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Volume CXXXII, Number 22 |
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Bowdoin gives its own to the "Eternal watch at sea"
KID WONGSRICHANALAI
COLUMNIST
In June, 1944, the Second, Third, and Fourth Marine Divisions were involved in the capture of the Japanese-held Mariana Islands. The Battle for Saipan cost more than sixteen thousand U.S. casualties but the men pressed on. On July 24, 1944, men of the Fourth Marine Division stormed the beaches of Tinian, a small island defended by nine thousand Japanese. It was in this battle that Charles T. Ireland, of the Bowdoin Class of 1942, found himself at the head of an assault column. A superb athlete and a well-known face on campus, Ireland became an officer in the Marine Corps following the U.S. declaration of war.
When the fighting finally ceased on Tinian-August 1, 1944-Ireland suddenly found himself quite ill:
Five or six days after Tinian was secured I became so sick that I had to take on a quart of plasma to keep in motion. I had a fever of about 104 and was absolutely, I imagine, the most miserable specimen of the Flower of the World's Fighting Forces ever seen.
Indeed many men, having undergone of the rigors and terrors of the campaign were suffering from wounds and exposure. The Marines, then, were given time off to rest and refit. All, however, knew that they would be called on again.
For the Third, Fourth, and Fifth Marine Divisions, their next assignment in February, 1945 led them to one of the most horrific battlefields of the Second World War-a seven and a half square-mile island of black sulfuric ash known as Iwo Jima. Two airfields on the island made it a target for U.S. war planners-planes from these fields had been responsible for harassing American bombers as they flew to and were returned from bombing runs against the Japanese homelands. Also, the Air Force was looking for a closer place to keep their planes so that Superfortresses would not have to fly huge distances to find targets. Taking Iwo Jima would thus satisfy two goals-it would cut down the amount of Japanese fighter harassment of U.S. ships and give the Americans a base of operations close enough to stage more serious and sustained bombing runs against Japan.
Defending the island were 21,000 determined Japanese troops under Lt. Gen. Kuribayashi Tadamichi. Engineers and soldiers labored for weeks, building an elaborate underground fortress. Eventually, the defenders would also be equipped with over three hundred artillery pieces, dozens of mortars, as well as numerous other naval and anti-aircraft guns. The cave complex was a masterpiece of engineering; it was complete with different entrances, stairwells, and interconnecting pathways. The Japanese were determined to make the island very costly for the Americans to take.
But no matter how bloody the battle was going to be, U.S. war-chiefs were determined to take it. On the morning of February 19, 1945, following days of naval bombardment thousands of American Marines stormed the beach. Japanese defenders opened up a deadly fire and almost immediately casualties began mounting. Fire from large cannons as well as small arms fell like a deadly rain, despite previous attempts to knock out the enemy defenders with Naval guns. Wounded men lined the beach as pinned-down Marines attempted to get to safety. The soft, black volcanic ash was something that the men had not faced in previous campaigns and they attempted to get used to it as they widened their parameter to let new troops move up. By the end of the first day, thirty thousand Marines were on Iwo Jima.
As the Marines moved inland, they sustained heavy casualties and encountered the Japanese in defensive pillboxes and caves. Chick Ireland, who had received the Navy Cross and Silver Star and who had ended up leading a company in the Tinian battle now led it again at Iwo Jima. His time, however, was limited. Wounded, Ireland was spared many of the battle's horrors; as he himself later wrote to President Sills:
Actually the wound-consisting of shrapnel in the left leg-was perhaps the most fortunate thing that could have happened to me at Iwo. I was leading a company at the time I was hit, and the chances of survival at a job of that type are practically none. My company eventually had seven company commanders.
Another Bowdoin man who fought at Iwo Jima and saw it through to the bitter end was Richard C. Johnstone of the Class of 1944-at one point the "official" college dogcatcher. As a second lieutenant, Johnstone was in charge of the 60 MM mortar section in Company H of the 27th Marine Regiment, Fifth Marine Division. Surviving the landing and a number of close calls in the opening phase of the battle, Johnstone later recalled the slow and tiring process of digging the Japanese out of their entrenched positions. Marines, having been prepared to encounter defensive tactics created "demolition teams," which were made up of a machine gunner, an explosives man and a flame thrower man. Johnstone described how these team members worked together to clear out the enemy troops: First, "machine gunner pours heavy fire into emplacement opening," then "explosives expert places or throws charge into opening." Following the explosion the "flame thrower man sends heavy bursts of flame into emplacement." These tactics were used again and again as Marines hammered away at the enemy defenses for weeks.
At night, there was no rest as Marines secured their parameter and watched out for infiltrators. Wrote Johnstone:
The enemy attempted to get behind our lines every night-and to help us to see the infiltrators, our navy ships and my mortar squads fired flares over our company front lines. It was an "infiltrator strategy" to "freeze" and stand motionless if "caught" in a flare burst-because in the dim light, provided by the flare, a motionless Japanese could look like a tree stump. Therefore, before it was completely dark, our marines "memorized" the area in front of their foxholes-(a large rock on the right-a tree stump in the center, etc.). When a flare burst, we strained our eyes looking out into the area to our front-and, if we saw a second tree stomp, it wasn't a tree stomp.
Given tough resistance, frayed nerves, and constant combat, the advance was slow and costly. A few weeks after the fighting ended, Johnstone admitted, "a 200 or 300 yd. advance was considered a good days work." Resistance on the island ended in late March, with the U.S. gaining a new base for its planes. The cost for these airstrips was horribly high; almost 27,000 Marines dead or wounded and 21,000 Japanese casualties-mostly dead.
With the fall of Iwo Jima and the collapse of the Philippines, military planners could finally look to the final campaign-the one that all soldiers dreaded-the invasion of Japan. To start considering an attack, however, U.S. troops first needed a base close enough to stage the invasion. To this end they eyed the island of Okinawa-a sixty mile long island about 350 miles from the Japanese mainland. As a base for planes, supplies, and troops the island was invaluable but the price that was finally paid for it-thousands of U.S. sailors, soldiers and Marines, about 70,000 Japanese troops along with 80,000 civilians-was horrific. A Bowdoin graduate, stationed on the island after its capture, wrote to Dean Paul Nixon:
Now and then, I drive around the island, visiting the battlefields and the few ruined cities. By the way, as you drive along the ridges in southern Okinawa, there is a perceptible odor of decaying flesh which strikes our nostrils. You should see the battle-scarred hills. Most of the trees have been felled by artillery bombardment. The hills are studded with evil-smelling caves. The whole ensemble presents a rather grim picture. One wonders whether it was worthwhile for men to give their lives here.
The final battle, the one which men had trained for and dreaded was next. With the collapse of Germany, all eyes now turned to Japan.
As the ship sailed on into the dark sea and into the pages of history, its crew were mostly unaware of what it was that they were carrying with them in the hull of their vessel. Indeed it would have been hard for them to fathom the might and the actual existence of this cargo for not only was it something out of the realm of science-fiction but it was also something that they could not bring themselves to believe could be made by men. The veterans of the ship had grown accustomed to war and to the sights and sounds of Marines storming a heavily fortified beach, of planes crashing into ships and of great carriers exploding in brilliant light and terrifying thunder. The young recruits who had just come aboard to take the places of those who had not survived the previous voyage were also accustomed to such deadly news from the South Pacific, where much blood had been shed in the name of empire and of liberty.
The men sailed without the knowledge that their captain had-knowledge, which demanded extreme vigilance and unfaltering speed. They knew only that the ship, after having docked in San Francisco was moving at top speed towards the frontlines. They knew that Germany had collapsed; that the great dictator, Hitler, was dead; that Allied troops were quickly shifting their might towards the Pacific, where millions had already been killed and where millions more lay waiting for the reaper's scythe as the islands of Japan were targeted for the next-and what many hoped would be the final battle of the Second World War.
But many did not want this battle. They did indeed want an end to war-the horrible scourge of war that had taken so much and that had blanketed the world with an amount of death and destruction that had never before been seen-but they did not wish the final step to be taken for in that step there would be much more suffering, much more death. The Japanese had shown themselves to be fanatical fighters who died willingly and who fought with a ferocity and intensity, unthinkable by their counterparts. An invasion of Japan-something that not even the great Mongol hordes could accomplish centuries earlier-was surely to be the costliest assault of the war. Not only would the Japanese army fight harder on its own home soil but civilians would too and all knew-could almost see-the bloodbath begin to take shape.
America would win. There was no doubt of that. The Japanese fleet had been destroyed; her planes lay scattered and in ruins; thousands of her troops lay in Manchuria, unable to return for the final showdown. Russia would launch a new offensive from their borders and soon the British fleet would join with the combined American armada. Finally, the United States could concentrate her endless resources of manpower and equipment on one enemy. The outcome was not in doubt but still all dreaded it.
And so there was much praying in the world. There were prayers for men and leaders and for victory and for thanks and for forgiveness. There was much praying in the world from temples and churches and mosques and synagogues. There was much praying from young and old and from the healthy and the dying. There was much praying for great miracles and great blessings for across the troubled and exhausted globe there was the great and overwhelming urge for peace. Many, however, believed that the final battle would come and the bloodbath would appear and the world would see more of the horrors of Bataan and Stalingrad and Iwo Jima and Okinawa. And so the praying continued-for peace but also for a shield from the reality that no one really wanted.
In the darkness, no matter how deep, there is always hope and on this magnificent ship, which sailed beneath the Golden Gate and sped faster and faster into the Pacific, there was the answer to the prayers of millions. Strangely enough the "miracle" was not only a savior of life but one that also would take thousands away. It had been born in the minds of men, who had studied the earth and harnessed her secrets. It had been born because of the necessity of war-the great need to outdo ones' enemy in the arts of killing. It had been born in a barren desert, where scientists and workmen labored for years. Its fate had been decided in Washington, where secret meetings in hidden rooms had approved its use. Its birth was heralded by great sound and fury and its first heartbeat rose like a small sun amidst the ranches and hills of the Nevada desert. Its awesome might had stunned even those who created it and in time it would shock the world with its terrifying potential.
The weapons traveled by bus and rail to the huge military and industrial docks of San Francisco Bay and swiftly they were dissembled for their journey into the nightmares of men. Parts of the weapons were flown to the Pacific while still others were packed safely away in the hull of the U.S.S. Indianapolis, which had the distinct honor of carrying "Fat Man" and "Little Boy" to Tinian Island.
Onboard the Indianapolis there were also new faces and one of these was Ensign Paul Herford Eames, Jr. of the Bowdoin College Class of 1946. In 1942, as a reporter for the Bowdoin Orient, Eames had the coveted job of covering First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt's trip to the college and wrote a detailed account of her stay. As one of the few civilians on campus during the war years Eames must have worked diligently. Perhaps on frosty winter mornings as he was leaving Chapel he would think of the peace and calm of the campus and the friendly faces around him. Perhaps he would also think of his classmates and men he had known who were now across the ocean in hundreds of different jobs. Conscious of his responsibility, Eames joined the Navy and indeed missed graduation because he was already deep in training for the final campaigns of the war. Assignment to the Indianapolis must have been thrilling. The ship had a long and proud history, having fought in nearly every major campaign of the Pacific war and served as Admiral Raymond Spruance's Fifth Fleet flagship. As a modern vessel, Indianapolis was equipped with radar and other technology-all except for sonar. Damaged during the Battle of Okinawa, Indianapolis had been sent back to the States to receive repairs and refit. It just so happened that, a few crates of top secret material were awaiting her at the dock for a quick trip to the frontlines.
Before Indianapolis set sail, Eames received a copy of his degree in the mail and typed a note to President Sills:
My degree and the copy of the commencement program have been forward to me. I want to express my deepest gratitude and pleasure in receiving my degree from the college of my choice, and graduating Cum Laude. ... It is very fine to feel that I am at last really an alumnus of Bowdoin College. I only regret that I won't return to Bowdoin as an undergraduate with so many of my friends and classmates after the job here is done.
The ten-day Pacific crossing was a new record for the naval vessel and she delivered her precious cargo without interruption. On July 27, 1945, Indianapolis parted from the bombs she had just delivered-their fate forever enshrined in history-she sailed for Guam and then Leyte in the Philippine Islands. Onboard, the men must have been proud of their new speed record but there must also have been anticipation for the coming battles and the coming trails they would face as a crew. Indeed, they did not have to wait long.
Cruising at 17 knots on the night of July 28, the Indianapolis was suddenly rocked by explosions on her starboard bow-she had been struck by Japanese torpedoes. Without sonar, Indianapolis had been unable to track the submarine that had been hunting her. Electricity and communications were severed as the ship struggled to stay above water. Compartments quickly flooded trapping hundreds of crewmembers below decks. Almost three hundred and fifty men did not make it out in time as the ship sank to a watery grave. For the survivors, it was not easy either. No SOS had been sent and they were floating in shark infested waters far away from the nearest U.S. base. It was not until August 2 that the three hundred and sixteen survivors (eight hundred and fifty had gone into the water) were rescued. It was the worst disasters that the U.S. Navy ever faced. Among the casualties was a young Bowdoin man who had just received his diploma and who, if he had lived, may very well have returned to the college and the friends he professed to loving so dearly.
Paul H. Eames, Jr. was one of the last Bowdoin men-and there were ninety-five (including one faculty member) in all-who lost his life while serving in the Second World War. A few months after the Indianapolis disaster and after the dropping of the two atomic bombs on Japan, Paul Eames' father wrote a touching letter to President Sills expressing his sentiments:
The other day in Washington when Admiral Nimitz was speaking before the Congress he referred to the men of the Navy who gave their lives during the war as "standing their eternal watch at sea." Paul, jr. loved the sea, ships and the Navy and we like these words of Admiral Nimitz in respect to him. We know that the Indianapolis and all the brave men who went with her have simply sailed beyond our present view into that desired haven where there is a better understanding of Eternal Life.
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