charging enemy; me! I dodged behind a bunker and yelled for them to hold their fire. After a few challenges and replies, they let me join them in a trench just a few yards inland from the beach and the sea wall. It was almost at the exact spot where I had been wounded that morning.

I spent the next strangely quiet hour at dusk, trying to explain where I had been to the Lieutenant and my mates. If I hadn't approached them from the front, I doubt they would have believed me.

"The Japanese will not crack. They will not crack morally or psychologically or economically even when eventual defeat stares them in the face. Only by utter physical destruction or utter exhaustion of their men and materials can they be defeated." -- Joseph C. Grew, former Ambassador to Japan.

That first night was a real horror story. The battlefield air was heavy with the smell of gunpowder and smoke from the fires, mixed with the rather sweet smell of the Japanese soldiers and the growing stinch of the dead. It was within this macabre setting that we were forced to listen to the cries of what we believed to be wounded Marines who had been out where I had been. Our Sergeant assured us it was the enemy trying to lure us out but we didn't really believe him.

When the sun came up, I and about 200 men from our Battalion of nearly 800, found out we were only 25 to 50 yards in from the beach, but that was further inland than any other unit. Most Marines, and there were very few of them, were still behind the sea wall. Even worse, there were great gaps along the beach, where there were no Marines. About three thousand Marines had attempted to land in the assault waves the first day. More than one-third were dead or wounded. Bodies of friends, intermingled with enemy, were everywhere.

Since the Japanese had not driven us into the sea during the night, we were now confident we would win. We also knew they would never surrender. It was obvious from the first hour, they would force us to kill each and every one of them.

"I'm asking the home office for a transfer to the European War theater the first chance I get," said AP War Correspondent William Hipple. "At least they surrender over there."

We started our attack soon after daybreak. More Marines began coming ashore behind us. They were caught in a terrible crossfire from enemy soldiers who had swum out to occupy our tanks and boats that had been knocked out in the lagoon, the day before.

"OK, let's get going. If we don't secure a piece of this island by nightfall, we're in a tight spot!" Colonel David M. Shoup, Commander, 2nd Marines.

By sundown we had reached the far side of Tarawa where I had been the day before. It was a nasty day for me and the other runners. We had to follow the line and go in every pill-box and bunker to make absolutely sure all were dead. I'm glad I never had to do that job again.

That night "Wash-machine Charlie," the name given the slow, noisy Japanese bomber, flew over us for several minutes apparently trying to figure out who was where. Finally he dropped his bombs harmlessly on the runway and flew away. His departure allowed me to climb out of a big ditch where I had been lying next to a dead pig which I had initially thought was another scared Marine.

The next morning we turned and advanced across and down the airstrip. We were soon pinned down in the middle of the runway. The lieutenant and I ran forward and jumped in a large bomb crater closest to the enemy machine gun. Two of our machine gun crews were at the bottom, along with some of our wounded.

One of our squads tried to push their gun up on top so as to place fire on the enemy. The gun was hit by bullets that caused bits of metal to spray all over us. The Lieutenant shouted for everyone to stay down and not try that again. He then called out, "Runner!" I moved over to him thinking he wanted to look at the map I carried. Instead, to my utter disbelief he said, "Go back and tell Captain O'Brien that we need a tank up here." I said, "Lieutenant, you just said everyone was to stay put." "Not you," he said with some dismay. "You're the runner."

I was on the track team in high school and would later run for U.S.C., but I never ran as fast as I did coming out of that big hole in the runway. I swear to this day that the bullet went between my helmet and my ear, as I cleared the top. I still couldn't hear out of that ear when I reached the Captain about 150 yards to the rear.

Captain O'Brien listened intently and then condemned me to my second race with bullets that day. He said, "Go back and tell Willard that he'll have two tanks as fast as we can get them." Back I ran, darting and dodging. This time they didn't shoot at me when I approached the crater, they were too busy shooting at the Marines attempting to set up another machine gun. They and the gun were tumbling down their side of the crater when I jumped in on my side.

The tanks arrived and knocked out the pill-box and the enemy who had killed our men. We then watched as a Marine across the runway threw a satchel charge into a large bunker. Other Marines followed up by squirting liquid fire through the gun port.

"It looks as though the Marines are winning on this blood-drenched, bomb-hammered, stinking little abatoir of coral sand." -- Keith Wheeler, War Correspondent for the Chicago Daily Times, Novermber 22, 1943.

At that instant, all the firing and explosions seemed to stop. It was only about 76 hours since we landed. The terrible battle was over. Nearly 5,000 enemy were dead, along with 3,000 dead and wounded Marines.

Since that time 50 years ago, I have fought in dozens of battles in three wars. They were all bad but none was even remotely like Tarawa. I remember every moment of the battle that took away my innocence. It taught me about America's fighting men. Individually and collectively, they are a breed apart. As a Navy Admiral said later, "Uncommon valor was a common virtue."

"Tarawa will loom in history as the beginning of the end of the war against Japan," concluded Lieutenant General A.A. Vandegrift, Commandant of the Marine Corps.

~ THE END ~

Following the battle of Tarawa, Ferguson fought in the battles of Siapan and Tinian as a machine-gunner. He was recommended for a battlefield commission after his last battle and was returned to America to attend college prior to his commissioning.

He landed with the first waves at Inchon at the start of the Korean War (1950), as a Forward Observer for an Artillery Battalion. He stayed with the Infantry until the battle of the Chosin Reservoir.

He returned to Korea in 1954 as a Captain, commanding an Artillery Battery.

In 1964, he commanded an Artillery Battalion during the Tonkin Gulf incident in Vietnam.

In 1965, Major Ferguson commanded all Marine Corps Artillery in America's initial phase of the Vietnam War.

In 1968, Ferguson returned to Vietnam as a Combat Correspondent and artist. Lt. Col. Ferguson retired from the U.S. Marine Corps in 1969, after 26 years of service.

After careers as a corporate officer and owner of an advertising company, he was elected to the California State Assembly where he served for 10 years.
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