"...every man muttered 'Christ, this is it!' to himself..."

"Up before dawn, tight stomach but a ravenous appetite – forgot to wake up Ted, and he almost missed the boat. The last time I saw him, he was mad as Hell and cussed me out for a knucklehead. Went down into the men’s compartment, and they were all excited but very gay – overnight the atmosphere had changed – the incessant pounding had been going on for 24 hours now, and we didn’t see how there could be anything left."

- Phil Wood letter, April 2, 1944

Operation Flintlock was now in its second day. The small islands flanking "Burlesque" and "Camouflage" - Roi and Namur - had fallen to the 25th Marines on January 31, with only light resistance. The division's artillery, the 14th Marines, had landed and set up their heavy guns to support the coming assault. The Navy was systematically pulverizing the two larger islands, sending up columns of smoke and occasional sheets of fire.

"The day was perfect, from our troop transport we could see in the distance the islands we were supposed to take from the Japanese.... The islands were beautiful, large palm trees swaying in the bright sunlight. The Navy was blowing the islands to pieces."

- Alva Perry, BAR gunner and Able Company scout.

It was expected that Roi would be the tougher nut to crack. There was a large airfield covering most of the island, which was the primary objective of the Marines in the boats. Its slightly smaller companion, Namur, was dotted with supply warehouses and barracks for the Japanese garrison. Both had been subjected to weeks of preparatory bombing and shelling, and the prevailing sentiment shared by all - Marine and Navy, general and private - was that there would be very little for the Marines to do once they had landed. With the lessons of Tarawa fresh in mind (the preliminary bombardment had been woefully inadequate, resulting in horrifying casualties among the Marines), the Navy gunners and carrier pilots were going all out.

However, the best laid plans can always go astray. The troubles began almost at once as officers realized that there were nowhere near as many amtracks as they had been led to expect. The small tracked craft had landed the 25th Marines with little difficulty, but many were unable to find their parent ships to refuel. The LST that had launched them had no recognition lights, and many skippers turned away amtracks from other ships. The result of this confusion was that many amtracks were stranded on dry land on the outlying islands, unable to move for want of fuel. Only 48 of the allotted 110 vehicles had arrived by 0630, and the time for the assault was drawing near.

The Second and Third Battalions of the 24th were scheduled to make the initial assault landing, with First Battalion in a floating reserve to be sent in as needed. The available amtracks were distributed, and the Marines divided themselves into "boat teams." These were organized from each platoon, with the idea that the companies would reorganize themselves once they had made it to the O-1 line halfway across the island. Each boat was led by a platoon commander or platoon sergeant, and consisted of a light machine gun or mortar team, two BAR teams, a three-man bazooka team, and five riflemen carrying demolition material for use on the inevitable fortifications. After the breakfast of steak and eggs (which would become the customary final meal before a landing, gaining it the dubious sobriquet of "the condemned man's breakfast"), the loudspeakers crackled and the loading of the amtracks began. Later waves would have to be content landing in LCVP craft (the familiar "Higgins Boat") and wading ashore.

Able Company was supposed to stay in reserve for the Second Battalion. In the continuing confusion, G/2/24 missed the assembly area, and Able was put on standby to join the first assault wave. Finally, G Company chugged up in scrounged amtracks, and as the shells howled overhead the signal was given to "land the landing force." The commanding officer of the 24th, Colonel Franklin Hart, wanted to delay the landing until he could find more tractors - 24 were still missing - but it was already 11:12, and the 23rd Marines were already racing towards the beachhead on Roi. The 24th would have to go ahead as they were, with each of its assault battalions at only two-thirds of their planned strength.

[Namur on the morning of February 1. Small black specks in top of photo are the landing craft of the first wave of the 24th Marines]

It took a long time for the tractors to reach the beachheads. The Marines were heartened by the lack of incoming fire, and equally pleased by the amount of steel flashing overhead. A brief rain squall blew in and threatened to disrupt a planned strike by carrier-based planes, but the pilots persevered and came in low overhead, tearing up the already blasted landscape. It was 11:55 when 2/24 ground ashore on beach Green 2, on the right flank of the line.

[A machine gun team from Second Battalion comes ashore. Yokohama Pier, the dividing structure between the two beaches, may be seen in the background.]

The confusion continued. The bombardment had been almost too effective in places, and had obliterated many of the landmarks that both Marines and amtrackers were to rely upon to maintain their alignment. Furthermore, an unexpected obstacle cropped up in the form of an anti-tank ditch that proved to be much larger in reality than it had appeared in recon photos. Had all gone according to plan, the Marines would have been ferried 100 yards inland by the amtracks - but as it was, they were forced to debark at the water's edge and move forward on foot. Companies E and F landed almost on top of each other, but the men, in a testament to their training, formed ad-hoc assault groups and pushed forward of their own volition until they could be reorganized.

It was clear that the bombardment had not been one hundred percent effective. Shattered trees, burning buildings, and smashed positions were everywhere in evidence, but still the Marines were experiencing heavy incoming rifle and machine gun fire. 3/24 landed at 1200 and muscled their way forward to the O-1 line, making steady progress but taking inevitable casualties.

Back on the DuPage, Able Company was being loaded into their LCVPs. They daubed their faces with camouflage paint, checked each other's equipment, arranged their packs and watched the smoky island that was their destination. A thoughtful officer handed out chewing tobacco; some of the younger Marines opted for chewing gum instead. The LCVPs were capable of landing 36 equipped men at once, and it would appear that the concept of the assault boat team was done away with. They clambered down into the small craft without incident and pulled away from the USS DuPage. Even now, the plan was not functioning efficiently:

They called us up topside by boat groups – mine was last – by about an hour, the motor conked out – when we finally went over the net there were only a couple of landing boats to be seen, circling aimlessly around, belonging to other outfits. I took off like a bat out of Hell for where I thought the Company was – several miles away in the lagoon – they tagged along and we made quite a sizable group – it was raining, and cold and the water was rough – I wandered from one rendezvous area to another, almost deciding to go in with the assault wave of another regiment, and finally stumbled on “A” Co. shells screaming overhead – the smell of powder, the brilliantly blue lagoon, and shivering with cold – for now it could only be cold....

Their emotions ran the full gamut from excitement to trepidation to disappointment.

Mortarman Wilbur Plitt, who suffered from chronic seasickness, was trying his hardest to keep his stomach under control. Alva Perry was likewise nauseated, from nervousness more than the choppy waves, and found that sweat, rain, and spray caused the camouflage paint to run down into his eyes, making them burn and nearly blinding him. Machine gun squad leader Arthur Ervin, who had been at Pearl Harbor, Midway, and Guadalcanal, was stoic and quiet, chewing a plug of tobacco. Rifleman Lawrence Knight joined in a spirited chorus of the Marine's Hymn. George Smith, Howie Haff, and JJ Franey were clowning around, playing Mutiny on the Bounty. Their leaders, having been keyed up for so long, were disheartened.

...the word seemed clear in all the outfits I talked to that there was nothing left – I don’t know how they thought they knew, but we believed it; and felt bitterly disappointed. All the work, preparation, and worry seemed to be for nothing – there was nothing to do but walk ashore – Harry’s face when I finally found his boat was a study in dejection – “We won’t get our licks in now,” he yelled, but we formed up anyway.

Our Battalion was in reserve for the Regiment, and about 40 minutes after the first wave went in they called for us – we didn’t know why – probably to share to coconuts with them, but we started in. “A” Co. was to reinforce the Battalion assigned to the right half of Namur – we looked long and hard at the low island – the shelling had stopped now but a steady column of smoke went drifting over our heads – we could see the blasted palm trees, the tortured steel skeletons of the two hangers of Roi – we got down, just for form, because we had always done it, but inwardly terrifically let down – empty....

They passed the main battle line of the fleet, where the battleship USS Washington was blasting away. As the small boats passed the mighty warship, she let go with a full broadside. The shock wave nearly swamped the LCVPs, and many of the startled Marines swallowed their chewing gum. There was now nothing between them and the enemy but the thin hull of their boat. Ashore, the battle was moving forward in fits and starts. Marines were moving forward, cleaning out Japanese positions one by one. Corpsman on the beach attended to the wounded and the dying, and the regiment's first dead were carefully and respectfully set aside.

It was 1305. F Company had been reorganized, and its demolitions teams were busy throwing satchel charges into any structure they saw, occupied or not. One of those teams, headed by Lt. Saul Stein, approached a large blockhouse. Upon breaching the wall with a shaped charge, they were startled to see a full platoon of Japanese soldiers burst out the door and run hell-for-leather away from the building. This was the first time most of the Marines had seen their enemies up close, and at first they were too surprised to fire, let alone wonder at the reason for the exodus. Chalking it up to Oriental inscrutability, they heaved their satchel charges into the hole and ducked for cover.

It wouldn't be enough.

[Namur island disappears entirely under a cloud of smoke, debris, falling warheads, and body parts]

...suddenly when we were about 100 yards off shore a tremendous blast of air seemed to stop the boat, followed by a wave of sound that left everything throbbing – we involuntarily poked our heads up and looked – the whole right half of the island had heaved and coughed its flaming entrails up into the air – hundreds of feet above us – a Pillar of Fire in the daytime – the biggest munitions dump on the island had been mined and set off by the Japs a couple of hundred yards inland, concrete blocks rained into the water around us, every man muttered “Christ, this is it!” to himself, and a huge cloud of black ash drifted over the boat – so thick you couldn’t breathe or see the man next to you in the boat – the most terrifying moment I’ve ever spent – there seemed to be no more sound left in the world.

[The explosion as seen from neighboring Roi Island. Note the landing craft approaching the beach.]

F Company's team had detonated the main magazine on Namur, where tons of aerial bombs and torpedoes had been stored. Twenty Marines were killed outright, a further hundred were wounded, and one man with a charmed life was blow clear off the island and into the ocean, where he was later picked up - shocked, but uninjured. Second Battalion's advance came to a screeching halt around the massive crater, which was already beginning to fill with water. Nearby magazines started exploding, sending more debris into the air. One Marine on the beach ducked for cover, then heard a whistling and a thud - the man next to him had disappeared under a chunk of concrete the size of a refrigerator, and only his lower legs were visible.

[The blockhouse had stood here. Note Marines on the lip of the crater for scale.]

Able Company was also handed its first casualties. Al Perry's boat had just dropped its ramp - they had been using the blockhouse as a guide - and a piece of masonry hurtled down into the boat, striking PFC William Quinn in the shoulder. Perry, standing immediately behind Quinn, was convinced that his friend had just lost his arm, but stepped around him and ran forward. In another boat, PFC Edward Horan was knocked to the deck by a fragment striking his helmet. He wasn't badly hurt, but a trickle of blood wound down his face. Corpsman Francis Munski, standing next to Horan, rounded on him and sized him up. "You can't go in," he said, in a tone that brokered no debate.

Horan would be damned if he was going to miss the landing. "Why in the hell not?"

"Because you're bleeding," said Munski.

"Well, I ain't bleeding THAT bad!" Horan shot back. The two bickered back and forth as the boat ground ashore, paying no attention to the anxious Marines behind them who wanted nothing more than to get the hell onto the beach and off the now stationary target. Eventually, Munski - a tough, no-nonsense former rancher from Montana - prevailed, and Horan was taken back out to a hospital ship with much grumbling.

Phil Wood tried to clear the cover of ash from his facepaint, gave up, and:

...pounded ashore through the shallow water to find thousands of men crouched on the beach in the shelter of a slight rise. They were as thick as flies – I said “Another Tarawa” to myself, and found a lieutenant that I knew calmly trying to bandage a man who had half his face torn off by two machine gun bullets. He simply said, “Don’t go up there, Phil – it’s all mined – we had just knocked out the machine guns that were trained on the beach and started in and they blew it. It got Jim and every man in his platoon. We’ve lost a lot.” I turned to go and stepped on a body burned black – Jap – so much foul meat – but I cussed it and was mad at it when I should, I suppose, have been revolted.

[The "Jim" is probably 1st Lt. James B. Heater, F/24, wounded in action].

George Smith and his close friend Tom Hurley rocketed off their boat as soon as Horan was out of the way. They recognized the beachmaster, who screamed at them to "get the hell off the beach!" Smith and Hurley didn't wait to be told twice, but leaped over the low sea wall and took cover in the anti-tank ditch.


Here they confronted their first Japanese. He was dead, and evidently had been for some time - most likely a victim of the opening bombardment. He was beginning to bloat up in the heat; his skin tightening around an expanding body, with discolored streaks running down his face as if someone with varnished fingers had slapped him. Later, Smith would remember the Japanese wore knee-high boots. What struck the Americans most was the man's size. He had evidently stood over six and a half feet; a lofty height for anyone in the 1940s but particularly for a Japanese man. Smith was taken aback - he had believed the Japanese were all short and bandy legged with glasses and buck teeth - and he turned to Hurley and shouted "I think I'm in the wrong ball game!" He knew he could take all the short Nipponese in the world, but this giant was something else altogether.

Al Perry was still battling against the camouflage paint in his eyes. A Japanese machine gun had spotted him, and for what seemed like an eternity the young Marine was pinned face down just off the beach. He could see the tracers reflecting off his BAR as they whipped by overhead. He didn't recognize anyone around him, and was wondering if he would be there until nightfall, when a Hellcat fighter roared in overhead, guns blazing. The Japanese machine gun stopped abruptly. Perry picked himself up and stumbled inland.

[Carrier based Hellcat fighters race overhead to provide air support]

Able Company was on the far right of the Marine line. To their left was Company E, to their right the beach and the Pacific ocean. The staff of Second Battalion were scrambling to find the extent of the damage caused by the explosion, and their assault companies were stalled. The pause would give the relatively fresh reinforcements of Able Company time to catch up and press along to the O-1 lines. Before them, they could see what Lt. Phil Wood later described as:

...a dry, hot, fetid version of the worst section of No Man’s Land that France ever had to offer – no living green thing, blasted tree trunks, huge gaping shell holes - disemboweled trucks, heaps of concrete and lumber that were once fortifications - bodies by the thousands – parts of bodies – so disfigured that they beggar description – horrible.

[Stuart tank "Hothead" of Company B, 4th Tank Battalion, passes through a company headquarters]

Captain Schechter, faced with his first combat decision under fire, ordered Able to advance over the blasted ground. Although the cover was gone, he could be sure there were less Japanese to his front. The company moved out, leapfrogging from one shell hole to the next. The resident veteran, Corporal Ervin, led the company of his own volition, sometimes as much as fifty feet ahead of the next man. To be isolated in terrain populated by snipers was almost reprehensibly dangerous, and when a Japanese soldier threw back the cover of his spider hole and popped above ground nearly at Ervin's feet, it seemed that the corporal's bravado would be his undoing. Perhaps the defender was nervous, perhaps he hadn't expected to see an American that close, or perhaps he was just miserably unlucky, but the one shot he managed to loose from his Arisaka rifle left a long burn mark up Ervin's side without breaking the skin. Ervin turned and fired without aiming, killing the unfortunate Japanese instantly. He came trotting back down the road towards the rest of the gunners, shirt flapping open and a strange look on his face. His squad clustered around, convinced that he had been wounded - he had that look and couldn't speak - until he finally gagged and spluttered and his comrades realized that in his surprise he had swallowed his plug of chewing tobacco. The peculiar look on his face had been one of intense concentration as he fought to keep from vomiting. When they realized that their lion of a corporal hadn't been badly hurt, the gunners broke out laughing.

The bombardment had cleared out most of the resistance in the southern portion of the island, and the company encountered only a few other isolated snipers until they drew near to the O-1 line near Nadine Point. There, Lieutenant Wood saw his first live enemy:

The first one I saw was half naked – an Officer, brandishing a Samurai sword. I slowly sighted on him, but before I squeezed the trigger he was down – one of my machine gunners was standing over him, smashed out a gold front tooth and put it in his pocket – I yelled, “Why?” – he said because his dad had asked for one, I said I was glad it was for a sentimental reason.

Able Company was approaching a complex of bunkers, pillboxes, and trenches that formed an anchor of the Japanese defensive line. Stragglers from F Company were beginning to reorganize and tag along with Able's advance, which was the "foremost echelon of the Regiment" as far as any of them could see.

Corporal Ervin had recovered from his startling experience, and was back in front as if nothing had happened. He could be seen up ahead, frantically waving for the company to catch up, and Lt. Wood gathered a team and rushed forward to help. Ervin had found a small dugout containing six or seven Japanese and had jumped up on the parapet, emptied a clip and thrown two grenades, and was desperate for more. The gunners were eager to get into the fight, and unslung their carbines. Phil Wood crouched as low as his six-foot-four frame would allow - he wasn't a terribly agile man; his men remarked that he "ran like a wounded deer," but the Japanese were distracted by the destruction being wrought by Ervin's team, and he managed to sneak around behind the position without being seen.

...while they finished off the ones that were there, I waited for any that might retreat – one did, and I shot him as he tried to sneak past me in the undergrowth. I was partly, very dimly conscious that I had killed, but more aware of the satisfying way my little carbine heaved in my hands and coughed up bullets. I realized that the sound of my firing might attract snipers, so I moved off and sat quietly in the bush, waiting for the others to come up.

More Marines appeared, in the form of Lt. Roy Wood's rifle platoon. The riflemen and machine gunners moved forward cautiously, and dove to the ground as a nearby blockhouse erupted in a storm of machine gun fire. One of Able's machine gunners opened fire, as he had been trained to do - but trapping most of the company between himself and the Japanese.

[A gunner and his assistant, 24th Marines]

The Marines scrambled for cover as "all Hell broke loose overhead." Phil Wood landed in a Y-shaped trench that ran perpendicular between the beach and the road, next to his young gunners Steve Hopkins and George Smith. They were not alone. Several Able Company riflemen had been using the trench for cover, and were studiously ignoring a Japanese soldier who lay with his head against the trench, immobile. To Smith, it looked like he had been praying when he was killed.

Hopkins wasn't buying it. They had all heard stories of the tricks the Japs would pull - shouting in English, booby trapping souvenirs, and playing dead until a careless Marine got too close. Everyone else in the trench was looking forward, but Hoppy kept his rifle dead center on the corpse's head. Hoppy followed his lieutenant up the trench, with his muzzle almost touching the dead man - who suddenly came to life, holding a grenade in his hand. Luckily for the Marines, Japanese grenades had to be armed by striking them against something, usually a helmet. The Jap had raised his arm halfway when Hopkins' first bullet tore through his brain. To his and Smith's disbelief, the .30 caliber round only caused the enemy to pause, shake his head as if stunned, and continue to move his hand towards his helmet. Hopkins emptied the rest of his magazine into the Jap. His face was deathly white, and he couldn't stop chattering. With disbelief and shock tempered by indignation, he appealed to his platoon leader, "Did you see, Mr. Wood? Did you see the grenade? Did you see what he was going to do?"


It had nearly been a fatal mistake, and one of the few Phil Wood would ever make. The lesson was dramatically learned and illustrated: never trust a dead Japanese unless you shot him yourself - then shoot him again to make sure. It soon became commonplace for any Marines passing a Japanese corpse to put an additional shot or two into each. The cost in ammunition was far outweighed by how many lives were saved by this sensible - if brutal - practice.

Other machine gunners behind the trench cut loose on the blockhouse, which was still spitting fire, and for a time the men in the trench were pinned there, as several pounds of lead whipped by overhead. Occasional explosions nearby indicated that the Japanese were trying to hit the trench with a grenade launcher - one the Marines popularly called a "knee mortar" - had one of its 50mm projectiles landed in the trench, there would have been a catastrophe, but luckily the gunner's aim was off.

Once more, the advance was not moving quickly enough for the ambitious Corporal Ervin. He waited for a lull in the firing, then - as Phil Wood was distracted by the arrival of young PFC Bill Imm, his runner for the mortar section - he slipped out of the trench. A different machine gun began firing, there was the answering snap of an M1 and the blast of a grenade, shouts, screams. Ervin reappeared, helmetless, bleeding from several small cuts on his face. He told the men in the trench that he had found a machine gun nest outside the blockhouse. He had killed two of the gunners, but a Japanese officer had knocked his helmet off with a pistol round; the bullet had fragmented and hit him in the face, luckily missing his eyes.


Overhead, the machine gunners opened up again, answered by the blockhouse. It was time to involve the other section of the Weapons platoon. The mortars were behind the front lines, ready and waiting to fire in support of the advance. Instead of sending Imm back alone, Phil Wood decided to go back himself. He described his role to his mother and sister:

That was my job – to find targets for the mortars, check and see that no friendly troops were too close, and then adjust their fire onto the target. The mortar fires from behind the lines, and they need someone to control their fire from the front. My machine gun squads were attached to the rifle platoon, but if they happened to be around and I spotted targets for them, I controlled their fire, too.

When he arrived at his mortar section, he found that the Japanese knee mortars had not been entirely fruitless. Several wounded men lay in the relative safety of the mortar position, their faces showing the shock of traumatic injury and the scare of a first exposure to combat. The young lieutenant was happy to think that his mortars - who had shown great proficiency on the target range - would be able to hit the enemy before more Marines were hurt. However, by the time the excited mortarmen had set up their tubes and found the range, more of the company's riflemen had rushed forward to join the fight, and they were crowding too close to the blockhouse.

... the biggest trouble I had, though – our boys, the riflemen, were too eager to attack. Several times I could have saved lives if they had only waited for a preparatory mortar barrage, but they couldn’t wait to close with the Japs. It made for a headlong, rushing attack that never gave the enemy a chance to reorganize. Every one of them is vividly conscious of the fact that he is a Marine.

The "headlong, rushing attack" that could not wait for mortars found the punch it needed in the bazooka. Each regiment carried several of the relatively new rocket launchers in its weapons pool, parceling them out for assaults or for specific missions. The boat teams of the assault waves carried one apiece, and in the absence of Japanese tanks, the bazooka found a new role as a bunker-buster. After a few rounds, the machine guns were knocked out and Ervin - accompanied by company executive officer "Big Harry" Reynolds - raced across the open ground with grenades, which they flung into the firing ports. The others followed close behind; Phil Wood picked up Ervin's dented helmet, intending to throw it to the corporal, but a second bullet whizzed in and sent it flying. Ervin was not deterred. He leaped onto the roof of the blockhouse, and:

...stood there silhouetted against the sky – legs spread apart, hatless, with blood on his face and his coat flung open, firing his rifle from the hip into the dugout....

Ervin slammed another clip into his rifle, jumped off the roof and raced headlong for the dugout. The Japanese were lucky, this time. As he passed in front of the amazed lieutenants, a rifle shot hit him in the right side, and he fell out of sight into a hole. The Marines nearby yelled to him, and were met with a sharp retort - Ervin did NOT need any help, he said - and to their astonishment, Ervin appeared, dragging himself out of the hole with his right arm, and making his way back to where the officers stood. He was clearly in pain, but not yet ready to give up the fight; he turned down all offers of assistance and demanded grenades. If he couldn't fire with one arm, he could at least throw grenades. Reynolds eventually had the last word - he was not called "Big Harry" for nothing, and could be very intimidating when the need arose - and Ervin retired in a storm of protest and under a direct order to report back to the aid station.

There was plenty of fight left in the Japanese, though, and Phil turned to his steady, soft-spoken, and ever-so-slightly peculiar machine gun section leader, Sergeant Frank Tucker. The sergeant, a former traveling salesman from the small town of Hugo, Oklahoma, was nearly thirty years old - one of the oldest in the company, older than any of his commissioned officers - and was as solidly dependable as Ervin was headstrong and reckless. Tucker, Phil Wood, Roy Wood, Reynolds, and a few riflemen of Roy Wood's platoon yanked the cotter pins from their grenades, and lobbed them into the troublesome dugout only ten yards away. The explosions were deafening and devastating. Tucker and Corporal Franklin Robbins jumped from their cover, but hit the ground again almost immediately - at which point the three lieutenants and other riflemen went over the top, as some of their relatives had done in France, many years ago - and shot everything that moved. Phil Wood took aim at a rifle sticking around a corner, knocked it from the Jap's hands, and kept the silk battle flag tied to it as a souvenir.

Finally, the dugout was clear. Phil Wood turned to his runner, gave specific directions for the disposition of the mortars, and with PFC Imm, turned to face the front. He saw that the others had chased after a few Japanese who had run from the dugout, stopping only to pick off a defender as they raced along the beach. Not wanting to be left behind, the two men from Weapons platoon raced after, only to be brought up short by sudden heavy firing. Moving forward cautiously, they found themselves on the edge of a wide clearing. Nearly 100 yards away, they could see twelve Marines - among them Sergeant Tucker, lieutenants Roy Wood and Harry Reynolds, and Larry Knight - in a blistering and lopsided firefight with another trench full of Japanese. Some 25 of the enemy lay sprawled across the clearing, but an estimated 50 had turned on their pursuers. A nearby officer yelled at Phil Wood and Imm to get down, that the Japanese had machine guns laying a crossfire down the road and across the clearing, and were killing anyone who tried to move forward. As if on cue, a Marine sprinted across the clearing and was immediately cut down.

That was enough. Phil Wood and Bill Imm crouched down in their hole, not daring to move forward and unwilling to move back. The young lieutenant was faced with another realization of combat - that of fear.

I lay on my back, looking up at a shell scarred fragment of a tree that stood over our hole, watching the beautiful serene white terns soar over the battlefield – and for the first time, I was really afraid. Afraid of my own motives for staying there. I knew damned well that it was foolish to think of going up, but that didn’t matter. I was still afraid, wasn’t I? Yes, I was afraid, but it was a justifiable fear of a certain death – still afraid, though – I thought of the mortars, but the other Lt. said that the Third Battalion had reached the beach a few hundred yards up the line, and this was the last pocket of resistance. I thought he was wrong, and he was, but I couldn’t take a chance, and in the growing dusk I sat and worried – still firing forward, what could I do – nothing, but they needed help. Imm is asleep, confident that anything I decide is correct – but I haven’t decided, there is no decision to make – were are too disorganized to effect a mass rush, the Company spread out from here back to the blockhouse. They need help. Yes, I am afraid, I’ll admit it, but what about it? A half-track passed over our hole on the way up the road, but it doesn’t get 25 yards in front of us before it is stopped by the sheer force of thousands of rounds from Jap heavy machine guns – it backs off, without even getting a chance to fire a round. I now admit that I’m afraid – even to myself, but am no longer ashamed of it.

Other elements of Able Company were encountering armor support. The 24th Marines had been organized into a Regimental Combat Team, and were supported by Company B, 4th Tank Battalion. These tankers were riding in M5A1 light tanks, mounting a 37mm main gun. Some were equipped with flamethrowers.

Their commander, Captain James L. Denig - son of Brigadier General Robert Denig - was at the head of his column, in his tank Hunter. The roads were generally clear enough for the tanks to pass, but the pre-invasion shelling had caused debris and tree trunks to fall across the road. Denig was proceeding north alongside Narcissus Street, when for some reason his tank swerved through the undergrowth and stuck its nose onto the gravel road where it paused, apparently hung up on a fallen tree. Suddenly, five or six Japanese jumped out of the brush and raced for the tank.

Howard Smith, one of Able Company's BAR gunners, was covering the advance with others from his platoon. He fired off two magazines, spraying the side of the tank, and killed four of the climbing Japanese. A rifleman nearby took care of a fifth. However, the one remaining defender had found what he was looking for - an opening in the tank's armor.

Denig was driving a newer model of the M5. The addition of an onboard radio was relatively new for this model; previous tankers had communicated with a complicated series of flag signals through a small port in the turret. It made sense to retain the port, just in case the radio went down, and Denig's tank was one of those that provided for both means of communication. Inexplicably, though, the flag port had been left open. A possible explanation is that Denig's crew was becoming overheated in their vehicle and had opened the small hatch for a little extra ventilation.

The hatch was barely wide enough for a Japanese grenade, but it was wide enough.

The charged grenade fell through the port, landing in Denig's lap. Within seconds, Hunter was an inferno. The tank was carrying almost a full load of ammunition, and as the intense heat reached the ammunition lockers, rounds began exploding. Howard Smith handed off his BAR and raced towards the blazing Hunter, braving intense gunfire and climbing onto the turret. He hauled Captain Denig bodily out of the turret and dragged the stricken officer to the cover of the nearby underbrush. Smith then ran back to the front of the tank and rescued the assistant driver, Corporal William Taylor. He turned to the driver's hatch and tugged - but the hatch was jammed, the turret frozen in place and preventing it from opening. Nothing could be done for the poor tanker inside, who was found the next day, "pretty well cooked." Smith jumped back onto the tank, where the gunner, Corporal Ben Smith, was frantically trying to free himself. Howard Smith helped him out of the tank and back to the safety of the Marine line. Captain Denig, whose body had been shattered by the grenade blast, died shortly after the rescue, but two of his crew owed their lives to Smith's bravery.

[Captain Denig's tank, Hunter, after the battle's conclusion. A dead Japanese has been run over, and evidently a shell pierced the left side of the tank just above the treads]

Night was falling on the first day of the battle for Namur. At 19.30, Colonel Hart ordered a halt, and told his men to dig in for the night. At the front of Able Company's advance, the Japanese were slowly whittling down the "daring dozen" who still opposed them, although cut off. Lieutenant Reynolds was shot through the leg. Young PFC Knight was shot in the face, but like Corporal Ervin, he refused to leave the line until ordered to do so by Lt. Roy Wood, his platoon commander. Other Marines were being killed and wounded, and with night approaching, concern about infiltrators began to grow. They were too few to attack, and the clearing was still being swept by fire. Something had to be done.

Suddenly, an American rifle cracked, and a Japanese head snapped back and dropped out of sight. Then a second, then a third. The Marines raised cautious heads and saw Sergeant Tucker hidden behind a palm tree. He had crawled away from the group, and was now standing behind a large palm tree, calmly picking off each enemy soldier as they appeared. Furious, the Japanese directed all their attention towards Tucker. Their bullets stripped the bark from the tree, drilled a hole in Tucker's helmet, punctured his canteen, shattered his field glasses, and cut off his rifle belt, yet somehow missed the intrepid sergeant. Tucker, on the other hand, was steadily dropping one enemy after the other. As he silenced two machine guns and nearly a dozen rifles, the rest of the squad dragged the wounded to cover, and established a better defensive position. Once his comrades were safely under cover, Tucker dropped to his stomach. He and an unidentified corporal kept up their harassing fire on the Japanese trench by moonlight.

Meanwhile, Phil Wood and Bill Imm were encountering danger on a mission of their own.

When it became quite dark I woke Imm up, and explained what we were going to do. He almost knifed me when I shook him awake, but luckily I called him by name as I did it. The firing had quieted down, and we hopped out of the shell hole, and scurried off in the dark to where I thought the command post was, to try to arrange to have tanks brought up at dawn. Moving around in the rear, we were challenged many times – often incorrectly, thus causing my answer to be incorrect – the first time, without thinking, I bawled out – “You lugheaded sonofabitch, that’s no way to give the password!” – then realized that the more I did that, the safer I was – everybody was jittery and trigger happy that night, and the more I sounded like a tough ole gunnery sergeant, the more at home they would feel. We wandered around for a little while, but the command post was well hidden, for we never did find it – when we got to the lagoon beach where we landed, half a mile back, I found a phone and called up Battalion to tell them what was happening, and ask for tanks. Col. Dyess surprised me by saying that the Captain had just radioed in the same dope and the same request. So I woke Imm up – with a long stick – and we headed back. We went by way of the beach around the island, to avoid all the trigger-happy boys, and were even more worried by the fact that we didn’t hear any challenge at all. Walking up that silent beach – only sporadic firing inland now – with 60mm mortar parachute flares going off at regular intervals – during which we would freeze in whatever positions we happened to be in. Dead bodies everywhere – some lying in the shallow wash inside the coral reef – the island was beginning to smell already.

By the time they returned to the lines, Captain Schechter had established a stronger defense, employing six machine guns - both the light MGs of Phil Wood's platoon, plus the heavier M1917 Brownings of D Company, under Phil's friend and singing partner Lt. Fred "Fireball" Stott.

There was one more tragedy in store for the weapons platoon that night. PFC Tom Hurley was ordered to move his squad to a new position. Gunner George Smith and his assistant, Richard Grosch, trotted down the dark road until they came upon a heavy machine gun. They turned off the road and moved perhaps fifteen yards nearer to the beach. The Japanese lines were only twenty five yards in front of them. As the ammunition carrier for the crew, Steve Hopkins had followed along and was beginning to dig a foxhole as Smith and Grosch prepared their gun. Smith looked up and saw someone moving down near the beach. The gun was not ready to fire, so he called to Hoppy to cover the man with his rifle. Hoppy dropped prone, struggled for a brief moment with his weapon, and in the blackness a muzzle flashed, a rifle barked, and there was the sound of a bullet striking home. Young Steve Hopkins went limp. Horrified, Smith screamed for a corpsman and went to help his friend. Hopkins was alive, but unconscious. The bullet had slammed into his face, causing catastrophic damage.

A corpsman arrived and immediately went to work. A stretcher had been called for, but was a long time in coming - as they waited, the corpsman told the numbed gun crew that they were ten yards ahead of Able Company's main line, dangerously exposed. Smith, who had a real "head of steam" from seeing his good friend shot down next to him, stood up and demanded to see Lawrence Knight. "Where's Knight?" he kept repeating. "I wanna talk to Knight." He didn't know why - Knight was not a close friend, just someone known by sight and association - but at the time, Knight was the only person to talk to. The corpsman told him that Knight was back behind the lines, and was unable to speak because he'd been shot in the mouth. Finally, a stretcher arrived and Hopkins was gently carried back along the beach to the aid station. He died aboard the USS Calvert within hours, without regaining consciousness.

Phil Wood and Bill Imm located Captain Schechter and his runner - they were nearly shot when they didn't hear the challenge - and the officers exchanged The Word. Schechter had been on the left flank all day, near E Company, and mentioned that all of the company's wounded had been evacuated. They were to expect a counterattack that night, and off in the distance trigger-happy Marines occasionally shot at shadows or at solitary creeping Japanese. Imm had fallen asleep again. Phil Wood "rolled him into a trench," then crawled into a hole with Gunnery Sergeant Walter Russell.

It started to rain – cold, steady, miserable rain – but in spite of the shivering and the flares and the fears of a counter-attack, I slept for a couple of hours....