The Leaden Foot Tread Of Fear - June 11, 1944

On board Ship
June 11, 1944

It was the moon that did it. Its beauty drew him to the rail like a magnet. That was it, it was beautiful – though there were undertones. Similes spun through his head – a proud woman, reproducing herself in the countless mirrors that lay on the surface of every wave – a tawdry Spanish maiden, trailing her golden cape across the black sea. Some of the gleaming spangles had torn off on the crest of a wave and lay near the side of the ship, sparkling fitfully. They were brilliant, flashing, golden.

He realized that his eyes were wide, staring, and he sharply turned his head, breaking the current between the spangles and his eyes. Anne used to wave her hand in front of him when he got that way, and he’d break, and her eyes would crinkle as she smiled at him. He thought of her, the soft turn of her shoulder brushed by her shining golden hair. But Anne was in sunlight. This was nighttime, and the moon-gold was unearthly, it had no scent of a woman, no human warmth. It was feminine, fascinatingly feminine, because it received him, enfolded his avid glance, and invited deeper exploration.

It stood for Beauty, and the thrumming motors of the transport stood for everything that was not. He had been out there once before, and knew what it meant – tight horror of destruction and fear – cruelty, not in extinguishing a dangerous enemy, but in killing those who tried to surrender, nude with their hands up, because you had no time to handle prisoners. Wary, half-felt fear, face achingly set in one twisted expression, the smell of dead bodies, of death itself, a montage of smoke, rubble, splintered wood and tortured steel. The smell of steel and coral dust in the sun – the leaden foot tread of fear.

Fear again. He wasn’t afraid now. He wasn’t afraid of going in. But he knew that he’d be afraid when he got there, past the beach and surrounded by unseen rifles. That was the worst of it – not seeing, not being able to meet your opponent. But it wasn’t fear – he wasn’t afraid of going in.

His hands slid along the rail and he dropped his head, but his eyes couldn’t escape the flashing lights. They drifted back, slipped into gear, and opened wide again.

That was beauty, shimmering, elusive. Not austerely masculine, but feminine in its personal allure. What he was headed for was ugly, it was pain and discomfort. He wasn’t afraid now, but he knew that fear would be one of the worst pains when he got there, on the beach. His mouth would be dry, his eyes strained and tired, and his ears deaf from the chattering roar of battle. Here, even the low murmurings of the sleeping ship were lost in the soft swish of the water curling up from the bow. The water was soft and sibilant, the moon-glow was cool.

His shoulder muscles convulsively tensed and his arms threw him back from the rail. His back hard against the warm steel bulkhead, he thought, “God! I almost went in!” Now he was afraid, that last lurch, and he had teetered – what was the matter with him, anyway! He was a rugged Marine. He’d never let this bother him before, he had joked with the rest of them, and here he was thinking like a moon-struck schoolgirl.

•

I felt the first part of this last night, it bothered me, and I thought I’d try to get it down, in its tenseness and confusion. I figured I’d caught it and thought you might like to see it. But don’t get ideas! It’s not a story – could only be half a chapter of an introspective, Thomas Wolf-ian book.

Love,

Phil

By June 11, 1944, the last of the assault ships had pulled away from Eniwetok Atoll and the last spit of land had faded over the horizon behind them. Radio silence was enforced, save for very high frequency transmissions, and the massive fleet remained undetected.

Less subtle were the carrier planes of Vice-Admiral Mark Mitscher's Task Force 58. Around 1300 hours on June 11, over 200 F6F Hellcat fighters and Avenger torpedo bombers appeared in the sky over Saipan; the ensuing fighting saw perhaps 150 Japanese planes destroyed on the ground or in the air, for a loss of about 11 American fighters. This was nearly a third of the available Imperial air strength, and in one fell swoop the Americans had gained near total air superiority - an advantage that would not be lost in the coming weeks of battle. Simultaneous strikes against other nearby airfields and local convoys further reduced the strength that the Japanese would be able to bring to bear against the coming invasion. It was demoralizing for the troops on the ground, to say the least. A dejected tank NCO wrote in his diary:

11 June--At a little after 1300, I was awakened by the air raid alarm and immediately led all men into the trench. Scores of enemy Grumman fighters, began strafing and bombing Aslito Airfield and Garapan. For about two hours, the enemy planes ran amuck and finally left leisurely amidst the unparalleledly inaccurate anti-aircraft fire. All we could do was watch helplessly.

- Tokuzo Matsuya, personal diary.

Ruins of Aslito Airfield following the American air strike.