[Stackpole] Blossoming Silk Against the Rising Sun - U.S. and Japanese Paratroopers at War

STACKPOLE MILITARY HISTORY SERIES GENE ERIC SALECKER U.S. and Japanese Paratroopers at War in the Pacific in WWII BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING S...

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STACKPOLE MILITARY HISTORY SERIES

U.S. and Japanese Paratroopers at War in the Pacific in WWII

GENE ERIC SALECKER

BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN

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The Stackpole Military History Series THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR Cavalry Raids of the Civil War Ghost, Thunderbolt, and Wizard Pickett’s Charge Witness to Gettysburg WORLD WAR I Doughboy War WORLD WAR II After D-Day Armor Battles of the Waffen-SS, 1943–45 Armoured Guardsmen Army of the West Australian Commandos The B-24 in China Backwater War The Battle of Sicily Battle of the Bulge, Vol. 1 Battle of the Bulge, Vol. 2 Beyond the Beachhead Beyond Stalingrad Blitzkrieg Unleashed Blossoming Silk against the Rising Sun Bodenplatte The Brandenburger Commandos The Brigade Bringing the Thunder The Canadian Army and the Normandy Campaign Coast Watching in World War II Colossal Cracks Condor A Dangerous Assignment D-Day Bombers D-Day Deception D-Day to Berlin Destination Normandy Dive Bomber! A Drop Too Many Eagles of the Third Reich The Early Battles of Eighth Army Eastern Front Combat Exit Rommel Fist from the Sky Flying American Combat Aircraft of World War II

For Europe Forging the Thunderbolt For the Homeland Fortress France The German Defeat in the East, 1944–45 German Order of Battle, Vol. 1 German Order of Battle, Vol. 2 German Order of Battle, Vol. 3 The Germans in Normandy Germany’s Panzer Arm in World War II GI Ingenuity Goodwood The Great Ships Grenadiers Hitler’s Nemesis Infantry Aces In the Fire of the Eastern Front Iron Arm Iron Knights Kampfgruppe Peiper at the Battle of the Bulge The Key to the Bulge Knight’s Cross Panzers Kursk Luftwaffe Aces Luftwaffe Fighter Ace Luftwaffe Fighter-Bombers over Britain Massacre at Tobruk Mechanized Juggernaut or Military Anachronism? Messerschmitts over Sicily Michael Wittmann, Vol. 1 Michael Wittmann, Vol. 2 Mountain Warriors The Nazi Rocketeers No Holding Back On the Canal Operation Mercury Packs On! Panzer Aces Panzer Aces II Panzer Aces III Panzer Commanders of the Western Front Panzergrenadier Aces Panzer Gunner The Panzer Legions Panzers in Normandy Panzers in Winter The Path to Blitzkrieg Penalty Strike Red Road from Stalingrad

Red Star under the Baltic Retreat to the Reich Rommel’s Desert Commanders Rommel’s Desert War Rommel’s Lieutenants The Savage Sky Ship-Busters The Siegfried Line A Soldier in the Cockpit Soviet Blitzkrieg Stalin’s Keys to Victory Surviving Bataan and Beyond T-34 in Action Tank Tactics Tigers in the Mud Triumphant Fox The 12th SS, Vol. 1 The 12th SS, Vol. 2 Twilight of the Gods Typhoon Attack The War against Rommel’s Supply Lines War in the Aegean Wolfpack Warriors Zhukov at the Oder THE COLD WAR / VIETNAM Cyclops in the Jungle Expendable Warriors Flying American Combat Aircraft: The Cold War Here There Are Tigers Land with No Sun MiGs over North Vietnam Phantom Reflections Street without Joy Through the Valley WARS OF AFRICA AND THE MIDDLE EAST Never-Ending Conflict The Rhodesian War GENERAL MILITARY HISTORY Carriers in Combat Cavalry from Hoof to Track Desert Battles Guerrilla Warfare Ranger Dawn Sieges

BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN U.S. and Japanese Paratroopers at War in the Pacific in World War II

Gene Eric Salecker

STACKPOLE BOOKS

To my godchildren, Marissa and Sheri (and Sara, too). I think of you often.

Copyright © 2010 by Gene Eric Salecker Published by STACKPOLE BOOKS 5067 Ritter Road Mechanicsburg, PA 17055 www.stackpolebooks.com All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. All inquiries should be addressed to Stackpole Books. Cover design by Tracy Patterson Printed in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Salecker, Gene Eric, 1957– Blossoming silk against the Rising Sun : U.S. and Japanese paratroopers at war in the Pacific in World War II / Gene Eric Salecker. p. cm. — (Stackpole military history series) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-8117-0657-5 1. United States. Army—Parachute troops—History—World War, 1939–1945. 2. Japan. Rikugun—Parachute troops—History—World War, 1939–1945. 3. World War, 1939–1945—Campaigns—Pacific Area. 4. World War, 1939–1945—Aerial operations, American. 5. World War, 1939–1945—Aerial operations, Japanese. I. Title. D769.347.S25 2010 940.54'1273—dc22 2009053794

Contents

Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vi Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26

Yokosuka 1st Special Naval Landing Force . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Dash Forward . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Japan Needs Oil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 P1 Airﬁeld . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 The Capture of Palembang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 Dutch West Timor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 The U.S. Paratrooper . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 Equipping the American Paratrooper . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 Operation Cartwheel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102 Nadzab . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112 Baptism of Fire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127 Birth of a Division, Death of a Program . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138 New Guinea Interlude . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149 Noemfoor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157 Leyte Fireﬁght . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172 The Calm before the Storm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 186 Caught Napping . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 209 Buri Airﬁeld . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221 By Air and by Sea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 228 Tagaytay Ridge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 234 The Rock . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 250 Rock Force Assault . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 262 Seizing the Rock . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 272 Los Baños . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 281 The Raid . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 294 The Last Jump . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 307

Epilogue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 318 Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 321 Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 361 Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 369

Introduction The Development of the Parachute and Paratrooper Doctrine

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ong before World War II, man had been experimenting with the idea of ﬂoating to earth underneath some form of parachute-like device. The ﬁrst form of apparatus used for vertical descent may have been in the shape of a huge umbrella. Ancient manuscripts found in Peking, China, tell the story of acrobats who thrilled crowds by dropping from great heights while suspended beneath huge parasols. In 875 A.D., a monk named Casim reportedly jumped from a hill or cliff using some form of parachute device. Many years later, in 1060, another monk, named Oliver, supposedly made jumps suspended by a parachute device from the tower of a tall monastery.1 During the ﬁfteenth century, the great artist-sculpture-inventor Leonardo da Vinci drew a sketch and described a vertical drop device that he had imagined. “If a man have a tent of linen of which the apertures have all been stopped up,” he wrote, “and it be 12 braccia across and 12 in depth, he will be able to throw himself down from any great height without sustaining any injury.” With a braccia being roughly the length of a man’s arm, or about three feet, da Vinci’s “tent” would measure thirty-six feet by thirty-six feet, somewhat larger than the canopy used by the U.S. Army in World War II, which measured twenty-eight feet in diameter. Supported by a square framework along the bottom and four rising support beams reaching from the four corners and meeting at the center, the device remained only an interesting concept during da Vinci’s life on earth.2 Using a device that was very similar to da Vinci’s design, Fauste Veranzio jumped from a tower in Venice in 1617. Then, in 1783, Sebastian Lenormand of France, while striving to ﬁnd a way to jump out of a burning building, made a fourteen-foot-diameter canopy and successfully jumped from a tower of “some height.”3 Still, the creation of a World War II–style parachute would have to wait until man could get high enough into the air to make a parachute necessary, a capability that arrived with the hot-air balloon. The development of the World War II–style parachute really came into being in the late 1700s while work was being done to come up with a new invention, the lighter-than-air balloon. In 1779, while working on the con-

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cept, Frenchman Joseph Montgolﬁer attached a sheep to a seven-foot canopy and dropped it from a tower. The sheep lived, and four years later, Montgolﬁer and his brother built the ﬁrst “practical hot-air balloon.”4 As these hot-air balloons gained in popularity and began to rise higher and higher, people started to experiment with vertical descent. In 1785, French balloonist Jean Pierre Blanchard dropped a dog in a parachute harness from a balloon near Paris. Although the dog ﬂoated down safely— reportedly barking the entire way—it hit the ground running and never came back.5 Blanchard may have been great with parachutes, but he was a failure when it came to raising animals. The ﬁrst successful human jump with a parachute may have been Blanchard himself, who supposedly jumped and ended up breaking his leg. Although Blanchard’s jump lacks veriﬁcation, another Frenchman, André Garnerin, made a well-documented parachute descent from a balloon on October 22, 1797. Using a canopy measuring twenty-three feet in diameter, Garnerin leaped from a balloon that was a mile and a quarter above Paris. Coming down in an oscillating motion, the only thing Garnerin suffered was acute airsickness.6 The ﬁrst vertical descent in America was by Pennsylvania balloonist John Wise, who did it without a parachute. In 1838, the theory was being bandied about that a balloon, if deﬂated correctly, could “form a parachute by the migration of the lower half of the envelope into the upper, thus allowing a controlled descent.” According to Nick Moehlmann of the John Wise Balloon Society, “Wise ﬂew this balloon from Easton, Pa., in bad weather, which caused the balloon to rupture. However, in this unintended test of the contraption, it worked! Wise did not originate the idea but he surely was the ﬁrst to ﬂy the idea and survive its testing.”7 The ﬁrst collapsible parachute, capable of being stowed and carried inside some form of packing, was invented by two brothers, Americans Samuel and Thomas Baldwin. In 1887, the two men designed a parachute that could be stowed in a canvas container. Fastened to his body with a rope body harness, Tom Baldwin jumped from a balloon at an altitude of 5,000 feet over San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park on January 30, 1887. With hundreds of people watching from below, “the weight of Tom’s falling body pulled the folded parachute from its container, uncoiling it with the speed of a just-released spring,” wrote historian Gerard M. Devlin. “In less than ﬁve seconds, it was fully open, gently lowering him to earth.”8 For the next two decades, everyone was satisﬁed with watching both men and women take daring leaps from lighter-than-air balloons, but that all changed in 1903 when Orville Wright traveled 120 feet in twelve seconds in the ﬁrst successful heavier-than-air “ﬂying machine.” Over the next few years, the ﬂying machines, or airplanes, would be improved so that ﬂights became

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longer in both duration and length. At the same time, however, ﬂights became more dangerous. It was about this time that people began wondering about the practicality of equipping pilots with parachutes. All it took was for someone to come up with a suitable, practical design.9 Perhaps the ﬁrst man to jump out of a moving airplane was stuntman Grant Morton at Venice, California, in 1911. Utilizing the same type of parachute used to jump out of hot-air balloons, Morton simply climbed out on the wing of a plane with a parachute bundled in his arms. Then Morton jumped off of the wing of the biplane and threw the silk canopy out behind him.10 The ﬁrst paratrooper-style jump came from an ex-balloonist, U.S. Army Capt. Albert Berry. On March 1, 1912, Berry and his pilot, Anthony Jannus, took off from Kinloch Field near St. Louis. The plane in which they were riding, a 1911 Benoist Headless pusher-type airplane, had the propeller behind the seats. Since the biplane had no sides to protect or enclose the pilot and passenger, both Berry and Jannus sat tied to their seats with their legs hanging down. As the plane neared Jefferson Barracks Army Base south of St. Louis, Berry looked down and spotted an insane asylum. “That’s where we both belong,” he told Jannus. Once over the base, Jannus began to circle at 1,500 feet while Berry untied himself and climbed down to sit on the axle of the plane’s front wheel-skid. Strapped beneath the plane was a tin “ice-cream-cone-shaped container” housing his parachute. The invention was the idea of balloonist Leo Stevens. According to a U.S. Army Infantry School document, “The cone was tied to the front wheel-skid of the plane and a life-line ran from the suspension lines stowed within the cone, to a belt and a trapeze bar, which supported Berry when he jumped from the undercarriage.” The parachute itself was inside the cone, with old newspapers tucked between the folds to keep them from sticking together. As Albert Berry sat balancing on the front skid of the plane, all he had to do was release the front of the cone, attach the parachute to a harness that he wore, and then leap into space. While he contemplated his fate, a crowd of enlisted men and officers gathered down below. After releasing the wide end of the cone and attaching the parachute to his harness, Berry said a prayer and slid off his perch. “I dropped so rapidly that I began to feel uneasy whether the parachute would open,” he recalled. “Then I slowed up and knew I was safe. . . . In dropping from a balloon, a parachute opens ordinarily after a 200-foot drop. But my drop was 500 feet before the parachute opened.” When Berry was asked if he would ever do it again, he replied, “Never again! I believe I turned ﬁve somersaults on my way down. . . . My course downward . . . was like a crazy arrow. I was not prepared for the violent sensation that I felt when I broke away from the aeroplane.”11

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Although Berry had proven that Stevens’s conical parachute container could be used to house a parachute so that a pilot could escape from an airplane, pilots complained that the device was not practical, claiming that it would take too long to unfasten a seatbelt, climb down to the plane’s axle, release the wide end of the cone, secure the parachute to the harness, and then jump clear of a plane that might already be plummeting earthward. Although successful, the device was practically useless.12 With the impracticality of the Stevens container, parachute designers all over the world began to look for better ways for pilots to deploy chutes. Eventually, American Charles Broadwick designed a parachute that was worn in a “parachute coat.” The canopy itself was packed inside a canvas container or backpack attached to a sleeveless “coat” that was slipped over a pilot’s regular clothing. A long length of rope or static line had one end attached to lacing that closed a ﬂap on the backpack and the other attached to a metal hook that the pilot attached to a secure object, such as a wing strut. If the pilot got into trouble, he simply had to jump out of the plane. The weight of the pilot’s body would cause the static line to pull tight and rip open the lacing on the backpack. Another break cord, attached to the canopy, would pull the parachute out of the backpack and then snap in two when that too became too taught. Air would then ﬁll the canopy and the pilot would just drift quietly down to earth. On February 23, 1914, Broadwick tried out his invention, which worked perfectly in the ﬁrst tethered parachute jump from a moving airplane.13 Within a few months, the world was engaged in the Great War, and hundreds of men were suddenly using the parachute to save their lives. Instead of jumping from crashing airplanes, however, most of the parachutists were dropping out of huge hydrogen-filled observation balloons that had been set on fire by incendiary bullets from enemy airplanes. Most of the pilots in the attacking planes on both sides refused to carry parachutes until it was reported in the fall of 1916 that an Austrian pilot had been saved from a burning plane by jumping out with a parachute. After that, many German and Austrian pilots began taking static-line-activated parachutes up with them. Allied pilots still refused to wear them. A U.S. Army research group noted, “During World War I, very few Allied army pilots carried parachutes because they considered it an unmanly reflection on their courage to do so.”14 Even before the United States had entered World War I, James Floyd Smith, an aviation pioneer, applied for a patent on a new type of parachute. As Smith wrote in his application, the current static line parachute “has a decided disadvantage in that it depends on the aviator being able to jump and drop away from the airplane in order to extend the parachute and cause it to open. If the airplane is falling and the aviator cannot get away from it he

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may then merely fall with the plane.” Smith’s new design incorporated a small “auxiliary” or pilot chute, the ﬁrst of its kind. “The small parachute,” he continued, “will catch the air and will extend the main parachute, if the aviator is either falling through the air alone or falling with his machine. If he is falling with his machine, the main parachute will lift him off the machine when it opens.” The pilot chute, as described by Smith, “is small enough so that even without an automatically opening means it may under some circumstances take the air upon being released from the pack, or upon being pulled from the pack by the aviator; and then cause the large chute to be pulled out.”15 Smith packed the pilot chute and the main chute inside a backpack attached to an “H” harness. The two parachutes were placed inside the backpack, and the sides of the pack were folded over and closed by “a thread or loop.” Cords were attached to the folded sides and were of “sufﬁcient strength to cause [the] loops to be broken when the wearer pulls on these cords.” The cords were attached to a single strap that extended across the wearer’s chest “with a central ring or other handle easy for the wearer to grasp.” As Smith indicated, “A pull upon the handle will cause the thread ties of the pack to break and will allow the pack to open.”16 When the war was over, Smith was hired by the U.S. Army to oversee all parachute development at McCook Field north of Dayton, Ohio. Working in conjunction with Lesley Leroy Irvin, a stunt parachutist, Smith improved on his design, and on April 28, 1919, the two men demonstrated their improved parachute. With Smith piloting a DeHavilland biplane, the two men went aloft, and at a speed of 100 miles per hour and a height of 1,500 feet, Irvin dove out of the plane. After a freefall of 500 feet, Irvin ﬁnally pulled on the cord, which ripped the enclosing thread on the back of the parachute pack, and the pilot chute spilled out. A second later the main chute was pulled out and caught the wind, blossoming into an air-ﬁlled parachute. Using James Floyd Smith’s design, Lesley Irvin had become the ﬁrst man to jump from an airplane and manually open a parachute after an extended freefall.17 In spite of its merits, all parachutes continued to be snubbed by U.S. Army pilots until October 20, 1922, when Lt. Harold B. Harris ran into trouble over McCook Field while test-ﬂying an experimental monoplane. A U.S. Army pamphlet recorded, “The plane suddenly plunged out of control into a steep dive tearing the wing surfaces to shreds.” Somehow, Harris, wearing a Smith-design parachute, managed to get out of the plane, but he began pulling on the wrong ring because of “his ignorance of the parachute’s operation.” Only 500 feet above the ground, he suddenly realized his mistake and pulled the release ring. As “several hundred Army Air Force personnel” watched from below, Harris’s parachute ﬁnally opened, and he ﬂoated down, scared but safe. After that, the army pilots “campaigned whole heartedly for

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the parachute as an item of standard equipment.” In 1924, by order of the U.S. War Department, parachutes became required items for all army and navy ﬂyers.18 On October 17, 1918, while in France during World War I, Col. William “Billy” Mitchell, the head of all American Expeditionary Force air units, came up with a proposal of dropping a massive group of men behind enemy lines via parachutes. Fearful that the upcoming Allied offensive against the city of Metz would run into “division after division of the crack troops of the German Army . . . guarding the direct pathway to this old-world city,” Mitchell suggested the ﬁrst mass parachute drop of armed troops. To get behind the German divisions, Mitchell proposed supplying an infantry division with “a great number of machine guns” and taking them up in “our large airplanes, which would carry ten or ﬁfteen of these soldiers.” Included in this innovative idea was a plan to “supply them by aircraft with food and ammunition.”19 The commander of the American Expeditionary Force, Gen. John J. Pershing, agreed that the plan was “perfectly feasible” and “obtained the promised use” of about 1,200 twin-engine Handley-Page bombers. Each plane could possibly carry as many as ten of the parachute-equipped infantrymen, so Mitchell and his operations ofﬁcer, Maj. Lewis H. Brereton, began drawing up plans to drop 12,000 soldiers behind the enemy lines around Metz. Unfortunately for Mitchell and Brereton, the war ended twenty-ﬁve days after the proposal was made.20 The armistice of November 11, 1918, killed the ﬁrst ever combat parachute drop before it had even begun. Although Mitchell’s mass parachute drop died with World War I, the concept lived on. The ﬁrst country to make a massed parachute drop was Benito Mussolini’s Fascist Italy. On November 6, 1927, a “collective drop” from CA73 troop carriers of the Regia Aeronautica was made at Cinisello Balsamo, near Milan. By the end of the year, a trained company of Italian troops was ready to be paradropped into battle.21 Six months after the Italian drop, American M/Sgt. Erwin H. Nichols, who had been with Mitchell in France and had been working on the idea of a massed parachute assault, arranged for a demonstration to take place at Brooks Field, Texas, on April 29, 1928. While the army brass watched from below, six enlisted men jumped from six different de Havilland biplanes, while a machine gun was dropped from a Douglas transport. Within minutes, the men and gun were on the ground, and in a short time, the weapon was set up and functional, proving that groups of men and weapons could be dropped from above.22 The following October, a promoted Gen. Billy Mitchell arranged for another demonstration of airborne tactics at Kelly Field, Texas. This time, six soldiers dropped with their machine gun from one plane. Landing safely, the men had the weapon operational in less than three minutes.23

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This was another example of what well-trained men could do when dropped from an airplane. The next year, 1929, in an attempt to impress a number of visiting foreign heads and military attaches, Sergeant Nichols arranged for another demonstration of vertical attack at Brooks Field. As the foreign diplomats and ofﬁcers looked on, eighteen de Havilland biplanes and three Douglas transports slowly came into view. When above the ﬁeld, one man jumped from each of the biplanes while thirty-eight cargo containers carrying Lewis machine guns were thrown out of the transports. “In exactly four minutes,” noted the U.S. Army’s Infantry School Quarterly, “the parachutists had the machine guns in operation.”24 Rightfully awed by what they had seen, the foreigners undoubtedly went back and reported the results of the demonstration to their superiors. The next massed parachute drop came from Josef Stalin’s Soviet Union. In the late 1920s, after some visiting Soviets had witnessed the parachuting craze at American fairs and carnivals, the craze swept across Russia. Almost every large city seemed to have a few parachute towers, and Soviet citizens were encouraged to join clubs and learn how to jump. In 1929, the best of the male jumpers were being “encouraged” to join the military. In August 1931 the Soviet military demonstrated its expertise in parachute training by dropping twenty-four men with riﬂes and light machine guns from three aircraft. A month later, eleven men jumped behind “enemy” lines from one aircraft during an army training ﬁeld exercise and captured the “enemy” corps commander and his headquarters.25 The Soviets had just demonstrated one of the advantages of the parachute troops. In 1931, with the invasion of Manchuria by Japan and a rapidly growing hostile force near its southern border, the Soviet Union decided to modernize its military. As part of this modernization, the Soviets purchased several thousand Smith/Irvin parachutes from the United States and created a test parachute unit out of volunteers from the 11th Riﬂe Division. Another exercise with the paratroopers was held in 1931, which encouraged young men to volunteer for this new arm of the service, and in 1933, Russia dropped fortysix highly trained soldiers from two huge four-engine transports during another exercise, thereby establishing a new record for mass drops. At that same exercise, Russia also dropped a small tank with a large parachute.26 In 1935, the Soviets continued to experiment with massed parachute drops, sending a full regiment of about 1,200 troopers out of their planes during a major combat exercise near Kiev. Watching down below were a number of foreign observers from nations such as the United States, England, and Germany. American Maj. Philip R. Faymonville commented: “The most important feature of the maneuvers was undoubtedly the mass parachute jump executed from bombing planes in the space of three minutes by

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infantrymen and machine gunners. . . . The mass parachute jump took place . . . behind the ‘enemy’ lines. The parachute jumpers entrenched themselves in a strongpoint and were ready for defense within a few minutes.” Maj. Gen. Archibald Wavell of England wrote, “We were taken to see a force of about 1500 men dropped by parachute. . . . This parachute descent, though its tactical value may be doubtful, was a most spectacular performance.”27 While Faymonville seemed impressed and Wavell doubted the “tactical value” of paratroopers, the German observers were taking copious notes. By January 1936, the Germans, under the direction of Adolf Hitler, had begun annulling the Treaty of Versailles that ended World War I and prohibited Germany from having a standing army of more than 100,000 men. Germany started building up a massive, modern military machine, and after the German observers returned from Kiev, it was decided to begin the training of a regiment of paratroopers.28 After the 1935 Soviet exercise and then another in 1936, Stalin began his infamous purges, killing thousands of people connected with the Russian military. Among those executed were some of the leading authors of Soviet paratrooper doctrines. With their loss, the effectiveness of the Soviet parachute battalions seemed to fade away, and although the Russians would be the ﬁrst country to make a combat parachute drop in World War II at Petsamo, Finland, on December 2, 1939, the Russian paratroopers were never quite as effective as they had seemed during the mass jumps of the mid1930s.29 By then, the world’s leading powers were already developing, or stood ready to develop, airborne forces as important components of their militaries. The Paciﬁc theater would witness a dozen combat parachute drops during the bloody struggle between the United States and Japan.

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CHAPTER 1

The Yokosuka 1st Special Naval Landing Force

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ear 10:00 A.M. on January 11, 1942, the same day Japan declared war on the Dutch government in exile, the sky over Langoan Airﬁeld near the town of Manado on the island of Celebes in the Netherlands East Indies suddenly ﬁlled with the sound of large, twin-engine Japanese planes. Although used to almost daily Japanese air raids, the Dutch defenders watched in amazement as small “dots” began to fall from the tight V-formations and blossom into open parachutes. The vital airﬁeld on the long, thin Minahassa Peninsula—within striking distance of essential Dutch oil installations on other islands to the south—was under attack from above. The ﬁrst combat parachute drop of the Paciﬁc War was underway.1 The troops dropping from the airplanes were members of the Yokosuka 1st Special Naval Landing Force (SNLF), a special unit of paratroopers from the Japanese Navy. Formed in November 1940, the paratroopers were highly trained to be dropped behind enemy lines to secure an objective until relieved by troops who came ashore in the more conventional way. Another purpose was noted by historian Graham Donaldson, “The Japanese Navy had the concept of intending to disable airﬁelds, [thereby] preventing interference by enemy warplanes on an amphibious landing by coordinating the timing of their seaborne assault and parachute drop to create maximum surprise at the point of contact.” Langoan Airﬁeld, just north of Manado, was deemed important enough to warrant the inaugural drop of the special navy paratroopers.2 To arrive over the airﬁeld at the designated time, the paratroopers had left Davao Airﬁeld on the southeast coast of Mindanao Island in the Philippines at 6:30 A.M. in twenty-eight twin-engine Mitsubishi G3M-L3Y1 Type 96 transport planes, code-named “Tina” by the Americans. Flying almost due south for 380 miles, each transport, a conversion of the Mitsubishi G3M “Nell” long-range bomber, carried three crewmen, twelve paratroopers, and two cargo containers ﬁlled with weapons, ammunition, and personal equipment such as canteens and haversacks. Five more of the essential cargo containers were carried beneath each plane.3

1

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As the transports headed south over the Celebes Sea, they ﬂew in tight ﬁve-plane V-formations. While the planes were still north of Celebes, the ﬂight was mistakenly attacked by a Mitsubishi F1M2 Naval Type O observation ﬂoatplane protecting the Japanese amphibious force. One transport plane was shot down with everyone aboard before the ﬂoatplane crew realized that they were ﬁring on their own planes. Later, as the ﬂight neared Celebes, Zero aircraft from the light carrier Zuiho arrived to provide ﬁghter support to the transports.4 Even before the transport planes left Davao, an amphibious force of about 2,500 men of the navy’s Sasebo Combined Special Naval Landing Force (CSNLF) began landing in two places along the Minahassa Peninsula, which curves up and over the top of Celebes Island like a wild narrow ribbon. After Japanese destroyers pounded the landing areas, part of the Sasebo CSNLF came ashore at 3:00 A.M. at Kema, on the southern side of the peninsula, while the other half came ashore an hour later at Manado, on the northern side.5 There to defend the entire Manado area were 1,500 Dutch and native soldiers, mostly irregulars or over-age men. More than one third of the defenders were over ﬁfty, and most of the men were poorly trained and poorly equipped. Small in number, the Troepencommando Manado Force, as it was called, had to cover both the northern and southern coasts of the peninsula against waterborne attacks, as well as two airﬁelds in the immediate area, Mapanget Airﬁeld (also known as Manado I) and Langoan Airﬁeld (Manado II), from airborne attack. The commander of the defense force, Maj. B. F. A. Schilmöller, had put most of his men behind the two shorelines but had sent about 600 men under Capt. W. C. van den Berg to cover the airﬁelds. Even though there were no Dutch airplanes at either ﬁeld, Schilmöller reasoned that the Japanese might try to seize the landing strips to help further their expansion toward the other more vital oil-rich islands to the south.6 On the morning of January 11, 1942, when the Japanese parachute invasion began, there were approximately 450 men and one overvalwagen (an open-top motor car ﬁtted with armor plates) under the command of Sgt. Maj. H. J. Robbemond at Langoan Airﬁeld. The rest of the men and three more overvalwagens, all under the tactical command of 1st Lt. J. G. Wielinga, were being held in reserve nearby.7 After the escorting Zero ﬁghters from the Zuiho and perhaps even a few bombers from Mindanao strafed and bombed the Langoan area, the Type 96 transports ﬂew over the airﬁeld in their ﬁve-plane V-formations. As the planes came in at an altitude of 500 feet and a speed of about 115 miles per hour, the ﬁrst Japanese paratroopers rose to their feet and prepared to unload from the planes.8

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A U.S. War Department study suggested what might have happened aboard each plane as it neared the drop zones: At the order “prepare to jump” the static-line swivel ring is attached firmly to the proper place in the fuselage. With everything in readiness, the command “stand by for the jump” is communicated by three successive buzzer signals, each of 1-second duration. One purpose of this warning is apparently to give the paratroopers an opportunity to take a deep breath. This is regarded by the Japanese as a very important preliminary to jumping. When the “stand by” signal is given, the door of the plane is opened, and the first trooper in the jump line assumes his stance. After a 1-second interval, the command to jump is given by a single buzzer sound of 2-second duration. In the event of a sudden emergency which requires the jump to be held up, a rapidly repeated short buzzer signal is given.9 Undoubtedly, the ﬁrst men out of the planes were from the 1st Company (139 men) led by Lieutenant (junior grade) Mutaguchi. The succeeding planes would be carrying the 2nd Company (137 men) under Lieutenant (junior grade) Saito, the headquarters group (44 men) under Cdr. Toyoaki Horiuchi, and a signal unit (14 men). In all, 334 men—minus 12 that had been killed in the accidentally downed transport plane—would be dropping on Langoan Airﬁeld.10 The U.S. War Department study went on to explain what happened when each Japanese paratrooper exited the plane: “When the order is given to jump the parachutist leaps out at about a 70-degree angle of incidence. The jump position is held while falling until the opening of the parachute. The parachutist’s back is turned towards the plane so that the suspension line and canopy will draw out smoothly without fouling. The Japanese parachute is expected to open in 4 seconds, after a free fall of about 150 feet.”11 At a rate of descent of about ﬁfteen feet per second, the navy paratroopers dropping over Langoan Airﬁeld would hit the ground about twenty-eight seconds after exiting the plane. As the troopers neared the ground, they held their feet together and prepared for the sudden shock. “[The] resultant shock of hitting the ground,” noted the War Department study, “is declared to be equivalent to a fall from a height of about 41⁄2 to 5 feet.”12 During the twenty-four seconds that the paratroopers spent ﬂoating to the ground after their four-second freefall, the Dutch defenders ﬁred all kinds of small arms at the invaders. Although lacking proper antiaircraft guns and even proper ﬁrearms, they used whatever they had to try to repel the assault, including several British Vickers machine guns and a Danish Madsen light machine gun on the overvalwagen.13

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After hitting the ground, each paratrooper twisted the metal disc-shaped junction box over his chest and smacked it with his hand to release the straps of his parachute. After throwing off the harness, the trooper then pulled an 8-millimeter semiautomatic Nambu-manufactured Type 94 (1934) pistol from a specially designed angled pistol pocket sewn on the right chest of his olive-green jump uniform. At the same time, he probably reached for his two high-explosive hand grenades, Type-97 (1937) or Type 99 (1939), which were carried in two specially sewn angled pockets on the left side of his chest. With these meager arms in hand, each paratrooper then rushed toward a cargo container to gather up his main weapon.14 The entire Langoan Airﬁeld was covered with very short grass, which made it easy to spot the forty-two-inch-long aluminum cargo carriers. Tearing open the strap, the men found their equipment: haversack; canteen; waist belt with holster, bayonet and scabbard, and riﬂe ammunition pouches; and of course their riﬂe, machine gun, or grenade discharger. The main weapon

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5

for most of the invaders was an Arisaka bolt-action 6.5-millimeter Meiji Type 38 (1905) carbine. At only 34.2-inches long and seven pounds, ﬁve ounces, the ﬁve-round, magazine-fed Meiji carbine was ideal for use by the paratroopers.15 For added ﬁrepower, a few of the men were issued the Nambumanufactured 7.7-millimeter Type 99 (1939) light machine gun. With a detachable quick-change barrel, removable stock, and hollow pistol grip that folded forward to cover the trigger guard and trigger, the Type 99 light machine gun was ideally suited for storage in the tight paratrooper cargo carriers. Ammunition was fed to the weapon through the top of the breech and had a rate of ﬁre of 250 to 900 rounds per minute, depending on how fast the magazines were changed.16 To add some punch to the raiding paratroopers, each riﬂe section had two or three 50-millimeter Type 89 (1929) grenade dischargers. Mistakenly called a “knee mortar” by the Americans because of a curved base, which some American soldiers thought had to be placed against the trooper’s thigh as he kneeled down to ﬁre, the Type 89 grenade launcher had a riﬂed barrel that could throw a shell about 730 yards. The effective range, however, was closer to 135 yards. Although the mortar could be ﬁred by one man, it was designed to be crewed by three and could be broken down into three sections, which made it a perfect “heavy punch” weapon for paratroopers.17 While the navy paratroopers scrambled for their main weapons, the Dutch defenders continued to ﬁre at them. Some of the Japanese troopers fell close to the prepared enemy pillboxes and, instead of going for the cargo containers, engaged the defenders with pistols and hand grenades, giving their fellow troopers time to gain access to the heavier weapons. According to one historian, “Although sources do not elaborate as to the exact methods the Japanese used here, one can surmise that they made use of the high explosive, tear gas, and white phosphorous grenades typically distributed to airborne troops—plus more than a hint of élan instilled into these elite troops.” Once the riﬂes, light machine guns, and grenade launchers were retrieved, the tide began to turn in favor of the paratroopers.18 By 10:20 A.M., some twenty-eight minutes after the ﬁrst man exited the lead transport aircraft, all of the paratroopers were on the ground. As they gathered in small groups around the cargo containers and then moved forward to engage the enemy, the native defenders seemed to melt away. Still, many of the Dutch infantrymen, retired members of the Royal Netherlands East Indies Army, fought on valiantly.19 As the Japanese pressed outward against the Dutch defenses, the overvalwagen that Sergeant Major Robbemond had at the airﬁeld was eventually captured. Two more armored cars that had been out on patrol had been ordered to the defense of the airﬁeld by Captain van den Berg. As the two

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vehicles approached, they came under heavy ﬁre from the paratroopers. One car had its engine shot to pieces and came to a dead stop, but the other managed to reach the airﬁeld itself and cause quite a stir before eventually ﬂeeing. The ﬁrst counterattacking overvalwagen, although immobilized, had two native gunners who continued to ﬁre their light machine gun until the rest of the crew managed to escape. Then, although both men were wounded, they too managed to get away from the advancing Japanese paratroopers.20 Elsewhere, the two Japanese amphibious invasions were moving along quite well. At 3:00 A.M., men from the Sasebo CSNLF had landed unopposed near Kema and quickly brought ashore three tanks. Around 9:00 A.M., the invaders reached the city of Ajermadidih, halfway across the peninsula to Manado. Cpl. Pinon Toan, one of the native defenders, recalled what happened next: “The ﬁghting seemed to last forever. We must have hit a lot of them but they outnumbered us completely and kept on coming.” By midafternoon, Ajermadidih was in Japanese hands, and the invaders were heading toward the back door of Manado.21 At the front door, nearly a thousand troops from the Sasebo CSNLF came ashore at approximately 4:00 A.M. While the Dutch and native defenders retreated in the face of the advancing Japanese, the invaders landed four tanks and quickly pushed south toward Langoan Airﬁeld, about twenty-ﬁve miles away. A sharp ﬁreﬁght broke out near Tinoör, about eight miles south of Manado, and although three of the four tanks were disabled, the Japanese ﬁnally managed to overrun the defenders. By 3:00 P.M., the town was in Japanese hands.22 In spite of the stubborn resistance put up by the Dutch defenders at Langoan Airﬁeld, the entire facility had been overrun by the Yokosuka 1st SNLF by 11:25 A.M. While a few men rounded up the captured Dutch and native defenders, the rest of the paratroopers began hurrying toward the small town of Kakas near the southern edge of Lake Tondano, a few miles north of the airﬁeld. Near 3:00 P.M., two four-engine Kawanishi H6K5 Type 97 “Mavis” ﬂying boats would be landing on the lake with the medical unit and the antitank unit and their two guns. As the men rushed northward, however, they came across a hastily constructed Dutch roadblock manned by about 150 men, one antitank gun, and the fourth armored car. After a spirited ﬁght, the Japanese naval paratroopers overran the roadblock and chased off or killed most of the defenders. By 2:50 P.M., Kakas was in the hands of the victorious Japanese paratroopers.23 Seven minutes later, at 2:57 P.M., the two Mavis ﬂying boats of the Lake Tondano Landing Group successfully landed with the eleven men of the medical unit and the ten men of the antitank gun unit. Brought ashore was one Type 94 37-millimeter antitank gun, which weighed 850 pounds and was a copy of the German split-trail 37-millimeter gun. The weapon was designed

The Yokosuka 1st Special Naval Landing Force

7

to be easily disassembled, and the several parts could then be dropped separately by parachute for reassembly on the ground. This time, though, the nearby location of Lake Tondano allowed the gun to be carried in by ﬂoatplane. “By the time these guns [sic] were ferried ashore and brought up,” noted a U.S. Army historian, “the battle of the airﬁeld was over. . . . [The four overvalwagens] encountered in the operation had been destroyed by other means.”24 At the end of the day, the naval paratroopers held Langoan Airﬁeld, the town of Kakas, the southern end of Lake Tondano, and some of the surrounding area. The entire battle had taken about ﬁve hours. “The plan for the attack,” noted a U.S. Army study, “was predicated on the coordination of the paratrooper attack with landings from the sea, but the airborne attack succeeded so quickly that this proved unnecessary.” At 6:30 A.M. the next day, January 12, the 2nd Drop Group, consisting of the 3rd Company under Lieutenant (junior grade) Sonobe (185 men), and additional supplies were dropped onto Langoan Airﬁeld from eighteen transport planes. This second group had no trouble gathering its weapons and gear and, along with the ﬁrst group, moved north into Manado, ﬁnding the town evacuated. Linking up with the Sasebo CSNLF, which had come ashore by boat, the paratroopers succeeded beyond all expectations in completing their ﬁrst assigned mission.25 However, at the end of the second day, Commander Horiuchi and his Japanese paratroopers negated all of their superb actions by executing “a large number of KNIL [Royal Netherlands East Indies Army] POW’s.” Among those executed were Lieutenant Wielinga, the ofﬁcer in charge of the reserve troops and the hastily constructed roadblock, and Sergeant Major Robbemond, who led the men defending the airﬁeld. Even though the Yokosuka 1st SNLF had killed about 140 Dutch and native defenders and had captured 48 others, they had suffered many casualties. Including their dead from the downed transport, the paratroopers lost between 32 and 35 men, including 1 captain, 2 lieutenants, and 2 noncommissioned ofﬁcers. According to two different sources, they suffered another 32 or 90 wounded—high casualty rates for an attacking force of only 334 paratroopers. With such high losses, the navy paratroopers took vengeance upon the defenders by bayoneting or beheading many of their captives.26 Surprise, shock, and intense training had paid off in this ﬁrst combat parachute drop in the Paciﬁc War. The Yokosuka 1st SNLF had done extremely well for itself. Before the end of the second day, ten Mitsubishi A6M “Zero” ﬁghters and a Mitsubishi C5M “Babs” reconnaissance plane had landed at the Langoan Airﬁeld. In a short time, the captured airstrip would be used to provide essential air cover for Japanese expansion southward, including additional attacks on Celebes.27 The naval paratroopers could rightly be proud of their success and hard training.

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Unfortunately, the Yokosuka 1st SNLF would never make another combat airdrop after the attack on Langoan Airﬁeld on Celebes. In spite of their success, the men would remain at the captured airﬁeld until April 24, when they were eventually broken up into smaller units and sent to attack other nearby islands via naval landing craft.28 In the meantime, the Japanese continued the conquest of Celebes. On January 24, an amphibious invasion landed opposite Kendari on the southeast side of the island. Encountering weak resistance, the Japanese took Kendari that day and captured the nearby Kendari Airdrome, “the best in the Netherlands East Indies,” one day later. “From Kendari [Airdrome],” noted Lt. Cmdr. F. C. van Oosten, who fought with the Dutch defenders, “East Java now lay within range of Japanese bombers.”29

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On February 9, almost 8,000 Japanese troops from Kendari landed south of the capital city of Makassar, on the southwest tip of Celebes. Once again facing only slight resistance, the Japanese captured the town by nightfall. The few Dutch and native defenders ﬂed into the interior of the island to wage a guerrilla war, but by the end of the month, after the desertion of most of the native troops, about 300 Dutch soldiers surrendered. Celebes Island and its vital airﬁelds were securely in the hands of the Japanese invaders.30 The entire Yokosuka 1st SNLF was reassembled at the town of Makassar in November 1942 for transport back to Japan. “Its strength was heavily depleted by malaria and other endemic diseases,” reported a U.S. Army researcher. “Yokosuka 3 [SNLF] also returned to Japan about this time [from a combat parachute drop on Timor Island, Netherlands West Indies].” Eventually, the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF would be consolidated with the Yokosuka 1st SNLF under Lt. Cmdr. Tatsue Karashima, and in September 1943, the combined 1,100-man unit would be sent out to defend the island of Saipan in the Marianas. In January 1944, before the U.S. invaded Saipan, 200 members of the combined unit were detached and sent to help protect Rabaul, New Britain. On the way, however, the group was diverted to Truk Atoll in the Carolines, where they quietly sat out the remainder of the war.31 On the night of June 16–17, 1944, the Yokosuka 1st SNLF was decimated in an uncoordinated attack with a couple of other Japanese units against the U.S. Marine Corps invaders of Saipan. By the end of the Saipan campaign on July 7, almost all of the Yokosuka 1st SNLF, the elite Japanese naval paratroopers, had been virtually wiped out while ﬁghting as conventional infantrymen.32

CHAPTER 2

Dash Forward

L

ike many other nations that fought in World War II, Japan began the organization of its parachute units only after the successes of Russian paratroopers in Finland and German paratroopers in Holland and Belgium and especially on the island of Crete. At the insistence of War Minister and Chief of the Army General Staff Hideki Tojo, Japan began raising paratroop units to help in its destined conquest of Asia. Always rivals for everything from weapons to supplies, both the Imperial Japanese Navy (IJN) and the Imperial Japanese Army (IJA) began laying plans for the training of paratroopers. The ﬁrst actually to act on the plans was the navy.1 Based out of the Yokosuka Naval Air Station on Tokyo Bay, a small “study and trials unit” of twenty-six men under the command of Lt. (jg) Masao Yamabe was formed in November 1940. Ofﬁcially designated the 1001 Go Jikken Kenkyu (1001st Experimental Research Unit), the group began researching the use of navy paratroopers in combat as well as the right techniques and equipment for the task. The ﬁrst few experimental “jumps” used weighted dummies, but on January 15, 1941, the group felt that they had accumulated enough information to perform their ﬁrst live jump.2 In June 1941, with their research completed, the 1001st Experimental Research Unit was moved to the IJN’s nearby Tateyama Ordnance School and began accepting volunteers for a navy parachute unit. Each volunteer had to have at least two years of service in the IJN and could be no older than thirty years of age.3 In September, Navy Minister Oikawa Koshiro ordered the formation of two naval parachute units, both of which were to be ready for active duty by early November. The two new units were designated the Yokosuka 1st Special Naval Landing Force (SNLF), led by Cdr. Toyoaki Horiuchi, which was ofﬁcially organized on September 20, and the Yokosuka 2nd Special Naval Landing Force, led by Cdr. Kiyoshi Tomonari and ofﬁcially organized on October 15. The IJN had a number of special naval landing forces or Tokubetsu Rikusentai, similar to the U.S. Marines, to spearhead amphibious landings and seize special terrain or objectives, but only the Yokosuka SNLFs were parachute units. (The preﬁx of a SNLF indicated the naval base at which each unit had been raised—in this case, the Yokosuka Naval Air Station.)4

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Dash Forward

11

Each force was to consist of approximately 850 men, although it appears as though only about 750 were parachute trained, the rest being organized as “administrative and logistic base” personnel. Each SNLF would have a headquarters with approximately 22 men and a headquarters company with 187 men, split into a medical unit, transportation unit, communication unit, and other units. There was also a command platoon of about 31 people (broken into command, reconnaissance, and runner squads), an antitank unit (approximately 31 men), and three infantry companies. Each infantry company was to have about 193 men broken into a command platoon (23 men), three infantry platoons (48 men each), and a heavy machine-gun platoon (26 men). Each infantry platoon would have three rifle squads with 11 or 12 men each, and a grenade launcher squad with another 11 men. The heavy machine-gun platoon would consist of two equal squads of 11 men each.5 To get approximately 1,500 paratroopers ready for combat in less than two months meant that the training had to be short and intense. The ﬁrst class lasted just one week while the second was extended to ten days. Thereafter, all recruits were put through a two-week training regimen. According to Gordon Rottman and Akira Takizawa, each day consisted of “two hours’ gymnastics, one hour of trapeze and jump practice, three hours of parachute maintenance, and one-hour lecture on some aspects of parachuting.”6 When each class was ready, the instructors took the men up in airplanes. The ﬁrst thing a new recruit had to do was throw a dummy attached to a parachute that he had packed himself out of the plane “as a conﬁdence builder.” From then on, each recruit had to make a total of six jumps, with the ﬁrst training drop coming on November 16. Because the practice jumps were made over Tokyo Bay, where there were strong winds, “several men died when they were caught in squalls or landed in the water.”7 On November 20, 1941, a portion of the Yokosuka 1st SNLF was split off to form a nucleus for a third navy parachute unit, the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF under the leadership of Lt. Cdr. Koichi Fukumi. However, before the Yokosuka 1st SNLF went into combat, it was brought back up to its ﬁghting strength of approximately 750 parachute-trained personnel.8 Only a month after the Japanese navy began experimenting with a parachute unit, the army began training its own special shock troops. Using its ﬂight training school at Hamamatsu Airbase on the south coast of Honshu Island, the army formed the ﬁrst Raiding Training Unit in December 1940 under the leadership of Lt. Col. Keigo Kawashima. Acting under total secrecy, ten army air services ofﬁcers with no formal training in parachuting began studying all available information on combat parachute drops. It was their job to write the training manuals and develop the proper techniques for training and implementation of combat parachute drops. Using weighted dummies,

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BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN

the ten men made several experimental drops before carrying out their ﬁrst live jumps on February 20, 1941.9 In mid-February, with manual in hand, half of the training unit moved to Ichigaya Base near Tokyo. There the air service ofﬁcers began using the edicts of the new manual to teach about 250 volunteers, all noncommissioned ofﬁcers in the IJA, in the techniques of parachuting in order to form a backbone for a training cadre. Later, with the formation of a second class, privates were also accepted.10 From the very start, requirements for getting into the army’s parachute unit were rigid. Most of the volunteers were between the ages of twenty and twenty-ﬁve, and ofﬁcers could be no older than twenty-eight, though the regimental commanders could be as old as thirty-ﬁve. The men were carefully selected from infantry, engineer, and communication troops and had to go through a “strict medical examination.” A U.S. Army historian wrote in 1942, “[I]t is reported that two steel globular cages about 5 feet in diameter, with a seat inside and an opening at eye-level in front of the seat, are used in training parachutists to overcome giddiness and in rejecting those who prove unsatisfactory. A trainee is strapped in the seat, and the cage then rolled about. Immediately upon stopping, the candidate must read satisfactorily certain letters and ﬁgures which are held opposite the eye-level opening in the cage.”11 Additional psychological and physical tests were given, including, reportedly, locking a subject in a room with controlled air pressure. A U.S. Army study reported, “Many applicants are eliminated in the preliminary examinations, only the superior candidates being chosen.” In the belief that paratroopers had to have cat-like abilities to land safely, those volunteers who were accepted were given intense physical ﬁtness training, similar to that of gymnasts. Although it was no easy task to become a paratrooper or to stay one, the added beneﬁt of extra pay, extra privileges, and extra prestige might have been worth the trouble.12 In March 1941, the trainees at Ichigaya were moved to Tokorozawa, about eighteen miles from downtown Tokyo, where equipment for jumping and landing had been set up. Although much of the training consisted of being rigged into a harness, pulled up to the rafters of the training site, and then dropped to the floor below, additional training came from an unexpected place—a Tokyo amusement park. Tamagawa Amusement Park had a special ride that featured a 165-foot parachute drop. Rottman and Takizawa describe it: “[T]hrill seekers were attached to a canopy that was hoisted by cable before being released to float to the ground. Because the existence of the paratroop unit was secret, trainees were directed to visit the park disguised as university students, to experience a couple of simulated descents.”13

Dash Forward

13

In May 1941, as tensions between Japan and the United States heated up over the American embargo of goods to Japan because of Japans expansion into China and southeast Asia, General Tojo transferred the army parachute training units to Baichengzu in Manchuria because the number of trainees was becoming too large for the Hamamatsu school. It was felt that Manchuria’s remoteness would preserve the secrecy of the paratroopers, which was still a secret organization. However, that remoteness caused problems for a unit that was still trying to ﬁnd and develop new equipment. After only a few months, in August 1941, the army parachutists were moved back to Japan and set up a permanent training center at Nyutabaru on the island of Kyushu.14 Training for the army volunteers was originally set at three months but was later cut to only two, “probably in an effort to speed up the very small force then available for combat duty—some two and a half battalions.” In 1942, the U.S. Army studied the airborne training of the Japanese army paratroopers and reported that their instruction consisted of ﬁve stages: The first stage began with somersaults and the second stage with jumps from a table, the height gradually increasing to 12 feet. In the third stage, troops jumped from platforms from 12 to 25 feet high onto sand pits. The fourth stage progressed to controllable parachute jumps from a 350-foot tower, the parachute being attached to the tower by a rope. . . . The fifth stage of training consisted of “first” jumps from slow-flying aircraft at 4,000 feet. Later jumps were made at lower altitudes, and from faster aircraft.15 As detailed by the U.S. military, the ﬁrst stage of Japanese training consisted of “mat exercises, tumbling, somersaults, and leg-strengthening exercises.” The trainees engaged in a number of different sports and cross-country runs in order to strengthen their bodies and minds and develop endurance. They were given courses in hand-to-hand combat, judo, and bayonet ﬁghting. “Trainees found physically or mentally unﬁt are eliminated so that only a highly selective group remains.” During the second and third stages of training, where the trainees were jumping from tables and platforms of gradually increasing height, attention was paid to the “methods of hitting the ground and rolling.” At this same time, the parachutists were given courses in folding, inspection, and maintenance of their parachutes. To eliminate trainees who were prone to airsickness, the second and third training stages also included familiarization ﬂights in actual airplanes, which went through slight “aerial acrobatics.” In the fourth stage of training, the hopeful parachutists made static line jumps from 350 to 400 feet high towers. During their drop, the trainees were

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BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN

expected to show how to control “oscillation” and “steering” by manipulating the shroud lines. Control of the parachute was also taught on the ground, by having the trainees hang suspended from the rafters of a hanger.16 Finally, in the ﬁfth stage the blossoming paratroopers were actually taken aloft and allowed to jump out of a moving aircraft. Each army trainee had to make four actual jumps. The ﬁrst was an individual drop. For the second, the trainees dropped “one after another at intervals.” The third jump was a “group jump,” and the fourth was made with the arms and equipment that the individual soldier would need in combat. The U.S. Army’s historians noted, “Jumpers were trained to delay opening of the parachute until 250 to 350 feet from the ground. They were told that such timing reduced the time of exposure to cold, and eliminated to some degree drift and danger from ground ﬁre.” American ofﬁcials determined that the Japanese aimed at having a planeload of twelve men jump in ten seconds, which would spread the group out over approximately 730 yards.17 Once the initial group of volunteers was sufﬁciently trained, it was broken into cadres to absorb the new trainees. Even so, the parachutists were “probably the one branch of the entire Japanese Army that was not fully prepared for action” when the war started. “[W]hen the war came in December,” wrote the U.S. Military Intelligence Service, “the Japanese found themselves with a number of parachute battalions in training but only one composed of sufﬁciently well-trained men to permit its use at the front.” And even this group, reported the American ofﬁcials, “had had little combined training with other ground troops or with the Air Corps, and had never participated in any large-scale maneuvers.”18 On December 1, 1941, there were enough trained army paratroopers to form the 1st Raiding Regiment (Dai 1 Teishin Rentai) under the command of Maj. Takeo Takeda. (Teishin means “to dash forward” or “advance dangerously.”) Five classes had been trained, and personnel from the ﬁrst three classes—about 800 men—were formed into the new regiment. A few days later, in anticipation of another regiment being formed from the remaining two classes, the 1st Raiding Brigade (Dai 1 Teishin Dan), commanded by Col. Seiichi Kume, was established, along with the 1st Raiding Brigade Headquarters and the 1st Raiding Flying Regiment, an air transport group. In January 1942, the 2nd Raiding Regiment was formed under the command of Maj. Takeo Komura and added to the 1st Raiding Brigade.19 Instead of being the standard size of a typical Japanese army infantry regiment—roughly 3,800 men—each highly trained and specialized army parachute regiment contained only about 700 men. Each regiment included a regimental headquarters group, three riﬂe companies, and an engineer company. Each of the riﬂe companies consisted of approximately 6 ofﬁcers

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and 190 enlisted men and contained a company headquarters, three riﬂe platoons, a heavy machine-gun platoon, and an antitank gun section. The engineer company had a company headquarters and three engineer platoons employing ﬂamethrowers and demolition charges.20 The three riﬂe platoons within each company contained 1 ofﬁcer and 58 enlisted men and were made up of three riﬂe sections, each with about 19 enlisted men. In addition to their regular ﬁrearms, each riﬂe section carried one light machine gun and two or three grenade dischargers. The heavy machine-gun platoon also had 1 ofﬁcer and 58 enlisted men but employed two or more heavy machine guns. The antitank gun section, with about 7 enlisted men, was equipped with one antitank weapon.21 While training of both the army and navy paratroopers was progressing, Japanese ofﬁcials had been trying to ﬁnd the right equipment, clothing, and weapons for these highly specialized units. The ﬁrst thing that had to be found was the right type of parachute. Initially, a Type 89 Model 3, developed in 1929, was tried. It was a backpack parachute with an emergency chest chute that was modiﬁed to be opened by static line. This proved to be unsatisfactory because upon landing, the emergency chest-worn chute often struck the wearer in the chin.22 Another type that was tried was the Type 92 (1932) backpack-style parachute, which also had a chest-mounted emergency chute. This one, however, required the wearer to open the main chute with a ripcord instead of a static line, which resulted in a few training deaths. The next one that was tried, the Type 97 Model 2 (1937) parachute, was a seatpack, ripcord parachute that used a “two-point suspension.” This was found to be too hard to control because the canopy was only twenty-four-feet in diameter, “too small to support a paratrooper and his equipment safely,” which caused the wearer to oscillate “dangerously during the descent which was made at excessive speed.”23 The style of parachute that was ﬁnally adopted was the Type 1 (1941). Rottman and Takizawa describe the design: The Type 1 (1941) parachute was developed specifically for paratroopers. . . . This static line-operated backpack had a harness based on the British X-type quick release box, with four attaching straps fastened to a junction box over the chest. To release the harness a metal disc on the box was twisted a quarter turn and struck with the hand; this released three of the straps, allowing the jumper to throw off the harness quickly. The Type-1 had . . . two pairs of web straps that fastened the canopy suspension lines permanently to the harness at the shoulders.24

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BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN

For the army, the parachute had an olive-drab harness with a pack that was orange in color with a dark green tape trim. The navy paratroopers used the identical olive-drab harness but the pack was manufactured in reverse colors: dark green fabric with orange tape trim. Most parachutes were manufactured by the Fujikura Aircraft Industry Company of Tokyo. “Reserve parachutes,” noted Rottman and Takizawa, “were seldom used on operational jumps.” The low altitude at which the Japanese parachutists were expected to jump allowed no time to deploy a reserve chute anyway.25 The Japanese Army paratroopers wore the standard army olive-drab cotton or wool uniform and olive-drab puttees that wrapped around the calves. The brown boots were slightly higher than the regular infantry boot. A light, olive-green smock with long sleeves and knee-length legs was worn over the top of the clothing and was undoubtedly inﬂuenced by the smock worn by the highly successful German Fallschirmjägers. The idea of this smock was to cover the combat equipment worn underneath and prevent it from getting caught in the parachute lines. Snaps at the legs and front of the smock allowed the wearer to quickly rip the garment off once the parachute harness was removed.26 The Japanese Navy paratroopers did not wear a jump smock and instead wore special clothing designed to serve as “both a jump suit and combat uniform.” The two-piece uniform was olive-drab in color and consisted of a hiplength jacket and trousers. Some versions of the jacket had an angled pistol pocket sewn along the right chest and a two-grenade pocket sewn along the left chest. The other versions came with two large bellows cargo pockets on the chest for a pistol and hand grenades and three smaller pockets on each side of the skirt for ammunition and more grenades. All of the pockets on both versions were secured by snaps and were placed strategically in order not to interfere with the placement of the parachute harness.27 The trousers worn by the navy paratroopers were also specially designed and were tapered and very close fitting to prevent snagging. The waist was closed with tie-tapes, and the pants were held up with adjustable suspenders. The trousers had five pockets: “one at the left hip designed to hold signal flags with telescoping rods, a snap-fastened pocket on each calf, and two general-purpose, snap-fastened hip pockets.” Silk-wrapped rubber instep straps were attached to the bottoms of the trouser legs to pass under the wearers’ instep and keep the pants securely inside the high-top black leather boots.28 During training, the army paratroopers wore rubber helmets covered with olive-drab or tan fabric, with a side-and-neck piece that tied under the chin. Small ear holes in the side allowed the wearer to hear commands. The yellow ﬁve-pointed star of the Imperial Japanese Army was embroidered onto a piece of fabric and then sewn in the center of the cover. In combat, the rub-

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ber practice helmets were switched to steel ones covered with the same design of fabric.29 The navy paratroopers, on the other hand, used a dark brown leather Type 30 summer ﬂight helmet while in training. In combat, they wore a light olive-drab cap similar to a ﬁeld cap but with a side-and-neck piece under a steel helmet cover. The steel helmet, sometimes decorated with a yellow navy anchor in the front, was kept in place with canvas tie tapes.30 The insignia for the army paratroopers consisted of an embroidered golden eagle with wings extended straight out to its sides and head turned all the way to the right. The eagle had a short spear for a tail and was perched on a scarlet circle. The insignia was given to “the Raiding Force commander and ofﬁcers and their subordinates who are attached to a Raiding Force and have been appointed as parachutists.” This qualiﬁcation “wings” badge was a special paratrooper Order of the Golden Kite (Kinshi Kunsho). The design symbolized the mythical messenger of the gods’ “golden kite,” which, according to legend, had “by the dazzling light of its plumage, so blinded the enemy host facing Emperor Jimmu Tenno that the course of battle was changed.” The badge was meant to be worn centered on the right sleeve of the uniform jacket but, as a U.S. Army historian reported, “it has not been reported seen in action.”31 Another patch issued to the army paratroopers was the special 1st Raiding Brigade insignia, which was to be worn centered on the left sleeve of the jacket. The insignia was a scarlet circle with a crude scarlet sword pointing up through the circle from lower left to upper right. Later, the patch would be used to represent the entire 1st Raiding Group.32 The uniform insignia for the navy paratrooper was a circular patch with two crossed, open parachutes superimposed over a navy anchor. A small cherry blossom was placed above the anchor. When worn on the winter uniform, the colors of the anchor, parachutes, and cherry blossom were red silk on a deep, dark blue background. For the summer uniform, the colors for the anchor, parachutes, and cherry blossom were black on a white background.33 Standard combat equipment issued to the army paratroopers included a brown leather waist belt with one or two thirty-round brown leather cartridge boxes, a brown leather pistol holster, and a brown leather bayonet frog. Individual equipment varied but always included a canvas haversack and a canteen. Other equipment might include spare clothing, a small ﬁrst-aid kit, seventeen-pocket bandoleers, mosquito net, gloves, semaphore ﬂags, a small shovel, special rations, and even chopsticks. Additionally, ofﬁcers might carry binoculars, a ﬂashlight, and a haversack with maps and writing equipment.34 For weapons, all of the airborne soldiers were given 8-millimeter semiautomatic pistols. The army offered their men either the Nambu-manufactured Type 14 (1925) or Type 94 (1934) pistol while the navy preferred to issue its

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BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN

troopers only the Type 94. Both units also carried the Meiji Type 30 (1897) bayonet with a 151⁄2-inch blade, and at least two high-explosive grenades. A few personnel would have carried the magnetic antitank mine in its issued canvas pouch.35 While the navy paratroopers’ main weapon was the Type 38 carbine, the standard riﬂe issued to the army paratroopers was the Arisaka bolt-action 7.7millimeter Type 99 short riﬂe, which used a ﬁve-round ﬁxed magazine. Although weighing only nine pounds, eight ounces, the Type 99 measured forty-four inches long and was considered too long to be carried by the individual jumper while descending to the ground. All of the riﬂes therefore had to be dropped in separate cargo containers, which were attached to external racks on the transport planes.36 Added ﬁrepower for each platoon was provided by the Nambu Type 99 light machine gun. Extra punch for each riﬂe section came from two or three 50-millimeter Type 89 (1929) grenade dischargers, the misnamed “knee mortar.” Made with the curved base, some American soldiers mistakenly thought that the grenade discharger had to be placed against one’s thigh to be ﬁred and received severe injuries.37 Three types of antitank weapons were available to the different antitank gun sections of both the army and navy paratroopers, but only one gun was issued per section. One kind was the Type 94 37-millimeter antitank gun, copied after the German 37-millimeter gun.38 Another available antitank weapon was the Type 97 20-millimeter antitank riﬂe. The automatic action Type 97 riﬂe weighed more than 130 pounds but had a high rate of ﬁre because of a top-mounted twelve-round curved magazine. Unfortunately, the large-caliber shells had a heavy recoil, which sometimes caused serious injury to the main gunner. Finally, if none of the other weapons could be obtained, the parachute antitank gun section was issued the obsolete Type 11 37-millimeter infantry gun. Built in 1922 for use against machine-gun positions or tanks, the Type 11 infantry gun ﬁred a heavy round but needed a four-man crew and weighed a whopping 205 pounds.39 While the navy paratroopers did not contain autonomous engineer units, the army units did. Besides their standard equipment, the army paratrooper engineers were also given either the Type 93 (1933) ﬂamethrower or the slightly improved Type 100 (1940) ﬂamethrower. Each model consisted of “two interconnected fuel tanks, a smaller pressure tank, and hose and nozzle assembly.” Both weapons weighed approximately ﬁfty-ﬁve pounds and could throw an ignited stream of fuel sixty to eighty feet for up to ten or twelve seconds. The only difference between the Type 93 and the Type 100 was the nozzle assembly, which was made shorter and lighter on the latter model.40 One major difference between the Japanese Army parachute brigades and all of the other parachute units from around the world was the fact that

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the Japanese Army had transportation units built directly into each brigade. In addition to its combat regiments, the 1st Raiding Brigade also contained a Flying Raiding Unit, commanded by Maj. Akihito Niihara. The ﬂying regiment had four transport companies, each with twelve transport planes, and one airﬁeld company. This meant that the paratroopers always had airplanes available for training and combat jumps and could form a close working relationship with the aircrews.41 The types of transports most commonly used by the army were the Mitsubishi Ki-57 Type 100 Model 1, code-named Topsy by the Americans, and the Tachikawa Type LO, code-named Thelma. The Ki-57 Topsy was a twinengine monoplane with a low-wing conﬁguration that carried three crewmembers and ten to eleven paratroopers. The Topsy was the transport version of the Mitsubishi Ki-21 army heavy bomber, code-named Sally. The Thelma, based on the design of the American Lockheed Model 14 Super Electra, was also a twin-engine monoplane with a low-wing design. It could carry up to sixteen fully equipped paratroopers. Both planes carried no armament and had to be escorted to the combat zone.42 The main navy transports were the Mitsubishi built G3M-L3Y1 Type 96 (Tina) and G6M1-L2 Type 1 transport, a modified Betty heavy bomber. The G3M Tina aircraft was a twin-engine monoplane that had been modified from the G3M Nell medium bomber. Although the converted bomber had windows on each side of the fuselage, the aircraft had a small oval door on the left rear side, which meant that the twelve fully dressed paratroopers had to get into a cramped position to exit the plane. The other plane, the modified Betty twin-engine G6M1-L2 Type 1 transport, was excellent for paratrooper drops because of its fast speed (270 miles per hour maximum), long range (2,935 miles one way), and carrying capacity (20 fully packed paratroopers).43 When gathering equipment and supplies for their paratroopers, the Japanese general staff also had to contend with emergency rations for personnel being dropped behind enemy lines. A three-day ration for a paratrooper consisted of a little over twenty-one pounds of rice, two tins each of ﬁsh and meat, and one ounce of tea. “In view of the weight of the abovementioned food supply,” wrote the U.S. Army Military Intelligence Service, “it would not seem practicable for the individual parachutist to carry this as part of his personal equipment; in other words, it would seem more probable that these rations were either dropped in containers, or provided from the air or ground by other means.”44 The U.S. Army was exactly right: the rations were much too heavy for a man to jump into combat with, so the food was dropped to the men inside the cargo containers or dropped by parachute once an objective had been taken. Consequently, the Japanese developed something called “iron rations,”

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BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN

which the men could carry with them when they jumped. Colonel Kawashima, who worked on the rations wrote, “Iron rations for parachutists are in wafer form and consist of ground rice and wheat with a content of sesame. . . . The wafer form was chosen, as tins or boxes carried by parachutists can get damaged on landing and they constitute superﬂuous weight.” Most of the time, the paratroopers carried the wafers in cellulose wrappings, along with “dry compressed ﬁsh.”45 With their equipment, weapons, parachutes, transports, and food determined, both the army and navy paratroopers began to prepare for battle. On October 28, 1941, the IJA 1st Raiding Brigade put on a demonstration parachute drop for the senior army staff at Takanabe on the island of Kyushu. The senior ofﬁcers had been fearful that the budding parachute unit would not be ready for the upcoming war, but after witnessing the demonstration, they immediately began laying plans to use the army paratroopers in the upcoming moves against the Netherlands East Indies.46 On December 1, when the ﬁrst three classes of army volunteers were formed into the 1st Raiding Brigade, the unit was mobilized for war. The parachute brigade was attached to the Southern Army, which was in charge of the occupation of Southeast Asia. The 1st Raiding Brigade became a part of the 16th Army under Lt. Gen. Hitoshi Imamura, which was assigned to capture the Netherlands East Indies. Although the paratroopers were not told their objective just yet, they had been selected to make a parachute drop behind enemy lines to seize an airﬁeld and two vital oil reﬁnery installations near Palembang on the eastern end of Sumatra Island.47 Near the same time, the naval paratroopers were moved out of Japan and closer to the theater of war. The Yokosuka 1st SNLF had been brought back up to strength after losing a good portion of its members when the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF was formed. Once at full strength, the Yokosuka 1st SNLF was made a part of the 21st Naval Air Fleet of the 11th Air Fleet and sent to Kagi Airﬁeld at Chia-i on the island of Taiwan. When Japan started the Paciﬁc War on December 8, 1941 (December 7 at Pearl Harbor), they were stationed at the city of San-a on the island of Hainan, off the southeastern coast of China. From there, they awaited the assignment that would eventually take them to the captured Philippine city of Davao and then on to Langoan Airﬁeld on Celebes.48 The Yokosuka 3rd SNLF ﬁnished up its training with a few practice jumps on Formosa and was then attached to the 3rd Raiding Force. When war came to the Paciﬁc, the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF was on board the destroyer Tachikase en route to Calayan Island of the Babuyan Islands in the Luzon Strait in the Philippines.49 The Yokosuka 2nd SNLF, which had been organized on October 15 as a fully trained parachute unit, was placed under the command of the South-

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ern Fleet and moved to San-a, Hainan. Just before the start of the war, the ﬂeet, along with the paratroopers, was moved to Cam Ranh Bay at the southeastern end of French Indochina (now Vietnam). Unbeknownst to the men of the Yokosuka 2nd SNLF, they were slated to make an amphibious landing on December 15 with other Japanese troops on Sarawak and Brunei on North Borneo.50 As the war began in the Paciﬁc, both the Imperial Japanese Army and Navy had great plans for their respective parachute units, and the units themselves were ready and poised to seize whatever important objective was given to them.

CHAPTER 3

Japan Needs Oil

W

orld War II in the Paciﬁc came on December 7, 1941 (December 8 west of the International Date Line), with the Japanese surprise attack on Pearl Harbor and several airﬁelds in Hawaii. The attack on Hawaii, however, was not an isolated incident. Japan had been planning the start of the war for almost a year and when it ﬁnally struck, it struck hard, with simultaneous attacks on Malaya, Hong Kong, Guam, the Philippines, Wake Island, and Midway Island. These attacks were well calculated and well planned. Japan had been preparing for an all-out offensive since January 1941, when Adm. Isoroku Yamamoto began planning for a surprise attack against the American ﬂeet based at Pearl Harbor.1 Being a nation of islands, Japan relied on the raw materials and natural resources of the world for its survival. Rubber, tin, iron, and especially oil had to be imported for Japanese industries to stay alive and for Japan to remain a major manufacturing nation. The same raw materials were also essential for the Japanese war machine. According to historian Stan Cohen, “With limited land and natural resources and an expanding population, Japan inevitably looked beyond her borders to ﬁnd solutions to her problems.”2 In 1894–95, Japan defeated China in a short war and gained control of the island of Formosa, part of Korea, and a piece of Manchuria. Along with these territories came all their natural resources. In 1905, after Japan’s defeat of Russia in the Russo-Japanese War (1904–5), the Empire of the Sun took control of all of Korea and a part of Manchuria that had earlier been gobbled up by the Russians. Then, throughout the 1920s, Japan built up its military presence in Korea and Manchuria and looked covetously toward China.3 On September 19, 1931, in the midst of a worldwide depression, Japan staged an incident at a railway station on the Korean border of Manchuria and used it as an excuse to invade mineral-rich Chinese Manchuria. When the League of Nations condemned Japan for invading Manchuria and setting up a puppet government, Japan resigned from the League. In 1936, in order to increase her navy, Japan renounced the 1922 Washington Naval Treaty, which had limited the size of the American, British, and Japanese navies to a ratio of ﬁve to ﬁve to three, respectively, meaning that for every ﬁve capital ships that America or Britain built, Japan could build only three.4 Japan’s

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Japan Needs Oil

23

leaders were wise enough to know that they needed a more powerful navy in order to conquer new territory and new islands and secure natural resources. In July 1937, Japanese aggression continued with a full-scale invasion of China on the pretext that Chinese regulars had ﬁred on Japanese soldiers in Manchuria. Although Japan could not conquer all of China, by 1939 it had captured almost all of the important port cities and had a ﬁrm control on the raw material that went into or out of the Asian giant.5 Not surprisingly, all these moves had been carefully watched by the United States, Russia, and several interested European countries. When Japan first invaded China, England and France sent letters of protest to Japan, Russia sent supplies to the Chinese Army, and the United States gave the Chinese government $25,000,000 in credit. After war erupted in Europe in September 1939 and England and France were embattled in a war with Germany, Franklin Roosevelt sent the U.S. Pacific Fleet to the Hawaiian area for maneuvers and as a gentle reminder to Japan that the United States was watching. A short time later, Roosevelt decided to permanently move the home base of the fleet from California to Pearl Harbor. As viewed by the Japanese, this change in base was seen as an all-out threat to their eventual expansion into Indochina and the oil-rich area of the Netherlands East Indies.6 In June 1940, after France surrendered to Nazi Germany, Japan asked France for concessions to expand into French Indochina. France was in no position to protest, and Japanese forces quickly moved into the northern part of the country. In retaliation, the U.S. Congress passed the Export Control Act, which prohibited the exportation of “strategic minerals and chemicals, aircraft engines, parts, and equipment” to Japan.7 Conspicuously absent from this list was crude oil. The already paper-thin relations between the United States and Japan worsened in September of 1940 when the Japanese signed the Tripartite Pact with Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy, agreeing to help one another in the event that one or all of the three were attacked by “a power at present not involved in the European or in the Sino-Japanese conflict.” As historian Gordon Prange wrote, “Inasmuch as no major nation remained uninvolved except the United States and the Soviet Union—and Germany had a nonaggression pact with the latter—the target of this treaty stood out with blinding clarity.”8 Hitler, who was already planning an invasion of Great Britain, was hoping that the Tripartite Pact would encourage Japan to invade the English holdings in the Far East to pin down forces already there or draw more men and materiel into that area and away from the British Isles themselves. At the same time, Japan hoped that the pact would provide them with a big brother as they formulated plans to invade and capture the rich oilﬁelds of the Dutch East

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BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN

Indies. If the United States tried to stop Japan when it moved southward, the Tripartite Pact would bring both Germany and Italy into war with America.9 In response to the Tripartite Pact, the United States authorized another loan to China, this time $100 million, and embargoed even more material— brass, copper, and iron. “Still,” historian Susan Wels wrote, “the president stopped short of barring Japanese purchases of oil, fearful that it would force Japan to go to war to meet its critical fuel needs.”10 By the spring of 1941, Japan signed a ﬁve-year nonaggression pact with Russia, thereby assuring that its backdoor was closed and safe. Next, Japan moved more troops into French Indochina and began eyeing the Netherlands East Indies. In response to the troop movements, Roosevelt froze all Japanese assets in the United States and, after much consideration, ﬁnally placed an embargo on crude oil. According to Ernest Arroyo, “Japan imported nearly 80 percent of its crucially needed oil from the United States; the embargo strengthened the Japanese resolve to secure access to the resources it needed without having to rely on the United States.”11 Crude oil was the lifeblood of the Japanese army and navy, and when President Roosevelt enacted the embargo, Japanese ofﬁcials estimated that they had only about six million tons of crude oil on reserve, enough to “ﬁll only 75 percent of the requirements for two years of combat.” Additionally, the Japanese estimated that they would need 500,000 tons of oil for the “Great All-Out Battle” that it expected would take place if the American ﬂeet were allowed to steam out of Pearl Harbor. As historian Stan Cohen wrote, “Without oil, Japan would have to bow to the will of the Allied powers. This she would not do. She needed the oil of Southeast Asia.”12 Following hot on the heels of the American embargo, the Dutch proclaimed that the Netherlands East Indies would also stop selling oil to Japan. “Confronted with an economic blockade,” wrote historian A. J. Barker, “Japan faced slow but sure strangulation, and unless the oil embargo were lifted, the need to seize the oilﬁelds of the Dutch East Indies was a matter of life and death for the Imperial Navy.”13 In order to move safely toward the conquest of the Netherlands East Indies and the capture of vital oilﬁelds, Japan ﬁrst had to eliminate the English stronghold of Singapore, crush the American forces in the Philippines, and most important of all, stop the American ﬂeet before it left Pearl Harbor. After months of secret planning and preparation, it all came to fruition on December 7, 1941. Within the span of twenty-four hours, Japan launched attacks against Pearl Harbor, the Philippines, Singapore, Hong Kong, Northern Malaya, Thailand, Guam, Wake Island, and Midway Island.14 The Japanese juggernaut fanned out in several directions during December and continued to roll in January. In Malaya and on Luzon in the Philippines, the Japanese moved forward against stubborn resistance by the British

Japan Needs Oil

25

and by Filipino and American forces, respectively. On January 10, the Japanese landed at Tarakan Bay in Borneo, and the next day, they invaded Celebes, which included the parachute drop of the Yokosuka 1st SNLF. January saw the Japanese invade Burma, the New Ireland and New Britain islands northeast of New Guinea, and Ambonia (or Ambon) Island southeast of Celebes, and they also renewed their conquests of Celebes and Borneo with new invasions at different points along the coasts.15 As January became February, the Japanese were poised for further expansion southward, eyeing their ﬁnal objectives of New Guinea and the isolation of Java.16 To help isolate the island of Java, the Japanese Army was ﬁnally ready to use their paratroopers. Preparations for the army parachute drop on an airﬁeld and two oil reﬁneries near the city of Palembang on the island of Sumatra, east of Java, had actually been completed by December 19. On that date, the 1st Raiding Regiment of the 1st Raiding Brigade left the training base at Nyutabaru on Kyushu and boarded the merchant cargo ship Meiko Maru. As part of the Third Malaya Convoy, the Meiko Maru started southwest from Japan across the South China Sea bound for Singora on the Malay Peninsula in Siam. On December 28, as the convoy passed the Pescadore Islands off the west coast of Formosa, it picked up the light cruisers Kashii and Natori and a number of destroyers of the No. 2 Escort Unit. On January 3, as the ships were passing close to Hainan Island, the Meiku Maru suddenly burst into ﬂames, perhaps from a gasoline ﬁre or spontaneous combustion of ammunition. Almost immediately, the ﬂames were out of control, and the order was given to abandon ship. The transport later exploded and sank. Although almost all of the paratroopers and the ship’s crew were rescued by the light cruiser Kashii, all of the parachutes, equipment, and weapons of the 1st Raiding Regiment went down with the ship. Exhausted and battered from their harrowing ordeal, the paratroopers were in no shape to stage a combat parachute drop on anybody and were sent to Haikow Field on Hainan to recuperate.17 When word of the disaster reached the Imperial Army General Staff, instead of canceling the air assault against Palembang, they turned to Major Komura and his 2nd Raiding Regiment. Although the unit was still being organized, it hurriedly ﬁnished its organization, and approximately 450 paratroopers drew weapons, equipment, and parachutes. A U.S. Army historian wrote, “Therefore, despite the incompleteness of its training, a parachute battalion [sic] was committed to an attack on the airdrome and reﬁneries of Palembang, on the Moesi River in southeastern Sumatra.” On January 15, the paratroopers of the understrength 2nd Raiding Regiment left Nyutabaru, Kyushu and, with much better luck, arrived at Phnompenh in Cambodia on February 2. Around that same date, the air support and transportation units also arrived.18

26

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The 1st Raiding Brigade’s own Raiding Flying Regiment, commanded by Maj. Akihito Niihara, would transport the 1st Attack Group to the targets in Tachikawa Type LO (Thelma) and Mitsubishi Ki-57 Type 100 Model 1 (Topsy) aircraft. Since their own bombers were inexplicably unavailable, the cargo containers with the riﬂes, machine guns, ammunition, and other equipment would be dropped by the 98th Sentai from twenty-seven twinengine monoplane Mitsubishi Ki-21 Type 97 (Sally) medium bombers. This plan, of course, worried the paratroopers. “If the [containers] were misdropped or delayed,” wrote Rottman and Takizawa, “the paratroopers on the ground would be forced to ﬁght a well-armed enemy with only pistols and grenades.”19 The 2nd Attack Group, scheduled to be air-dropped one day after the ﬁrst group, would be transported to the site by the 12th Transport Chutai in Thelma transports, with their cargo containers also being dropped by the 98th Sentai. Both ﬂights, the 1st and 2nd Attack Groups, were to be escorted by Nakajima Ki-43 Type 1 (Oscar) ﬁghter planes from the 59th and 64th Sentai. Additionally, the initial drop would be preceded by nine Kawasaki Ki-48 Type 99 (Lily) single engine light bombers from the 90th Sentai.20 On February 11, the entire attack force—paratroopers, transports, cargo carriers, ﬁghters, and bombers—moved from Cambodia to Sungai Petani on the west side of the Malay Peninsula. Two days later, while the 2nd Attack Group (about 90 men) remained at Sungai Petani, the rest of the attack force moved to the recently captured Allied airﬁelds at Keluang and Kahang, farther south along the Malaysian coast. Assembling at Keluang were the 2nd Raiding Brigade’s headquarters, the 2nd Raiding Regiment (about 350 men), the two transport units (the Raiding Flying Regiment and the 12th Transport Chutai), and the escort ﬁghters of the 64th Sentai. Moving to Kahang were the escort ﬁghters and bombers of the 59th and 90th Sentais and the cargo container carriers of the 98th Sentai. Already waiting for the Kahang group were a few scout planes from the 15th Independent Flying Unit and 81st Sentai.21 On the night of February 13, the night before their mission, Lt. Gen. Michio Sugawara, commander of the 3rd Hikoshidan (equivalent to an American geographical air force), whose headquarters was at Sungai Petani, visited the men at Keluang. As a tribute to the men, he served sake and sushi and announced, “This is your last taste of Japan. Drink and eat fully, without ceremony.”22 The overall plan for the 2nd Raiding Regiment was to capture Pangkalanbenteng Airﬁeld, called P1 by the Europeans and located eight miles almost due north of Palembang, the capital of Sumatra, and two oil reﬁneries immediately east of the town. As detailed by the U.S. Army Intelligence Division, “The plan called for the unit attacking the airﬁeld . . . to

Japan Needs Oil

27

assemble by sections and ﬁght their way around the perimeter of the ﬁeld in both directions, converging on the hangars, shops, and other installations for the ﬁnal assault. The groups whose mission was to seize the reﬁneries were instructed to drop inside the enclosures and prevent the destruction of the facilities.” Both groups were supposed to hang onto their captured areas until relieved by reinforcing units landing from the sea.23 Palembang, with a population of more than 108,000, was an important oil-reﬁning center in southeastern Sumatra, situated on the Moesi River about ﬁfty miles inland from the Banka Strait. It was said that the oilﬁelds near Palembang were “regarded as the best in South East Asia.”24 The Moesi River ﬂows through the town of Palembang, and the two oil reﬁneries were actually about four miles east of the town on the south side of the river. A tributary of the Moesi, the Komering River, divided the two reﬁneries. On the east bank—farthest away from Palembang—was the Nederlandsche Koloniale Petroleum Maatschappij (NKPM), a reﬁnery for the Standard Oil Company. On the west bank was the Bataafsce Petroleum Maatschappij (BPM), owned by Shell Oil and actually built as two separate installations, one opposite the NKPM reﬁnery on the west side of the Komering River and the other a short distance away on the south bank of the Moesi River.25 Even though the Dutch knew beforehand that the Japanese would aim to capture the two reﬁneries, they did not want to destroy the facilities prematurely so that they could “keep pumping oil for the revenue it would bring in for the cash-strapped Dutch government in exile.”26 In addition to the civilian airﬁeld at P1 north of Palembang, there was a military airﬁeld, Praboemoelih Airﬁeld (P2), forty miles to the south. P1 had been used by civilian aircraft for years and had a hard concrete lazy L-shaped runway, barracks buildings for the troops, and control tower but lacked a dispersal area, which was being constructed. Unfortunately for the Dutch, P1 was well known to the Japanese. P2 had just been established by Dutch military personnel, however, and had a cleverly concealed dirt runway with a large amount of room beneath the surrounding jungle to hide Allied airplanes. Because of its well-hidden location, even the Allied pilots had a hard time ﬁnding P2.27 Since Palembang had two airﬁelds, two oil reﬁneries, and a main channel in the Moesi River that was navigable by oceangoing vessels for ﬁfty miles inland, and was connected to the rest of Sumatra by road and rail, the British Royal Air Force (RAF) chose Palembang as its headquarters. By the middle of January, as the Japanese pushed closer and closer to Singapore, the RAF based a half dozen ﬁghter and bomber squadrons out of P1 and P2. Using the high-octane aviation fuel produced at the two Palembang reﬁneries, the British pilots ﬂew dozens of sorties against the rapidly advancing Japanese hordes.28

28

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The entire area around Palembang was under the command of Lt. Col. L. N. W. Vogelesang of the KNIL Territorial Command Dutch Sumatra. P1 was garrisoned by the South Sumatra Garrison Battalion of about 110 KNIL Dutch regulars with two armored cars said to be “rather ancient.” Since the attacking Japanese aircraft were shooting up more planes on the ground than personnel, there seemed to be more airmen than aircraft at P1. Subsequently, three ofﬁcers and seventy-two grounded airmen of the RAF and Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF) were formed into a makeshift grounddefense unit. Unfortunately, these men lacked the proper weapons and adequate training as riﬂemen.29 In the town of Palembang, Colonel Vogelesang had one home guard/reserve infantry company and eight stationary 75-millimeter ﬁeld guns. A machine-gun company of KNIL regulars was stationed at the oil reﬁneries. Initially, Vogelesang lacked any antiaircraft guns to protect the airﬁelds and reﬁneries, but then the American-British-Dutch-Australian (ABDA) Command hastened over two batteries of the 6th Heavy Anti-Aircraft Regiment Royal Artillery and one battery of the 35th Light Anti-Aircraft Regiment Royal Artillery, with sixteen heavy 3.7-inch antiaircraft guns and sixteen 40-millimeter Bofors antiaircraft guns. Arriving from Singapore on February 2, one troop of the heavy antiaircraft battery, about 150 men, with six 3.7-inch and six Bofors guns, were sent to P1. A battery from the 6th Heavy Anti-Aircraft Regiment and the light antiaircraft battery were sent to P2 with six 3.7-inch and six Bofors guns. One last troop, with the remaining four 3.7-inch and four Bofors guns, was sent to protect the reﬁneries. Unfortunately for Colonel Vogelesang, however, the ship carrying most of the ammunition for the antiaircraft guns had been sunk, thereby greatly limiting the ability of the two regiments to engage the enemy.30 To help defend the Palembang riverfront and the oil reﬁnery docks, Colonel Vogelesang had one Royal Netherlands Navy minelayer, the HNLMS Pro Patria, and two patrol boats, the P-38 and P-40. All three vessels constantly patrolled the Moesi River and would contest any attempt by the Japanese to move up the river to Palembang.31 All the Dutch, British, and native defenders could do was sit and wait.

CHAPTER 4

P1 Airfield

T

he Japanese plan of attack at Palembang was to seize the P1 airﬁeld and, if possible, also take the two oil reﬁneries. With the small amount of paratroopers available in the hastily assembled 2nd Raiding Regiment, the Japanese General Staff realized that it would be almost impossible to seize all of the objectives at once. They would try, to be sure, but they would be happy if the paratroopers could just take and hold the airﬁeld until help arrived.1 According to the plan, the 2nd Raiding Regiment’s headquarters group (17 men under Major Komura), signal unit (30 men led by Lieutenant Komaki), 4th Riﬂe Company (97 men under Lieutenant Mitsuya), and 3rd Platoon from the 2nd Riﬂe Company (36 men commanded by Lieutenant Mizuno)—a total of 180 men—would land three-quarters of a mile southeast of the airﬁeld. Another group, the 1st and 2nd Platoons of the 2nd Riﬂe Company (60 men with Lt. Nobutaka Hirose in charge) would land oneeighth of a mile west of P1. Once on the ground, the two units would move forward and envelop and seize the air facility.2 At the same time, the 1st and 2nd Platoons from the 1st Riﬂe Company (60 men led by Lt. Kikuo Nakao) were to be dropped one-third of a mile west of the Shell Oil BPM facilities on the west side of the Komering River. Simultaneously, the 3rd Platoon from the 1st Riﬂe Company (39 men under Lieutenant Hasebe) would land almost one-half mile south of the Standard Oil NKPM facility on the east side of the Komering. After the entire 1st Attack Group was on the ground, Colonel Kume and some of his staff would crashland a transport between the airﬁeld and Palembang. Inside would be a 37millimeter antitank gun, which was needed to give the paratroopers a little extra punch against the Dutch armored cars. Once everyone was on the ground, the paratroopers were to dash forward, seize the airﬁeld and both oil facilities, and prevent the Dutch from recapturing the ﬁeld or destroying the reﬁneries until reinforcements arrived.3 Reinforcements for the understrength parachute regiment would come in the form of an amphibious landing by the Imperial Japanese Army’s 229th Infantry Regiment and one battalion from the 230th Infantry Regiment, both from the 38th Infantry Division. As planned, the infantrymen would be carried to Banka Bay and the mouth of the Moesi River in navy transports,

29

30

BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN

where they would then climb into landing barges and charge upriver to Palembang and the oil reﬁneries. Until they arrived—and it was expected that it would take at least two days for the infantry to force their way upriver—the paratroopers’ only immediate reinforcements would come from the 2nd Attack Force, ninety men under Lt. Ryo Morisawa from the 3rd Company. These few men were scheduled to be parachuted onto P1 on the second day. Even then, the 2nd Raiding Regiment would be hard pressed to hold their assigned objectives until the infantry arrived.4 The invasion ﬂeet, under the command of Vice Adm. Jisaburo Ozawa and consisting of eight transports escorted by the light cruiser Sendai and three destroyers from Destroyer Division 11, left Cam Ranh Bay in French Indochina on February 9 as part of Operation “L,” the invasion of Palembang and Banka Island. One day later, fourteen more transports, escorted by Cruiser Division 7 and Destroyer Division 20, followed suit.5 On February 10, a British reconnaissance plane spotted the convoy north of Banka Island and guessed correctly that it was headed toward Palembang. Throughout the next few days and nights, the British repeatedly attacked the Japanese ships. By February 14, the Dutch, British, and native Sumatrans around Pelambang were well aware of the intention of the Japanese. “I remember that all ofﬁcers were paraded and we had a ‘pep’ talk from Air Vice-Marshal [P. C.] Maltby, RAF, from Singapore,” wrote Keith Hannay, a member of the RAAF Meteorological Service. “He said that we were not going to retreat further, and that the RAF, RAAF, and the Dutch were to hold the Palembang airﬁelds at all costs.” At ﬁrst light on February 14, the date the Japanese had selected for the invasion, ﬁfteen Hurricane ﬁghters, the only serviceable planes at P1, took off to escort a couple of ﬂights of RAF bombers from P2 for attacks against the fast-approaching Japanese convoy.6 Miles away, the 2nd Raiding Regiment paratroopers were awakened at 7:00 A.M. after partying with their sake and sushi until 5:00 in the morning. Forced to pull themselves together and gather their equipment, the men rushed to their planes, and at 8:30 A.M., the transports, ﬁghters, bombers, and cargo container carriers began taking off from both Keluang and Kahang airﬁelds. A short time later, the thirty-four transport planes (including Colonel Kume’s, which was scheduled to be crash-landed), twenty-seven cargo container carriers, eighty Oscar ﬁghters, nine light bombers, and a few scout planes from the 15th Independent Flying Unit and 81st Sentai rendezvoused over Batu Pahat northwest of Singapore. Almost immediately the airplanes turned to the southeast with the scout planes in the lead. Next came the light bombers of the 90th Sentai, followed closely by the supply carriers of the 98th Sentai and then the transports of the Raiding Flying Regiment. Buzzing around on the outside were the Oscar ﬁghter planes of the 59th and 64th

P1 Airﬁeld

31

Sentais. According to Rottman and Takizawa, “This armada of over 150 aircraft represented Japan’s largest airborne operation.”7 While the ﬂight was still 100 miles from Palembang and ﬂying at a height of only 9,580 feet, they were spotted by an Allied observation post, and word was immediately relayed to P1 that a “large formation of big, low-ﬂying aircraft was approaching.” Luckily for the British pilots and Dutch personnel at the airﬁeld, Air Cdre. S. F. Vincent, in charge of one of the RAF squadrons at P1, was present at the airﬁeld when word of the approaching ﬂight arrived. Immediately, he “arranged for the airﬁeld defense ofﬁcer to be warned to expect a paratroop assault, ordering that riﬂes and ammunition be issued forthwith.”8 Unfortunately for the RAF personnel, there were not enough riﬂes to pass around. “[We] had been issued riﬂes and had carted them halfway around the world with us,” remembered RAF signalman Harry Tweedale, “but a few days after reaching Palembang [from Singapore] we had handed them in. When the Japs dropped on to our drome therefore, most airmen hadn’t anything to defend themselves with apart from a few chaps with revolvers.” Only about 60 airmen actually received weapons and positioned themselves to help the 200 KNIL Dutch regulars defend the airﬁeld. Tweedale continued: “It was only a matter of time before we received attention from the Japanese. Not only were we now the most ‘forward’ airbase— indeed insofar as the Japs knew, the only one in Sumatra, but there were large oil installations across the road at Pladjoe.”9 One defender that did get a riﬂe was RAF member Leslie Baker. “I was working a mile away from this drome at the time and we heard Jap troop carrier planes and bombers were on the way,” recalled Baker. “We burnt up all the valuables and secret papers and ﬁles, etc. We nearly all got issued riﬂes and a few tommy guns and a handful of ammunition each.” Whether armed or not, everyone around Palembang was determined to resist the expected Japanese invasion in any way possible.10 Up above P1, a ﬂight of English Blenheim bombers arrived late over the airﬁeld to rendezvous with the Hurricanes that had already left. Pilot Sgt. Archie Wakeﬁeld remembered, “P1 looked deserted, and a red Very light was ﬁred from the ground [indicating not to land]. Soon after leaving P1, a large number of aircraft ﬂew past in the opposite direction, and soon afterwards I saw paratroops falling on P1.” Sgt. Allan Ross also recalled passing the incoming Japanese planes. “As we ﬂew out from P1, our plane was ‘tail-end Charlie,’” he wrote. “[P]arallel and incoming at about 2,000 feet, large Jap transports passed and I watched in amazement to see the parachutists released over P1.” Ross added, “Above the transports were many Jap ﬁghters and not one ﬁghter veered from his obvious task of protecting the drop, thus leaving us completely alone.”11

32

BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN

At 11:20 A.M., almost three hours after taking off, the ﬂight of Japanese planes reached the mouth of the Moesi River. Because of “the [burning] oil wells to the north of Borneo and Celebes and the great ﬁre at the fuel storage depot in Singapore that had blanketed the entire region in grey smoke,” the ﬂight had some difﬁculty locating the mouth of the river. Finally, the planes split into two groups, one heading toward the airﬁeld and the other toward the oil reﬁneries. Following the Moesi River and ﬂying almost due south, the Japanese planes ﬂew quietly past the outgoing British bombers, never veering from their intended destinations. As the Japanese planes drew closer to both objectives, the British antiaircraft batteries at both the airﬁeld and the oil reﬁneries opened ﬁre.12 At P1, the ﬁrst Japanese planes to come over were the nine Lily light bombers of the 90th Sentai, dropping antipersonnel bombs. “We saw aircraft approaching and identiﬁed them as [RAF] Hudson’s,” remembered Terence Kelly, an RAF pilot at P1. “We thought they’re friendly aircraft, our . . . aircraft. And then they circled slowly and we then realized there were ﬁghter aircraft with them which looked like Navy Zeros [sic].” As the Lilies began dropping their bombs, Wing Cmdr. Ken Powell rushed to help man one of the six Bofors antiaircraft guns. As he was helping out, a shell exploded in the breach, killing one man outright and wounding several others, including Powell, who was wounded in the legs.13 The airﬁeld’s defenders were suddenly short one gun. The attack by the Lily bombers shook up the Allied defenders. “[We] were heavily bombed with anti-personnel bombs, which did a lot of damage and caused a number of casualties,” noted Ivor Malcolm Terence Jeffries of the RAF. Farther away in Palembang, Harry Tweedale was enjoying a meal at a local establishment when the raid began. “The sirens sounded and bombs started to drop rather heavily,” he remembered. “The raid ﬁnished but large numbers of planes could still be heard in the sky.”14 After the 90th Sentai bombers carpeted the airﬁeld and barracks buildings, the 64th Sentai Oscar ﬁghters began straﬁng the area. While the ﬁghters and bombers were engaged directly over the airﬁeld, eighteen Thelma and Topsy transports ﬂew in at about 600 feet, and at 11:26 A.M., they began dropping Major Komura’s 180 paratroopers southeast of the airﬁeld. At almost the same time, six more transports began dropping the 60 men from the 1st and 2nd Platoons of the 2nd Riﬂe Company west of the airﬁeld.15 Some of the planes carrying the paratroopers may have dropped their sticks of men considerably higher than the intended height. A U.S. Army historian reported, “Antiaircraft ﬁre was so effective that the Japanese pilots, some of whom had never been under ﬁre, ﬂew too high, and therefore the paratroopers were too widely scattered and experienced difﬁculty in prompt assembly.”16

P1 Airﬁeld

33

In the middle of all of this activity, a ﬂight of ﬁfteen Hurricane ﬁghters and a handful of Hudson bombers that had just attacked the Japanese invasion convoy suddenly arrived over the airﬁeld. Coming in at high altitude through a dense cloud, the British pilots suddenly spotted the enemy below them. While the Hudson bombers continued on toward P2, actually ﬂying through the stick of Japanese paratroopers that was dropping southeast of P1, the Hurricane ﬁghters, although low on fuel, immediately dove to the attack.17 Coming out of the clouds unexpectedly, Pilot Ofﬁcer Bill Lockwood and his wingman aimed for the leading Sally medium bomber. Swooping in fast, Lockwood strafed the bomber, which was carrying some of the cargo containers, and “possibly holed its fuel tanks,” but he was not sure and did not wait around to ﬁnd out. (The Japanese, who lost one bomber during the raid, later claimed that the plane was shot down by antiaircraft ﬁre). Pulling up sharply, he and his wingman leveled out and ran right into a torrential rainstorm. By the time he got out of the storm cloud, he was well past the airﬁeld and had to follow the Moesi River back to Palembang. As he neared P1 a second time, Lockwood spotted a number of “white objects” on the ground and reasoned that Japanese paratroopers were in the midst of an attack. When he received the signal of a red Very ﬂare ﬁred from P1 warning him not to land, Lockwood and his wingman ﬂew on to P2.18 Other English ﬁghter planes also engaged the Japanese ﬁghters and bombers over P1. Flight Off. Ting Macnamara, a Rhodesian pilot ﬂying with the RAF, had his Hurricane slightly damaged during the buzzing air battle over P1. Breaking off, he headed toward P2 but was jumped by three more Oscars. Taking severe hits in his plane, Macnamara contemplated bailing out but then turned and made a forced landing at P1. Within seconds, one of his mates ran up to him and told him about the Japanese parachute drops to the west and southeast of the airﬁeld. “I then realized,” Macnamara said, “that had I jumped out of my aircraft, as was my intention, I would have ended up with the paratroop who had, evidently, landed on three [sic] sides of the aerodrome.”19 The group of paratroopers landing southeast of the airﬁeld was dropped about two miles away from P1 (not three-quarters of a mile as planned) into an area covered with small trees, which snagged the cargo containers. The trees also blocked line of sight, thereby impeding the ability of the scattered paratroopers to see one another and gather into an effective ﬁghting force. With some men armed only with the pistols and hand grenades that they carried during the drop, the 160 badly scattered paratroopers of the 2nd Raiding Regiment, began moving in small isolated groups toward the airﬁeld.20 One transport-load of paratroopers, members of the 4th Riﬂe Company led by Lt. Minoru Okumoto, was supposed to drop at the southeast drop zone (DZ) but had a jammed door and did not get out of their plane in time.

34

BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN

Instead, the paratroopers came down more than four miles south of the DZ, near a road that led from Palembang to the airﬁeld. Moving quickly, Okumoto gathered together four other men—all that he could ﬁnd—and armed only with pistols and grenades, they began making their way north along the road to P1. During their movement, they undoubtedly cut the telephone lines between the airﬁeld and town.21 Meanwhile, west of the airﬁeld, the sixty men of the 1st and 2nd Platoons of the 2nd Riﬂe Company under Lieutenant Hirose came down in dense, sixfoot-high reeds, although aerial photographs had indicated the area to be ﬂat and covered with low grasses. Unable to ﬁnd their cargo containers or even one another, small groups of paratroopers began making their way east toward the airﬁeld, armed only with pistols and hand grenades. Among those that had a hard time ﬁnding someone was Hirose, who could locate only two other men. Undaunted, the paratroopers pushed on toward P1.22 While the paratroopers were trying to assemble and the Japanese ﬁghters were straﬁng the airﬁeld, British planes had been landing and taking off. Shortly after the attack started, a Hudson bomber took off loaded with air and ground personnel. Next, Flight Ofﬁcer Macnamara made his forced landing. Then two more Hurricanes landed at P1, completely unaware of the Japanese parachute drop because of faulty radio equipment on the two airplanes.23 One of the pilots, Sgt. H. Lambert, remembered, “We saw [Pilot Off. A. D. M. “Mick”] Nash running out to meet us, and he gave us the news of the paratroop attack, saying the base was surrounded and telling us of the instructions to land at P2. Nash put himself at great personal risk to give us this information, as he was completely exposed on the aerodrome to any ﬁre which the paratroopers may have been able to direct towards him.” Although their gas tanks were virtually empty, Lambert and the other pilot took off and ﬂew directly down to P2. “Fortunately,” he added, “we were not attacked by ground ﬁre as we took off.”24 Unbeknownst to Lambert and the others, the paratroopers were not yet close enough to the airﬁeld to ﬁre at them. During the attack, nine Hurricane fighters that were being brought up to Sumatra from Java arrived in time to witness the drop of the Japanese paratroopers. The pilots spotted the twin-engine Topsy and Thelma transport planes southeast of P1 and initially mistook them for British Hudson bombers. Then, however, when they saw paratroopers dropping out of the planes, they realized that an enemy attack was underway. Seconds later, the group was pounced on by the Ki-43 Oscars of the 64th Sentai. Within a matter of minutes, two Hurricanes were shot down, three crash-landed in the jungle, and four more made forced landings at P1. After being hurriedly refueled, the four planes took off again and were led by another plane to P2.25

P1 Airﬁeld

35

When the Japanese ﬁghter and bomber planes ﬁnally ﬂew away, the Dutch and British defenders began to dig in, refusing to yield even an inch to the attacking Japanese. Ground and air crew personnel that had not gotten riﬂes removed Browning machine guns from unserviceable airplanes and set them up on mounds of earth. At the same time, the 3.7-inch and Bofors antiaircraft crews leveled out their weapons and began to ﬁre them horizontally “over open sights.”26 For the next hour or so, the defenders fought the few Japanese who managed to reach the airﬁeld. Widely scattered by the drop, many of the paratroopers arrived in ones or twos or in small groups. After apparently retrieving their riﬂes from the scattered cargo containers, some climbed into trees on the south side of the airﬁeld and began sniping at the antiaircraft gun crews. “Japanese snipers who had climbed into trees immediately after landing kept up an incessant ﬁre,” reported the U.S. Army Intelligence Division. “These ﬁnally were liquidated by the British who even turned a 3.7-inch gun against them in rather unconventional utilization of direct ﬁre.”27 A little later, the same 3.7-inch gun was threatened by a group of paratroopers that had managed to capture a Bofors gun position and reportedly even raised a Japanese ﬂag over the captured gun. “The gun, tractor, and Japanese crew, however, were quickly destroyed by direct ﬁre from the 3.7inch gun,” stated the U.S. Army Intelligence Division.28 After the snipers had been “dispersed,” things became eerily quiet at the airﬁeld. Most of the paratroopers had landed a few miles away from the ﬁeld and were having a hard time gathering their things, coming together, and making their way toward P1. Taking advantage of the calm before the expected storm, a group of Dutch KNIL ofﬁcers came up from their headquarters building about one mile south of the airﬁeld after failing to get through to Palembang because of the cut telephone wires. Acting upon previous orders, they began pulling the 200 widely spaced defenders out of P1 before the gathering Japanese invaders drew close enough to overrun them.29 While some of the men prepared to set ﬁre to a stack of forty-four-gallon drums of aviation fuel and others were determining which planes were unserviceable and should be destroyed, the British artillerists prepared to remove their antiaircraft guns. Unfortunately, only one prime mover vehicle was available, so “only two guns could be moved.” After sabotaging the other guns, most of the crews began ﬁltering back toward Palembang while two crews stuck around and began the process of moving two 3.7-inch antiaircraft guns.30 One of the ﬁrst men to leave, probably even before the ofﬁcial order to retire was given, was Macnamara. In spite of the presence of Lieutenant Okumoto and his handful of paratroopers that had fallen near the P1-Palembang road, Macnamara and a few others drove their car down the road and were

36

BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN

able to get through without incident. However, when a group of ofﬁcers from Palembang tried to drive up to the airport, they were ﬁred at by Okumoto’s men and forced to turn back.31 At this point, it appears as though Lieutenant Okumoto, who had been dropped in an area miles away from the intended drop zone because of a stuck door, consciously made the decision to try to stop anymore trafﬁc along the P1-Palembang road. With his numbers now swelled to about twenty men, Okumoto waited in ambush around a curve in the road, about four miles south of the airﬁeld. In no time at all, a six-wheel truck came along and was immediately attacked with hand grenades and pistol ﬁre, which succeeded in overturning the vehicle and creating a roadblock. According to historian Pete Gade, “What could have been disastrous ended up as a tremendous stroke of luck. . . . [W]hat was now a de facto roadblock [was] precipitated by something so simple as a stuck door.”32 The next vehicle to come down the road from P1 was driven by Johnny Johnson, RAF. As he drove around the corner and spotted the overturned truck, he was attacked by Okumoto’s men. Although Johnson managed to get out of his vehicle and return ﬁre with a revolver from a roadside ditch— reportedly hitting at least two paratroopers—he eventually ran out of ammunition and had to surrender. The Japanese commander, supposedly Lieutenant Okumoto, then relieved Johnson of his revolver and shot him in the thigh, “presumably to prevent him from being able to escape.” Then, when it looked as though the other paratroopers were going to kill him, another vehicle was heard approaching from the direction of P1.33 After scattering into the roadside ditches, the Japanese, with Johnson in tow, opened ﬁre when the vehicle came into view. Full of RAF personnel, the car was hit by pistol ﬁre and rocked by hand grenades, and it too ﬂipped over, adding to the impromptu roadblock. Although a few of the RAF men were killed, at least four were injured and captured, but these men were quickly shot and killed by the Japanese paratroopers.34 By the time the next few vehicles—probably a fuel truck and three trucks carrying about forty Dutch soldiers—approached the roadblock, the evacuation from P1 was well underway. Although one vehicle managed to get safely through the growing roadblock, the others, including the fuel truck, did not. Hit with hand grenades, the fuel truck skidded out of control and ﬂipped onto its side. Although the truck did not explode, one man was trapped underneath, and the large vehicle added another obstacle to the growing roadblock. Men from the other vehicles leapt out of the trucks and sought shelter in the jungle or in the ditches alongside the road. Those few evacuees with guns began ﬁring back at the Japanese.35 While all of this was going on, the Dutch soldiers in Palembang were trying to organize reinforcements for P1. After gathering together three truck-

P1 Airﬁeld

37

loads of Dutch troops and a RAF van ﬁlled with food, Air Cdre. S. F. Vincent and his driver jumped into their own vehicle and led the convoy north toward the airﬁeld. After going about nine miles, they rounded a bend in the road and ran smack into the enemy roadblock. Immediately, they came under ﬁre from the Japanese paratroopers. Commodore Vincent recalled: “The only one hit was the RAF van driver, who swerved across the road and got ditched. The Dutch lorrie-loads ﬁred not a shot, and their drivers turned round and drove off leaving us to bring the two [men] from the van, one hit in the arm, and return with ignominy after the supposed escort, leaving the [van with the] supplies to the Japs. I was disgusted and ashamed.”36 At around noon, two armored cars and four troop trucks carrying about 150 Dutch KNIL soldiers approached Lieutenant Okumoto’s impromptu roadblock from Palembang. Fortunately for Okumoto, more and more of the Japanese paratroopers had come out of the jungle to reinforce him. When the Dutch convoy drew near to the overturned fuel truck, the Japanese attacked with a fusillade of grenades, pistol ﬁre, and ﬁre from captured riﬂes. Taken completely by surprise, most of the KNIL soldiers abandoned their vehicles and ﬂed back toward town, except for one of the armored car crews and one truckload of soldiers. In the ensuing ﬁreﬁght, two Japanese paratroopers were killed and Lieutenant Okumoto was wounded. Still, they somehow managed to hold the roadblock, force the remaining Dutch to ﬂee, and capture the armored car.37 While Okumoto was maintaining his roadblock, Major Komura, who had been dropped to the southeast, had managed to gather together ten men. Around 1:30 P.M., his small group met up with Lieutenant Mitsuya and twentyfour paratroopers from the 4th Riﬂe Company. Shortly thereafter, the combined groups came upon Okumoto’s roadblock. Komura decided that the roadblock should be maintained to stop any reinforcements from coming up from Palembang or any evacuees from ﬂeeing south out of P1, probably placing Mitsuya in charge in place of the injured Okumoto. Komura then ordered Mitsuya to send a detail to capture the airﬁeld ofﬁce, about a mile south of the ﬁeld. Utilizing Okumoto’s captured armored car, Mitsuya sent Lieutenant Ooki and twenty men north along the road toward P1 while he positioned the rest of his men to defend the roadblock. Having issued his orders, Major Komura then went off to ﬁnd more of his lost paratroopers and perhaps Colonel Kume.38 As planned, Colonel Kume’s transport, carrying his staff and a 37millimeter antitank gun and crew, had crash-landed several miles southeast of P1 shortly after the other paratroopers had landed. Unfortunately, the plane came down in a “soggy woodland.” Bogged down, wet, bitten by mosquitoes, and separated from most of his men, Kume would spend a sleepless night trying to get out of this quagmire of hell.39

38

BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN

Along the Palembang-P1 road, Ooki and his men ran into about 300 Dutch soldiers and British airmen ﬂeeing from the airﬁeld after advancing only about three miles. The evacuation of P1 was now completely underway. Opening ﬁre with the captured armored car and side arms, the Japanese paratroopers surprised the ﬂeeing men and began to push them back. At about the same time, groups of other paratroopers, some from the southeastern group and some from the western group, ﬁnally made it to the airﬁeld and added to the attack.40 On the west side, Lieutenant Gamo from the 2nd Riﬂe Company had managed to gather sixteen men as he made his way eastward toward the airdrome. Although all of the men were armed only with pistols and grenades, they did not hesitate to attack when they ﬁnally reached the edge of the airﬁeld. Spotting a British antiaircraft position, Gamo threw a grenade and dashed forward. He was killed almost instantly. Undaunted, the other paratroopers continued to press the attack, although somewhat more cautiously than their leader.41 The commander of the 2nd Riﬂe Company, Lieutenant Hirose, along with the only two men he could ﬁnd, ﬁnally reached the airﬁeld around 2:00 P.M. A bit more cautious than Gamo, Hirose and his men were slowly advancing toward a Dutch barracks when they suddenly spotted about 300 Dutch troops, perhaps the same men being attacked by Ooki and his armored car group. Overwhelmingly outnumbered, Hirose wisely pulled his two men back and slipped quietly into the surrounding jungle. Later, while moving along the outskirts of the ﬁeld, he found one other lost paratrooper and took him in tow.42 Back at the roadblock, things had started to heat up again. Dutch troops and armed RAF personnel from Palembang had driven up close to the roadblock before parking their trucks to approach and engage the enemy on foot. Creeping up through the jungle until they were close enough to see the Japanese, the Allied troops then began sniping at Major Komura and Lieutenant Okumoto’s men. At the same time, a small group started to work their way closer, intent on setting the overturned fuel truck on ﬁre with incendiary bullets to drive out the defending Japanese. As the men neared the truck, they were informed by a few wounded Allied soldiers that a surviving RAF man was still trapped under the vehicle. As the men were deciding what to do, Japanese mortar rounds began to impact around them, and enemy machine-gun ﬁre began to tear up the trees. Making a hasty decision, the group abandoned their plan and ﬂed into a nearby swamp.43 After what seemed an eternity, the Dutch and RAF riﬂemen ﬁnally got the upper hand at the roadblock and managed to chase Komura and the others away. Unfortunately, they were too late for the RAF trooper that had been

P1 Airﬁeld

39

trapped under the fuel truck. By the time the rescue group reached him, he had long since expired.44 As the Allied troops scoured the area, they found a large number of dead Japanese soldiers. Macnamara was among the men who helped eliminate the roadblock and wrote, “We saw paratroopers hanging in trees, strangled by their own cords, and others who had struck terra ﬁrma without their parachutes opening.”45 By now, it was after 6:00 P.M., and Lieutenant Ooki’s twenty paratroopers and captured armored car had managed to chase away the 300 Dutch and RAF defenders and capture the airﬁeld ofﬁce. Leaving a few men behind to guard the ofﬁce, Ooki must have sent the armored car back toward the roadblock to inform Komura of his success while he took the rest of his men north toward the airﬁeld.46 At the roadblock, Macnamara and the others were milling about when the captured armored car suddenly appeared. “We naturally thought that the Dutch had at last broken through to our relief,” Macnamara recalled, “but after many had revealed themselves from the side of the road, they were greeted with hand grenades.” Instantly realizing that the car was in Japanese hands, the Dutch and Allied riﬂemen opened ﬁre, causing the driver to crash into the other vehicles of the roadblock. “The Japanese,” Macnamara continued, “knowing their game was up . . . tried to make a break—a volley of ﬁre from small arms—riﬂes and revolvers—greeted their exit from the turret.”47 A little farther up the road, a handful of RAF personnel that had gone beyond the roadblock met a small group of paratroopers who opened ﬁre upon them with a machine gun. Slipping past this group, the British airmen next came across the airﬁeld ofﬁce and the four or ﬁve Japanese paratroopers that had been left behind to guard it. A prolonged ﬁreﬁght then took place until about twenty Dutch reinforcements, one armed with a Bren machine gun, arrived. Although the Bren gunner was soon wounded in the attack, the Dutch continued to press forward and eventually managed to overrun the hotly contested Japanese strongpoint.48 In the meantime, at the airﬁeld itself, the paratroopers continued to arrive from their scattered drop zones and engage the defenders. A Royal New Zealand Air Force pilot, Sgt. Frank Hood, wrote, “Paratroopers! Great panic. Lost all kit [equipment]. Lost track of [Sgt. N. G.] Packard and [Sgt. Ewen] Worts. Both believed killed. Went to P2.” By late afternoon, most of the Allied defenders had either abandoned the airﬁeld or been killed. Only about sixty armed RAF men and a few Dutch KNIL soldiers remained, and they were running out of ammunition.49 Among the remaining personnel was Leslie Baker, a RAF ground crewman. He later proudly recalled his stand against the Japanese. “[The] RAF

40

BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN

ground crew were ready for them and the RAF lads stuck to their posts mowing down the Japs as they landed, we did, the RAF ALONE, mopped up the Jap parachutists but not before we had had quite a few killed. . . . [It] made a mess of our aerodrome and we knew we would be getting it much hotter, from the Japs.”50 The prime mover that had been attempting to pull two 3.7-inch antiaircraft guns to safety reached the main road leading to Palembang before it came under Japanese ﬁre. “Unfortunately,” wrote a U.S. Army historian, “one of these [guns] had to be abandoned on the way, since light machine-gun ﬁre had riddled the tires.” In fact, none of the antiaircraft guns made it out of P1. All twelve guns, most of them disabled by their gun crews, were captured by the paratroopers.51 Defending one slit trench was Wing Cmdr. H. J. Maguire and one other RAF ofﬁcer; they were battling it out with a bunch of paratroopers in another trench. Suddenly, in the middle of the ﬁreﬁght, the Japanese soldiers jumped up, turned, and ran for the jungle, whereupon Maguire and the other man promptly shot three or four of them. Then, believing that the Japanese had ﬂed because of the approach of a Dutch relief column, Maguire and Pilot Off. O. D. Creegan hurried down the road to greet them. Instead, the two men ran into sixty or seventy assembled paratroopers. Recalled Maguire: As we reached the top of a slight incline, we saw a Japanese soldier bending over a machine gun. He stood up and saw us at a range of about 50 yards. Although we were both armed, we had Thompson sub-machine guns, I had no confidence in the ability of these weapons to reach him in time. So, telling Creegan we would have to bluff it out, I laid down my unwieldy weapon and marched briskly up to him. He looked very surprised but did nothing. So, sounding as confident as I could, I demanded to see his officer and, to my amazement, he shambled off and produced an officer. This officer had some command of English, and I immediately demanded surrender, saying that I had a large force behind me. He replied that he had a large force and that he would give us safe conduct if we marched out. Continuing with his bluff, Maguire said that he would have to discuss a possible English surrender with his “non-existent senior ofﬁcer.” Turning around, Maguire and Creegan walked back to their guns, picked them up, and walked calmly back to the airﬁeld. When the two ofﬁcers arrived back at the ﬁeld, they discovered that the remaining handful of men had taken advantage of the lull in the ﬁghting to

P1 Airﬁeld

41

set the fuel dump on ﬁre and burn the remains of a few unserviceable aircraft. Then, using what few trucks remained, the sixty or so stalwart defenders of P1 beat a hasty retreat to the north, taking the road to Djambi.52 Around 5:00 P.M., P1 was completely devoid of Allied personnel. When Lieutenant Hirose and his three men ﬁnally came out of hiding on the west side of the airﬁeld and approached the same barracks building that they had approached before, they found it completely deserted. Looking around, they found cook rations still on the stove, a fortunate thing since they had been unable to locate their drop containers and had only iron wafers and dried compressed ﬁsh with them.53 An hour later, Major Komura, who had been gathering small groups of paratroopers into larger groups throughout the day, met with Lieutenant Komaki of the signal unit at the east end of the airﬁeld. Everything seemed to be quiet. The sixty or seventy paratroopers who had been spotted by Maguire were probably under the command of Lieutenant Mitsuya, who had come up from the roadblock, quickly invested the airﬁeld, and dug in for the night. At 9:00 P.M., Komura met up with Mitsuya at the barracks buildings.54 By the time darkness fell, P1 airport was in the hands of perhaps 100 army paratroopers of the 2nd Raiding Regiment.

CHAPTER 5

The Capture of Palembang

A

t 11:30 P.M. on February 14, 1942, six minutes after the paratroopers began falling over P1 Airﬁeld, six Thelma transports began dropping Lieutenant Nakao and his sixty men from the 1st and 2nd Platoons of the 1st Riﬂe Company on the west side of the Komering River, close to the Shell Oil BPM facilities. At about the same time, the three Thelma airplanes carrying Lieutenant Hasebe and his thirty-nine paratroopers from the 3rd Platoon of the 1st Riﬂe Company began dropping the men on the east side of the Komering, south of the Standard Oil NKPM facility. Although the Bofors and 3.7-inch antiaircraft guns at the oil reﬁneries ﬁred on the planes, all of the transports escaped unscathed but one of the nine Betty bomber cargo container carriers, following close behind, was shot out of the sky.1 Unlike the paratroopers at P1 Airﬁeld that landed among jungle trees or tall reedy grass that made it difﬁcult to ﬁnd their cargo containers, Nakao’s men landed in a shallow marshland and located their weapons and supplies with little difﬁculty. Moving quickly toward the closest section of the BPM reﬁnery—the part near the junction of the Moesi and Komering Rivers—one group of six men, led by platoon commander Lieutenant Tokunaga, managed to capture a pillbox on the southwest corner of the facility. Continuing onward, the seven men worked their way into the reﬁnery residential area before running into about sixty Dutch soldiers armed with machine guns. Unwilling to retreat, Tokunaga and his men sought cover and opened ﬁre.2 While Tokunaga was pushing into the reﬁnery, Lieutenants Ogawa and Yosioka were gathering together groups of scattered troopers. Once enough men were in hand, the paratroopers followed after Tokunaga and caught up with him during the ﬁreﬁght in the residential area. Tokunaga ordered Ogawa and Yosioka to “secure the topping installations while he kept the defenders occupied.” As ordered, the two lieutenants took about a dozen men and climbed to the top of the central topping tower, raising a Rising Sun ﬂag sometime between 1:10 and 1:50 P.M., about two hours after landing.3 Down below, Lieutenant Tokunaga and the paratroopers, who had since been joined by Lieutenant Nakao, commander of the 1st Riﬂe Company, saw the Japanese battle ﬂag go up and began to work their way toward the central topping tower. As they moved, they hurriedly shut valves, turned cranks, and

42

The Capture of Palembang

43

removed hastily placed demolition charges put there by the Dutch when they ﬁrst saw the paratroopers descending.4 Far behind the advancing paratroopers was Sergeant Kamoshida, who was the last man out of his transport. Having gotten separated from the others and unable to ﬁnd a cargo container, Kamoshida pulled out his pistol and hand grenades and fought his way into the main facility of the BPM reﬁnery, eventually ﬁnding himself alone in the residential area. There, outside of an ofﬁce building, he was seriously wounded by a burst of machine-gun ﬁre. Heroic to the end, Kamoshida threw his last grenade in the direction of his shooter and then committed suicide with his pistol.5 By the time the Japanese raised the ﬂag over the topping tower, the Dutch and British had gathered together enough men to stage a counterattack. The Japanese paratroopers, using the oil reﬁnery air raid shelters as pillboxes, put up stiff resistance. Fighting raged back and forth across the compound, with the combatants sometimes as close as ﬁfty yards apart. As could be expected, fuel pipes were punctured by bullets from both sides, and the thick, black crude oil spilled forth. When an Allied mortar round impacted on top of some of the spilled oil, the whole area burst into ﬂames, sending thick black smoke clouds billowing into the afternoon sky.6 Determined to hold onto their hard-earned prize as the sun began to go down, Nakao ordered Tokunaga to take his platoon and attack northward across the reﬁnery, perhaps hoping to get a toehold in the separated portion of the BPM reﬁnery along the Moesi River. Although they put up a spirited ﬁght, Tokunaga lost a score of men and managed to move up only a short distance. When night ﬁnally fell and the bright orange ﬂames of the burning oil ﬁres cast eerie shadows about the area, the Dutch and British soldiers had retaken most of the BPM reﬁnery. Nevertheless, some of the 1st and 2nd Platoons of the 1st Riﬂe Company of the 2nd Raiding Regiment were still alive. With the paratroopers holding some of the vital sections of the plants, Allied demolition teams found that they could not destroy the areas they wanted to. According to historian Christopher Shores, “Although the oil stores and other combustible points were set on ﬁre, no worthwhile permanent damage could be done.” Unable to destroy the facility, the Dutch and British soldiers handed the advantage back to the Japanese and quietly slipped away in the darkness.7 Meanwhile, the 3rd Platoon of the 1st Riﬂe Company, led by Lieutenant Hasebe, had landed in a deep swamp on the east side of the Komering River, south of the Standard Oil NKPM facility. Carrying only their pistols and a few hand grenades, two men landed in front of a Dutch gun position. Stripping off their parachute harnesses and covering smocks, the two soldiers attacked, killing eight startled defenders. Continuing on, they climbed out of the swamp and onto a road that ran straight toward the oil reﬁnery. As they drew

44

BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN

near, however, the defenders of the reﬁnery opened ﬁre, wounding one of the men. Helped along by his comrade, the attackers retreated back down the road to await the rest of the 3rd Platoon.8 Meanwhile, Lieutenant Hasebe had somehow managed to get hold of a native boat and was able to move about quickly, gathering his platoon and their cargo containers. When they got to the road running through the swamp and toward the oil refinery, Hasebe quickly surmised that the road would be a killing zone. Unable to move successfully through the swamp, Hasebe had no other choice but to try to rush forward along the dangerous road. Piling out of the swamp, Hasebe and his men moved directly up the road toward the front gate of the oil reﬁnery and got within 100 yards before Hasebe was killed by enemy ﬁre. Without their leader, the Japanese attack suddenly stalled. Taking over, Sergeant Tanba called off the frontal assault

The Capture of Palembang

45

and led the surviving men back into the swamp, hoping to move forward again under the cover of darkness. At 11:00 P.M., when darkness ﬁnally fell and the only light came from the ﬂames of the burning BPM reﬁnery on the other side of the Komering River, Tanba and his paratroopers crept forward. Surprisingly, they found the entire facility completely deserted. The NKPM defenders had slipped away under the cover of darkness.9 Throughout the night, the paratrooper units at both the P1 Airfield and the two refineries consolidated their gains while they waited for reinforcements. At dawn on February 15, 1942, Japanese troops of the 229th Infantry Regiment, 38th Infantry Division, began embarking from the transport ships that had moved up to the Moesi River Delta. The day before, the escort planes flying over the ships had fought off repeated attacks by Dutch and British planes. As the troops scampered aboard waiting landing barges, preparatory to moving up the three main rivers that made up the delta, the covering task force moved back out to sea to engage a converging Allied task force.10 As the barges and some supporting vessels moved south toward Palembang, the RAF and RAAF came out to meet them. Throughout the day, the two air forces would make repeated attacks against the barges, although Japanese ﬁghters were always there to try to intercept them. An estimated twenty barges were sunk, but there were just too many of them. In the end, the RAF and RAAF pilots were ordered to evacuate Sumatra and head over to Java.11 At Palembang, an evacuation had been going on all night. Although the Japanese roadblock near P1 Airﬁeld had ﬁnally been cleared, the Japanese still held the airﬁeld and had snipers and outposts along the approaching road. Not too far out from Palembang, on the road to the airﬁeld, the Dutch had established their own roadblock, intent on stopping the Japanese paratroopers from making a sudden dash toward the Sumatran capital. All night long and all the next day, both military and civilian personnel evacuated the city, burning things they could not carry and then taking ferries across the Moesi River to a train station and a safe road on the south side of the river. In the daylight, as the evacuees looked behind them, they could see a thick black cloud of smoke hanging over the city, stark evidence of the burning city and the burning BPM oil reﬁnery. Harry Tweedale wrote, “Here I must pay tribute to the Dutch troops in Palembang. For twenty-four hours they maintained a local superiority, mopping up many of the parachutists and giving most of the civilians and English troops and airmen time to get away.”12 At the two oil reﬁneries, the remaining Japanese paratroopers must have listened to the Palembang evacuation all night long. Then, around 6:00 in the morning, a time-delayed Dutch demolition charge exploded at the captured NKPM reﬁnery. Unable to prevent further explosions and the spread of the resulting ﬁre, Sergeant Tanba and his handful of paratroopers from

46

BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN

the 3rd Platoon of the 1st Riﬂe Company now knew why the facility had been completely abandoned. In the end, about 80 percent of the Standard Oil NKPM facility was destroyed by the ﬁre.13 At P1 Airﬁeld, all remained relatively quiet throughout most of the morning. Then, at 10:30 A.M., a Japanese scout plane from Keluang Airﬁeld in Malaya suddenly swooped down and landed on the concrete runway. Immediately, Major Komura informed the pilot that although the airﬁeld was in Japanese hands, most of the cargo containers had been lost during the air drop and his men were ﬁghting with either pistols or captured weapons, both of which were short on ammunition. Immediately, the intrepid pilot took off and ﬂew straight back to Keluang to report to General Sugawara. This report was the ﬁrst news that the general received that the combat drop on P1 had been successful, since all of the 2nd Raiding Regiment’s radios had been lost with their cargo containers. In a heartbeat, Sugawara gave orders to have weapons and ammunition rushed to the beleaguered paratroopers.14 Near noon, a mosquito-bitten Colonel Kume and his handful of similarly afﬂicted staff members ﬁnally made their way out of the “soggy woodland” and over to P1. Undoubtedly, he was happy to see the progress that had been made in his absence. An hour later, the planes of the Second Attack Group, the reinforcing paratroop drop, arrived over the Palembang airﬁeld. As the Oscar ﬁghters from the 59th and 64th Sentai ﬂew combat patrols overhead, the Thelma transports of the 12th Transport Chutai began dropping the ninety men of Lieutenant Morisawa’s 3rd Riﬂe Company directly onto the captured airﬁeld. Close behind, the crews of the 98th Sentai began dropping dozens of cargo containers from their Betty bombers.15 When the second air drop was over and the precious weapons and ammunition had been distributed all around, Colonel Kume sent a platoon of men under Lieutenant Adachi toward Palembang. Moving cautiously, the paratroopers followed the main road past both their own roadblock and a hastily abandoned Dutch roadblock, arriving at the capital around 5:30 P.M. Surprisingly, they found the town undefended and parts of Palembang on ﬁre. Moving down to the river to see if the 229th Infantry Regiment’s barges were in sight, the men happened upon the two Dutch patrol boats, the P-39 and P-40. Taking them under attack, one of the boats was quickly disabled, but the other ﬂed farther upriver.16 Upon discovering that Palembang was unguarded, Lieutenant Adachi sent the information back to Colonel Kume. Immediately, Kume ordered Lieutenant Morisawa to take his newly arrived 3rd Riﬂe Company into Palembang to secure the town. By early evening, Morisawa was in contact with the soldiers holding the two oil reﬁneries.17 That evening, February 15, protected by the darkness of night, the landing barges carrying the 229th Infantry Regiment ﬁnally reached Palembang.

The Capture of Palembang

47

Waiting there to greet them were the army paratroopers of the 2nd Raiding Regiment. Five days later, the proud paratroopers handed over control of the capital of Sumatra to the 38th Infantry Division.18 After all was settled and done, the 2nd Raiding Regiment reviewed the past few days. The paratroopers claimed that they had killed 1,080 Dutch and RAF defenders and captured a total of twenty-three antiaircraft guns, several armored cars, and numerous trucks. Of course, these ﬁgures are much exaggerated. On the other hand, the Japanese admitted that during the initial combat drop, one medium bomber was shot down either by antiaircraft ﬁre or by Pilot Ofﬁcer Lockwood, and two transport planes were crash-landed, one intentionally. Out of 339 paratroopers dropped on February 14 with the 1st Attack Group, 29 were killed (two died from parachute malfunction), 37 were seriously wounded, and 11 were slightly wounded, for a total of 77 killed and wounded, roughly 23 percent.19 The 2nd Raiding Regiment’s attack on P1 Airfield and the two oil refineries has been deemed both a success and a failure by historians. In October 1942, a brief intelligence document was published by the U.S. Army which labeled the attack a failure. In it, the authors stated that the Japanese “jumped from about 70 transport planes,” a gross exaggeration. They went on to report, “A total of about 300 attacked defending troops at the airdrome, and about 400 sought to capture the refineries. Nearly all the parachutists were killed or captured, except a group which managed to hold one of the refineries and prevent it from being destroyed. The other refinery was demolished by the Dutch. On the whole, the attack was a failure.”20 That same month, the U.S. Army published a restricted document that detailed the Japanese parachute troops. The army claimed, The strength of the force employed, about 700 men, was insufficient by far for the task involved. . . . The airfield had come into the possession of the Japanese at about 1700 hours [5:00 P.M.]. . . . Only about 30 parachutists were left of the 300. . . . The attacks on the oil refineries failed utterly. Sixteen Japanese planes were destroyed by the AA [antiaircraft] defenses at the two refineries. The parachutists were so effectively engaged . . . [that] by the time a huge sea-borne force captured Palembang the next day, both refineries were shambles. . . . The entire operation was characterized by the utmost confusion. Among the inaccuracies here was the statement that Japanese seaborne forces had “captured” Palembang when in fact the ﬁrst Japanese force to enter the Sumatran capital was the 2nd Raiding Regiment.21

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However, the short report did make a few valid points in a section entitled “Lessons.” The report said, “Troops and pilots should be so trained that parachutists can land in roads and other small cleared areas in woods and jungles. The Japanese troops at Palembang were helpless when they landed in the midst of thick jungle.” The report also suggested that “equipment bags, radio sets, etc., should be carried and dropped with the group to which they belong.” The report then told of the failure to have the Japanese drop their cargo containers from the same transport planes as the men; this, the report wrote, added to the failure of the Japanese attack. While recognizing these difﬁculties, the U.S. Army Military Intelligence Service report stated, “It should be remembered that the failures and omissions listed above apply to the ﬁrst use by the Japanese Army of parachutists on a large scale. The Japanese Army is among the ﬁrst to recognize its own weak points and to proﬁt by its mistakes. It should not be assumed that these mistakes will be repeated.”22 In December 1942—while the Japanese still held much of the territory they had conquered—the U.S. Army Military Intelligence Service published another largely inaccurate analysis of the Palembang raid emphasizing its failures.23 Another U.S. Army report, published in July 1945, added to the inaccuracies, again saying that sixteen planes had been shot down and that the seaborne force took Palembang.24 Even after the war, in 1948, the U.S. Army was still claiming that sixteen planes had been shot down over the oil reﬁneries and that the “paratroops were widely scattered and were never able to organize and concentrate against the objectives.”25 As time went by, however, historians began to study the attack and disprove most of the inaccuracies. Still, some of the inaccuracies lived on, making it difﬁcult, even today, to piece together the real story of what happened at P1 Airﬁeld and the two oil reﬁneries on February 14–15, 1942. Historians are ﬁnally beginning to label the attack a success, emphasizing its speed and calling it “the Japanese parachute troops’ most signiﬁcant victory.”26 In spite of their success, the army paratroopers saw no further combat on Sumatra while the rest of the Japanese invaders saw plenty. The 38th Infantry Division, with the help of Japanese bombers and ﬁghters ﬂying out of P1 Airﬁeld, continued to advance across southern Sumatra, and by February 24, it had secured most of the bottom portion of the island. By the beginning of March, most of the remaining Dutch defenders had ﬂed into the northwestern part of the island, where they were conducting a guerrilla war. A few weeks later, on March 28, some 2,000 Dutch troops ﬁnally surrendered to the 38th Infantry Division. Sumatra was securely in Japanese hands.27 After taking the Palembang airﬁeld and oil installations, the 2nd Raiding Regiment was eventually returned to Phnompenh. Joining them there was the 1st Raiding Regiment, which must have experienced profound disap-

The Capture of Palembang

49

pointment at missing the ﬁrst combat drop for the army paratroopers. However, after the Netherlands East Indies campaign came to a successful conclusion, the Japanese continued expanding outward and intended to use the paratroopers in an attack in Burma. The Japanese were pushing the Chinese 6th Army out of Burma and planned on dropping the entire parachute force around the village of Lashio in the northeastern part of Burma. Lashio was the terminus of the so-called Burma Road by which Allied supplies were brought into China. Quickly capturing Lashio would serve two purposes. First, a large portion of the Chinese army in Burma would be cut off from their escape route, and second, China itself would be completely cut off from being supplied by the ground. From then on, the Chinese forces would have to be supplied by air, with planes ﬂying over the Himalayan Mountains.28 On April 8, 1942, the 1st Raiding Regiment of the 1st Raiding Brigade, along with part of the 2nd Raiding Regiment, arrived in Rangoon. The Japanese commanders at the front estimated that they would reach Lashio around May 10, so the parachute drop was scheduled for May 5. However, the Chinese troops were falling back so quickly and the Japanese 15th Army was advancing so rapidly that it appeared as if the Japanese would actually reach Lashio before the end of April. To compensate, the date of the combat drop was advanced to April 29.29 During the morning hours of April 29, 1942, the 1st Raiding Regiment, with part of the 2nd Raiding Regiment, boarded seventy transports of the 1st Raiding Flying Regiment at Toungoo Airﬁeld north of Rangoon. As the planes ﬂew over the center of Burma, the weather began to deteriorate, and by the time the planes reached their drop zone, the weather was terrible. A newly promoted Lieutenant Colonel Niihara made the hard decision to abort the attack, and the planes returned to Toungoo Airﬁeld. A few hours later, around noon, the Japanese 56th Infantry Division captured Lashio. China was now cut off by road from Burma and India.30 The 1st Raiding Brigade paratroopers stayed at Rangoon until July, when they were ﬁnally brought back to their permanent base at Nyutabaru on Kyushu in Japan. According to Rottman and Takizawa, “Before the war the existence of their unit was so secret that they could not even tell their families; [but] now they had done their share in conquering the ‘Southern Resource Zone’ [and] the media lauded them as heroic Sora no Shimpei—‘soldier gods of the sky.’”31 While the army paratroopers had been sitting idle at Palembang during the rest of the Sumatra campaign, the navy paratroopers were being committed once again.

CHAPTER 6

Dutch West Timor

S

hortly after the successful combat drop of the Yokosuka 1st SNLF at Manado on January 11, 1942, the Japanese Navy decided to use the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF to capture the oil reﬁneries at Balikpapan on the southeast coast of Dutch Borneo. The Yokosuka 3rd SNLF had begun the war by making an amphibious landing on Calayan Island in the Luzon Straits on December 8, 1941. Working quickly, the highly trained sailors constructed a 300-by-200meter emergency landing strip for aircraft engaged with the American and Filipino forces on the island of Luzon. On January 16, 1942, the entire unit was moved back to Takao on the island of Formosa.1 On January 23, while plans were being drawn up for the naval parachute drop on Balikpapan, the Japanese made an amphibious landing opposite the city. Landing unopposed, they captured Balikpapan the same day, but not before the Dutch had a chance to destroy and set ﬁre to the oil reﬁneries. In reprisal, the Japanese murdered eighty captured Dutch soldiers and civilians.2 With Balikpapan already in Japanese hands, the navy staff shifted their attention toward the island of Timor, the southernmost island of the Netherlands East Indies. Cut in half, with the Portuguese on the eastern half of the island and the Dutch on the western half, it was the Dutch half and the Penfui Aerodrome, six miles southeast of the West Timor capital of Koepang on the northern coast that interested the Japanese. A halfway stop for Allied planes ﬂying from Australia to Java and vice-versa, the Japanese wanted to close off the airﬁeld before their intended attack on the important island of Java. The invasion of Dutch Timor and the attack on Penfui Airﬁeld were scheduled for February 20.3 On December 12, 1941, because Timor was so close to Australia, the Australian government had moved 1,400 Australian soldiers to Dutch Timor. Known as Sparrow Force and under the command of Lt. Col. William Watt Leggatt, the force was built around the 2/40th Australian Infantry Battalion and the 2/2nd Independent Company, a commando unit. (The preﬁx “2” designated that this 40th Infantry Battalion was different from the ﬁrst 40th Infantry Battalion that was organized during World War I as part of the 1st Australian Imperial Force. Australian infantry battalions organized for World

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War II, as part of the 2nd Australian Imperial Force, had a preﬁx of “2” in front of their battalion number.)4 The 2/40th Battalion, consisting mostly of men from the island of Tasmania, and the 2/2nd Independent Company, recruited mainly from Western Australia, joined about 650 Dutch East Indies Troops defending West Timor. Realizing that it was impractical to try to defend one half of the island while the Portuguese, who were to remain neutral throughout World War II, attempted to negotiate with the Japanese, the 2/2nd Independent Company and about 260 KNIL troops moved uninvited into Dili, the capital of Portuguese East Timor, on December 16. Although friction arose with the East Timor Portuguese government, tempers eventually cooled, and the invading troops stayed put, taking up strategic positions along the Dili coast.5 In Dutch West Timor, 188 KNIL troops with four medium and nine light machine guns were given the responsibility of protecting the northern coastline from Koepang south to Tenau, a distance of about three miles. Companies A and B of the 2/40th Battalion, armed with both .303-caliber Mark 2 Bren and .303-caliber Lewis machine guns, guarded a four-mile stretch of beach north of Koepang all the way up to Usapa-Beser. Company C of the 2/40th Battalion was stationed to guard the airﬁeld, and D Company, commanded by Capt. A. G. Trevena, would be in reserve at Koepang. Headquarters and supplies were at Champalong, a city twenty-nine miles northeast of Koepang.6 Part of Sparrow Force included the Australian 2/1st Heavy Artillery Battery, which manned two six-inch breech-loaded Mark XI guns that had been brought over from Sydney, Australia, to guard Koepang Bay. Additionally, Sparrow Force included the Australian 2/1st Fortress Company and a section of the Australian 2/11th Field Company (both engineer units), a section of the 2/12th Medical Detachment, and B Troop of the 18th Antitank Battery, equipped with four 40-millimeter Ordnance QF 2-pounder antitank guns. These specialized units were encamped at the village of Babau, about nine miles east of Penfui Airfield and midway between Koepang and Champalong.7 On January 7, after everybody had been placed in position, Company C of the 2/40th Battalion, guarding the airﬁeld was told, “The defense of the AERODROME is one of the main tasks of this Force and it must not fall into the hands of the enemy in a usable condition.”8 With only 35 ofﬁcers and 901 soldiers in the 2/40th Infantry Battalion and another 200 or so men among the other units, the defense of Dutch West Timor and the important Penfui Aerodrome was spread very thin. On February 12, as the date of the Japanese invasion drew closer, Australian Brig. Gen. William C. D. Veale arrived on Timor to take command of the combined Australian and Dutch forces. Veale, with his headquarters at

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Champalong, immediately realized that the troops available on Timor were grossly understrength. In response to a request for more troops, the British 79th Light Antiaircraft Battery Royal Artillery—veterans of the Battle of Britain against Hitler’s famed Luftwaffe in 1940—arrived on February 16. Armed with eight Bofors 40-millimeter automatic antiaircraft guns, they were assigned to the defense of the airﬁeld. When a convoy bringing further reinforcements was attacked by Japanese airplanes and turned back, Veale knew that Sparrow Force was on its own. On February 19, all of the Australian planes at Penfui—the only planes on Timor—were ﬂown out of the airﬁeld. From that date on, Penfui would be a refueling stop only. Planes ﬂying to Java would have to use Den Pasar Airﬁeld on Bali as a staging base.9 While the Allies were planning the defense of Timor, the Japanese were making plans of their own. The 228th Infantry Regiment of the 38th Infantry Division, supplemented by the elite Kure 1st SNLF, was assigned the task of conquering Timor. As planned, the troops would come ashore at two places—at Dili, the capital of Portuguese East Timor, and at the mouth of the Paha River on the southern coast of Dutch West Timor. At the same time, the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF would be air-dropped to take Penfui Airﬁeld before everything could be destroyed by the defenders. Since the Yokosuka 1st SNLF had suffered heavy casualties by being dropped directly on Langoan Airﬁeld near Manado on Celebes, the decision was made to drop the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF 10.5 miles northeast of Penfui Airﬁeld on an open plain above the village of Usua. The paratroopers would then advance along the road to Penfui Airﬁeld and hold until relieved by the Kure 1st SNLF.10 In preparation for the combat jump, the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF was moved from Formosa to Tarakan Island, off the northeast coast of Borneo. Near the end of January, the entire unit was moved to Kendari Airdrome on the southeast coast of Celebes, which had been captured on January 25 by the rapidly advancing Japanese. Once at Kendari, the men readied their weapons and equipment for the upcoming jump on Timor.11 At 8:00 A.M. on February 17, nine transport ships carrying elements of the 228th Infantry Regiment and the attached Kure 1st SNLF left the recently captured island of Ambon, about 400 miles straight east of Celebes, heading slightly southwest toward the southern beaches of Dutch West Timor. Escorting them was the light cruiser Jintsu; the 7th, 15th, 16th Destroyer Divisions; and one destroyer from the 24th Destroyer Division. One day later, a second convoy of ﬁve transports carrying the remainder of the 228th Infantry Regiment left Ambon headed for Dili in Portuguese East Timor. This convoy was escorted by two ships from the 24th Destroyer Division and the ships of the 21st Minesweeper Division. Providing distant cover were the ships of the 5th Cruiser Division and 6th Destroyer Division, and the ﬂoatplanes from the seaplane tender Mizuho. By the night of February 19, both convoys were in posi-

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tion off the coast of Timor, and shortly before midnight, the 228th Infantry Regiment began coming ashore near Dili, completely disregarding Portugal’s neutrality.12 Very early on the morning of February 20, the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF was roused from its slumbers and began boarding twenty-eight Type 96 (Tina) and Type 1 transports at the Kendari Airdrome. At 6:00 A.M., the transports took to the sky, following seventeen Betty bombers that would carpet-bomb the drop zone prior to the combat jump. The ﬂight from Kendari to the DZ near Usua would be a “420-mile ﬂight—the longest range Japanese parachute operation.”13 On Portuguese East Timor, the Japanese soldiers of the 228th Infantry Regiment ran into stiff resistance from the Dutch KNIL troops and Australian commandos of the 2/2nd Independent Company that had been moved into the Dili area on December 16. When word of the invasion reached the defenders in Dutch West Timor, C Company of the 2/40th Infantry Battalion and the few base personnel that were still around began a systematic destruction of Penfui Airﬁeld. All aviation fuel, radio equipment, bomb dumps, and anything else of military value were destroyed. As ordered, the airﬁeld would “not fall into the hands of the enemy in a usable condition.” Australian radioman Clyde Pappin noted in his diary, “Fri 20th Feb. . . . 5 am—Drome being blown by AIF.”14 Around dawn, a Japanese ﬂoatplane suddenly appeared over Penfui Airﬁeld, and a few minutes later, Japanese warships in Koepang Bay began shelling the Dutch airﬁeld. Penfui Aerodrome was an easy target to spot from the air since it had a “long wide runway of white coral sandstone” and one large hangar building. “On rising ground above the hangar,” wrote Sgt. Colin Humphris, a member of the RAAF, “were neat rows of long newly constructed barracks made of native timber poles and thatch and a large mess with attached kitchen, all built of timber. A short distance away was a similar but smaller mess . . . for the use of ofﬁcers.” Commenting on the incoming ﬁre, Humphris wrote, “The shelling from Jap warships was not only frightening but also accurate, being aided by one of their ﬂoatplanes overhead directing their ﬁre.”15 When dawn arrived, the larger element of the 228th Infantry Regiment and the Kure 1st SNLF, which had shipped out in the ﬁrst convoy, began landing unopposed at three different spots along the south side of the southwestern tip of Dutch West Timor.16 Instead of coming up against the Dutch and Australian forces dug in near Koepang along the northern coast, the Japanese had simply landed behind them. Immediately upon landing, the Left Attack Group headed almost due north toward Koepang while the Right Attack Group went toward the northeast, aiming at the small village of Usua. The Center Attack Group, which

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included the Kure 1st SNLF, began moving north. In time, when the Center Attack Group got about halfway across the island, it would begin angling west toward Koepang. At this mid-island point, the Kure 1st SNLF would break away and continue almost due north toward Penfui Airﬁeld. It was their job to relieve the paratroopers of the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF.17 The Dutch and Australian defenders at Koepang, realizing that they had been outﬂanked, decided to abandon the western tip of Timor. Instead of turning and ﬁghting in force, as the Japanese expected, small groups and patrols would try to delay the progress of the Japanese infantrymen while the majority of the Dutch and Australian troopers headed east toward Champalong. To get there, however, most of them had to retreat along the road through Babau and Usua, close to the plain where the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF was scheduled to drop.18 That morning, after helping to destroy all of the equipment at Penfui Aerodrome, Sergeant Humphris and a few others had taken a truck and driven up the road to Champalong. Humphris recalled: After some climbing, we eventually pulled up at our destination at a point where we could look down on a wide flat valley below that led to Penfoei [sic] and Koepang. Almost immediately we saw several flights of low-flying twin-engined aircraft heading down the valley in front of us towards the airfield. I thought it unusual that the engines were so quiet. Then the likely reason suddenly occurred to me. “They’re going to drop paratroops!” I exclaimed to one of our officers beside me. “Paratroops be damned!” was his immediate response.19 The planes were indeed carrying paratroopers, but before they began expelling their living contents, the ﬂight of Betty bombers ﬂew high over the drop zone and began dropping their bombs. Then, at 10:00 A.M., from a height of only 300 feet, 308 navy paratroopers of the 1st Drop Group, composed of the SNLF headquarters unit under Lieutenant Commander Fukumi; the 1st Company, led by Lieutenant (junior grade) Yamabe; and the 3rd Company of Ensign Miyamoto began to drop from the planes.20 “Almost immediately,” remembered Humphris, “the aircraft disgorged some hundreds of parachutes which drifted down gently in the breeze—a great cloud of them, of various colours that obviously identiﬁed the rank of the soldier or the package they supported.” As analyzed later by the U.S. War Department, the Japanese used colored parachutes at Timor to help in assembling: blue for section leaders and red for platoon leaders. Humphris concluded, “God help Australia!”21

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Dropped onto a plain that was described by the U.S. military as “comparatively ﬂat, and covered partly with high palm trees, in places 15 to 20 feet apart, and partly thick underbrush,” the navy paratroopers had little trouble ﬁnding their cargo containers and assembling. By 10:45 A.M., the men had all assembled into their respective companies and platoons, and at 11:30, after checking their maps and coordinates, they headed west toward Usua and the road that would lead them to Penfui Airﬁeld.22 The only Allied troops in the immediate area of the Japanese drop zone were at Babau, a couple of miles west of Usua, and they were mostly rear-area personnel and medical patients. While these troops prepared to meet the oncoming Japanese, Captain Trevena and Company D of the 2/40th Infantry Battalion, kept in reserve at Koepang, immediately set out to prevent the paratroopers from cutting the main escape route into the interior of Timor.23

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Tom Uren was an Australian artilleryman who had been evacuated from Koepang shortly after the Japanese infantry invaded the southern coast. He was at Babau when the paratroopers began coming down. “[W]e were made into a kind of infantry, untrained I might tell you,” he recalled, “and we were at this village of Babau to take on these Japanese paratroops.” Although not in the thick of the ﬁghting, Uren could hear the paratroopers and the ad hoc force exchanging mortar ﬁre. “[The Japanese] had little one-man mortars and, you know, the mortar goes off and then there’s an echo comes back and you say, ‘Well that’s them,’ and then you’d hear the reply ‘And that’s us’ and that’s how much I knew about mortars.” After suffering a few killed, wounded, and captured, the ad hoc group was forced to pull back, and the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF grabbed the town of Babau. While in the town, the Japanese paratroopers reportedly tied several of the wounded captives to trees and cut their throats.24 Around 2:30 P.M., Trevena’s Company D ﬁnally came up from Koepang and launched a counterattack against Babau. On the left, the Australians made good progress and pushed the navy paratroopers all the way through the village to the eastern side. In the center and on the right, however, the Australians ran into heavy mortar and machine-gun ﬁre and managed to reach only the center of Babau. Although the Australians killed a number of paratroopers, they were unable to secure the entire settlement because of a heavy concentration of machine-gun ﬁre coming out of a ﬁeld of maize just outside of Babau. With the sun beginning to set, Trevena pulled his men out of the village and took up a defensive position near Ubelo, about one mile west.25 While the Australians were consolidating their position, Commander Fukumi knew that he had to get his Yokosuka 3rd SNLF to Penfui Airﬁeld. The capture of the airﬁeld was their main objective, and several hours had already been wasted ﬁghting for the village of Babau. Deciding to avoid the roadway and the belligerent Australians, Fukumi ordered his men to slip into the jungle and begin an all-night march southwest toward the airﬁeld. At 11:00 P.M., with their wounded in tow, the navy paratroopers quietly slipped away from Babau.26 Throughout the night Fukumi’s paratroopers pushed their way through the thick jungle, stumbling along in the darkness, avoiding contact with the enemy. A few hours after dawn, they temporarily broke out of the dense foliage and climbed a hill that gave them some visibility of the surrounding area. Still miles ahead of them to the southwest was Penfui Airﬁeld, now covered with a cloud of dense, black smoke rising up from the destroyed Dutch and Australian equipment. Behind them was the plain near Babau, where

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they had landed the morning before. And above them, high over the plains near Babau, were the transport aircraft of the 2nd Drop Group.27 Leaving Kendari Airdrome at 6:00 A.M., the twenty-six Type 96 and Type 1 transports carrying Lieutenant (junior grade) Sakurada’s 2nd Company, and various support elements, began unloading the 323 men over the Babau plain at 10:00 A.M. From their distant hilltop observation post, the men of the 1st and 3rd Companies watched as the paratroopers exited their planes and ﬂoated down to earth. Fearing that the 2nd Company would naturally try to advance down the road to Babau and Penfui Airﬁeld and right into the waiting clutches of the Australians, Fukumi sent a runner hurrying back to warn Sakurada to follow his jungle path. However, as the runner took off, Fukumi must have realized that it would take hours for the man to reach Sakurada.28 As expected, after reclaiming their weapons and gear from their cargo containers, the 2nd Company of the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF, a total of 323 men, immediately set out down the road to Babau. After entering the town, they ran into elements of Captain Trevena’s D Company of the 2/40th Infantry Battalion, this time supported by a section of Bren gun carriers, an armored car, and a mortar detachment, all of which had been slowly moving east from Ubelo since 5:30 A.M. Although their forward movement had been harassed the entire morning by Japanese ﬁghter and bomber planes, they still managed to beat Sakurada’s paratroopers to Babau.29 John Tassman Prosser, a member of the 2/40th Infantry Battalion who came up with the attacking force, wrote, “I was on a 1917 Lewis machine gun. . . . We carried the gun, tripod, magazines, etc. We arrived at Babau [where] we found the Japs had landed a lot of paratroops. They had captured some of our men and were very cruel to them.” Fighting with renewed fury since they knew that they had to open the road to Champalong, the Australians cleared the maize ﬁeld outside of Babau and then, one by one, began clearing out individual buildings. When Sakurada realized that his 2nd Company paratroopers could not hold onto Babau, he pulled them back and had them dig in along Usua Ridge, a natural defensive position behind the Amaabi River, about a mile east of Babau.30 Late in the day, with his men dug in along the top of the ridgeline, Sakurada was ﬁnally contacted by Fukumi’s runner. Told about the route taken by the other paratroopers, Sakurada had his men pick up the wounded and follow the guide into the thick jungle foliage. The bloody village of Babau would be left in the hands of the Australians.31 While the 2nd Company of the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF was ﬁghting for its life in Babau and on Usua Ridge, Commander Fukumi had been pushing his men on toward Penfui Airﬁeld. Slowed by the thick, steamy vegetation, the

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men made very little progress, and when night fell on February 21, they were still miles from their objective.32 Inside the Australian lines, Colonel Leggatt suddenly found the road to Champalong open when Lieutenant Sakurada’s force pulled itself off of Usua Ridge. Instead of advancing immediately, however, he spent the night of February 21 in Babau, consolidating his forces and waiting for his long, drawnout line of retreating men and vehicles to close up. The next morning, when Leggatt’s force began moving east again, they discovered that a strong force of Japanese soldiers had moved back onto Usua Ridge and thrown up another roadblock across their path.33 Apparently, the Right Attack Group of the Japanese 228th Infantry Regiment, after ﬁnding no opposition at the landing beach or farther inland, had been able to penetrate around the right ﬂank of Leggatt’s force and established a well-fortiﬁed position upon the same ridge that had been evacuated by Sakurada’s paratroopers only hours before. With the rest of the 228th Infantry Regiment closing in from behind, Leggatt could only attack straight ahead and hope to bull his way through the obstruction.34 When February 22 broke over Fukumi’s force, they were still ﬁghting their way through the dense vegetation of the Timor jungle. Although Sakurada’s group had come up to reinforce them, the combined group could go no faster than the day before. Finally, around mid-morning, well after the sun had come up, the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF reached their objective, Penfui Airﬁeld. Upon coming out onto the airﬁeld, they were greeted by members of the Kure 1st SNLF. Meeting little opposition, the Kure 1st SNLF, which had landed with the amphibious force and advanced unmolested along the roads of southwestern Timor, had arrived at the destroyed airﬁeld the day before.35 The ﬁreﬁghts and nightmare trek through the jungle by the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF had been for naught. Back at Usua Ridge, the Australians were preparing to assault the fortiﬁed position in front of them when a strong force of Japanese soldiers came up from behind. While ﬁghting a delaying action behind them, Leggatt’s men attacked the ridge. Tom Uren, helping to ﬁre a Lewis machine gun in one of the Bren gun carriers, watched the Australian infantrymen make the 5:00 P.M. assault. “I saw these Aussie blokes of the 2/40th Battalion just marching up the slope as cool as cucumbers, see them take over the Japanese and bayonet them and—real courage, I mean, you couldn’t help but admire them.”36 That night, the exhausted Australians rested a mile beyond the village of Usua. On the morning of February 23, the Japanese began pounding the end of the strung-out column with tank and artillery ﬁre. When informed by the

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Japanese that there was a force of 23,000 men surrounding him, Leggatt ordered his men to lay down their arms. The largest Allied force on Timor Island was surrendering.37 After the capitulation of Leggatt’s 2/40th Infantry Battalion and its supporting units, General Veale had only 250 men left in Dutch West Timor. In March, he moved his force into Portuguese East Timor and linked up with his 2/2nd Independent Company commandos and began conducting a guerrilla war. In spite of the many successful hit-and-run operations performed by these men, by the end of March 1942, Timor was safely in Japanese hands.38 The combat parachute drop of the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF had been a total failure. Dropped onto a wide, open plain, the actual drop and assembly had been successful, but the operation had deteriorated quickly thereafter. The selection of the drop zone, 10.5 miles from the objective, was too far away to be practical. It was totally unrealistic for the Japanese planners to believe that the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF, dropped behind enemy lines without vehicles, would be able to race toward Penfui Airﬁeld on foot and get there unmolested before the Dutch and Australians had a chance to destroy the facilities. Although the navy paratroopers put up a good ﬁght around Babau, they never did crack through the Australian line. Instead, Commander Fukumi decided to go around—a terrible decision. In choosing to cut a path through the jungle, he further slowed his men down and took them completely out of the ﬁght, rendering them ineffective for the remainder of the ﬁghting on Dutch West Timor. If he had stayed at Babau on the night of February 20, the ﬁrst night, he would have at least been reinforced in the morning by Lieutenant Sakurada’s 2nd Company and would have been able to throw a strong blocking force across the path of Colonel Leggatt’s retreating Australians. He would not have reached his objective, the airﬁeld, but he would have brought honor to his men and made it easier for the 228th Infantry Regiment to come up and assault the stalled rear of Leggatt’s line. No one can be certain how many men in the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF were killed or wounded on Timor. Estimates range from 36 killed and 34 wounded to much higher ﬁgures. The Japanese themselves believed there were only 78 survivors out of the 631 paratroopers dropped on both days.40 The combat parachute drop on Timor actually cost the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF more than its killed and wounded. The questionable showing of the Yokosuka 1st SNLF at Manado on Celebes and the poor showing of the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF on Timor signaled the end of navy paratroopers. Although Japan went on to invade Java, northern New Guinea, Sumatra, the rest of the larger Philippine islands, the Solomons, and the Aleutians and had plans to invade southern New Guinea, Midway, and possibly even Hawaii and north-

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ern Australia, the plans never again called for a naval parachute drop. Although all of these invasions included the Japanese navy in one form or another, the Yokosuka SNLFs were never again mentioned in the context of a combat parachute drop. After the Battle of Midway in early June 1942, when the Japanese began ﬁghting a defensive war, trying to hang onto the vast territory it had grabbed so easily, the navy’s paratroopers were never dropped again. In November 1942, the Yokosuka 1st SNLF returned to Japan from the island of Celebes. About a month later, the Yokosuka 3rd SNLF was brought home to Japan, having been on Timor the entire time. Although both units were decimated by combat and tropical diseases, the surviving troops were eventually banded together into the Yokosuka 1st SNLF and sent to Saipan, where they were virtually wiped out by the U.S. Marines in June and July 1944.41 The Yokosuka 2nd SNLF, although fully trained as a parachute unit, never made a combat parachute drop. Instead, after making amphibious landings at Miri in British Borneo on December 16, 1941, where it captured the Lutong Oil Reﬁnery in under three hours, and at Kuching in British Borneo on December 24, 1941, the force fought through the British Borneo campaign as regular infantrymen and was then disbanded. In June 1943, a new Yokosuka 2nd SNLF was formed around a cadre of Yokosuka 1st SNLF personnel. It was then sent to Nauru Island, west of the Gilberts in the Central Paciﬁc, where it peacefully sat out the remaining battles in the Paciﬁc, including the handful of engagements that included American combat parachute drops.42

Palembang. Japanese officers of the 2nd Raiding Regiment, one with his jump helmet, meet with officers of the 229th Infantry Regiment. The NKPM oil refinery burns in the background.

Japanese paratroopers during a training exercise.

Koepang. Japanese paratroopers are landing near the town of Usua, Dutch West Timor, February 1942.

Leyte. Japanese paratroopers on Luzon load into their transport plane for the combat drop on the Burauen airfields.

Japanese paratroopers in the sky. Location unknown.

The jump towers at Fort Benning.

The drop at Noemfoor.

C-47s approach Noemfoor.

Australians making a scale model of Nadzab’s Markham Valley prior to the combat drop.

Injured paratroopers from Noemfoor talking to Coast Guardsmen on assault transport.

Loading onto C-47s before Nadzab.

C-47s loading with troops for Nadzab.

Nadzab.

Airborne drop at Nadzab.

Manarawat landing strip.

Manarawat Ridge. Reserve parachute canopies used as tents at Manarawat Ridge.

Christmas dinner arrives via Piper cub airplane at Manarawat Ridge, 1944.

General Swing gives a briefing to his officers.

The Dulag church the morning after the Japanese parachute raid.

The men of the 511th PIR on Leyte.

San Pablo airstrip on Leyte.

Dead Japanese paratrooper at Dulag.

The 511th PIR prepares for jump at Tagaytay Ridge.

The 511th PIR jumping on Tagaytay Ridge.

Corregidor before the drop. U.S. ARMY PHOTO, NATIONAL ARCHIVES

A C-47 drops the second lift of the 503rd PIR on the parade ground at Corregidor. U.S. ARMY PHOTO, NATIONAL ARCHIVES

The 503rd officer’s row (drop zone) on Corregidor.

Large artillery piece at Battery Wheeler on Corregidor.

Trooper from Company C, 161st Parachute Engineer Battalion, firing an M9 bazooka on Corregidor. U.S. ARMY PHOTO, NATIONAL ARCHIVES

Site of Monkey Point explosion. The tank that was blasted fifty yards is upside down on the right side of picture.

The 503rd PRCT’s Company B clears the enemy near Wheeler Point and Geary Point 2 (drop zone).

Corregidor after the drop. U.S. ARMY PHOTO, NATIONAL ARCHIVES

General MacArthur with Colonel Jones on Corregidor, March 2, 1945. U.S. ARMY SIGNAL CORPS PHOTO, MAJ. FREDERICK GERMAN COLLECTION

MacArthur raising the American flag over Corregidor. U.S. ARMY SIGNAL CORPS PHOTO, MAJ. FREDERICK GERMAN COLLECTION

CHAPTER 7

The U.S. Paratrooper

I

n the United States during the 1930s, the American military, like everybody else, was suffering from the Great Depression. The interest in mass parachute jumps disappeared as if blown away by the great winds of the Dust Bowl. Money was spent on other things—until trouble began to stir in both Europe and Asia. When Italy, Japan, and Germany began rattling their sabers, the U.S. Congress ﬁnally reacted. Although vowing to stay neutral in any upcoming war, Congress drew up an emergency army air defense bill in early 1939, authorizing the building of 3,251 new aircraft and an increase in the army air corps, presumably to help protect the American coastlines. At the same time, Congress again gave funds to the Army to “modernize,” presumably to protect the American mainland from foreign invaders.1 Undoubtedly inﬂuenced by the Russian, German, and even Japanese paratrooper training, the U.S. Army Chief of Staff, Gen. George C. Marshall, began to inquire into the feasibility of creating and training a large group of “air infantry.” Although Marshall, who has been described by historian Lt. Gen. E. M. Flanagan Jr. as “brilliant and decisive,” had become chief of staff only on April 28, 1939, he sent out a memorandum three days later, requesting Maj. Gen. George A. Lynch, the chief of infantry in Washington, to look into his “air infantry” idea. Marshall wrote, “It is visualized that the role of this type of unit will be, after being transported in airplanes, to parachute to the ground a small detachment to seize a small vitally important area, primarily an air ﬁeld, upon which additional troops will later be landed by transport airplane.” Like the Japanese paratroopers, Marshall stipulated that the training “include a considerable amount of athletic drill.” Furthermore, he wanted the study to be “initiated without delay.”2 Five days later, Lynch returned with his initial study, stating that a parachute force was not only feasible but downright doable. In his reply, he suggested that studies be conducted to determine the “size, mission, and equipment” for a special “air infantry” group. Lynch even asked if he could have nine transport aircraft from the army air corps to help him with his experiments and tests.3 For seven months, Lynch heard nothing more about Marshall’s “air infantry.” Unbeknownst to him, however, Marshall had passed Lynch’s sug-

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gestions and questions along to Gen. Henry H. “Hap” Arnold, chief of the army air corps, who asked different junior ofﬁcers and members of his staff to look into the matter and get back to him. When Arnold eventually had his information and replied to Marshall, it came down to the fact that the air corps did not have any extra planes to lend to anybody for experimentation. The matter seemed to die right there. Then, on September 1, 1939, war erupted in Europe when Hitler’s Nazi Germany invaded Poland. Two days later, in response, England and France declared war on Germany. World War II had suddenly begun.4 As the United States watched from afar, content that its own borders were not being attacked, the war expanded. In September, while England and France mobilized, the Soviet Union joined Germany in the invasion of Poland. In October, as English and French troops began building up along the French border with Germany, tiny Belgium declared its neutrality. In November, after failed negotiations, the Soviets invaded Finland. And on December 2, 1939, Soviet paratroopers became the ﬁrst group to jump into combat on a large scale. In January 1940, Arnold ﬁnally decided that he could spare a few of his transport aircraft for the training of the United States “air infantry.” As described by historian Gerard Devlin, “The American air infantry project was taken off the shelf and given high priority by General Marshall for an early completion.”5 With the promised airplanes coming, Lynch looked around for a man whom he could trust to run the new program effectively. The person he selected was “one of his smartest and most dedicated staff ofﬁcers,” the fortythree-year-old veteran of World War I, Maj. William C. “Bill” Lee. An “untiring” ofﬁcer, Lee wasted no time in getting started on his new assignment. Contacting the air corps, Lee asked for the promised planes, the required men, a couple of experienced parachute riggers and jumpers, and several standard cargo parachutes, which could be used with man-size weights to test parachute drops. At the same time, he inquired into the development of a static-line parachute.6 In a little less than three weeks, Lee had his cargo parachutes and his planes—one Douglas C-33 troop transport and one Douglas B-18 bomber. All of the equipment was brought to Lawson Field at Fort Benning near Columbus, Georgia, while experts at the Army Air Corps Test Center at Wright Field east of Dayton, Ohio, looked into the development of a static-line parachute that would allow an armed soldier to survive a jump from a moving airplane at low altitude.7 To come up with a properly designed static-line parachute, the army developers took a look at the old Broadwick-style parachute coat that had been offered to American pilots in World War I. Deciding that the coat would be unsuitable for a combat paratrooper, the United States opted to design a

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parachute backpack and harness based on the Smith-Irvin design. The result was the T-4 parachute. A backpack-style parachute, the T-4 had a white, reinforced “X” webbed canvas harness that went across the back, had a canvas saddle across the buttocks, and was secured in the front with three snap hooks. One snap hook secured two straps that went over the shoulders and were attached by an “H” junction across the chest. The other two snap hooks secured two straps that came from behind the buttocks, went through the legs, up past the crotch, and doubled over to lock above each hip. The twenty-eight-foot-diameter silk main parachute was olive-drab in color and packed into a large rectangular-shaped backpack while a smaller twenty-two-foot-diameter white reserve parachute was kept in a boxy square pack that hung from the chest. Heavy straps, secured to the front shoulders of the harness, had to be attached to the reserve parachute lines once the safety chute was in place. While the main parachute was designed to be release via a static line, the reserve parachute had to be released manually, with the paratrooper pulling on a D-ring ripcord with his right hand. Since the reserve parachute pack had to be worn in a vertical position in front of the chest, the main problem with the T-4 was that the positioning of this chute, which the army did not want to give up, left very little room for the paratrooper to carry anything else. All of his ﬁghting gear would have to be dropped in cargo containers.8 While the work was being done on the development of the T-4 parachute, Lee and his staff members on the Infantry Board were working with the equipment in hand. The board obtained a number of “weighted containers” and dropped them from the two different airplanes to see what effect different speeds and altitudes had on the dispersion of the parachutes. Another test was performed by paradropping cargo containers ﬁlled with riﬂes and machine guns. Assembled troops stationed on the ground were then timed to see how long it took to run forward, empty the containers, and start shooting.9 In May 1940, the ﬁrst of the new T-4 parachutes and harnesses arrived at Fort Benning, where they were quickly tested with the weighted dummies and cargo containers. With all of his equipment in hand, Lee began looking around for his air infantrymen. Since he had no authority to requisition troops from the commandant of Fort Benning, he sent a request to Washington to direct the commandant to put out a call for volunteers. On June 25, 1940, the commandant received an order directing him to provide a platoon of paratrooper volunteers “from the 29th Infantry Regiment stationed at Benning.”10 In no time at all, Lee had seventeen ofﬁcers (all lieutenants) and approximately 200 enlisted volunteers. Perhaps the added incentive of an extra $100 per month for ofﬁcers and $50 per month in “hazardous duty pay” at a time

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when a private made only $21 per month was enough to get some men to volunteer. Accordingly, each man had to have the following qualiﬁcations: have at least two years’ service; not exceed thirty years of age (and preferably be under twenty-ﬁve); not weigh more than 185 pounds; be in good physical condition; have a desire to be transferred to a parachute organization; and be willing to ride in and jump from an airplane after the proper training. It was also preferred that the volunteers be unmarried and that they carry a letter of recommendation from a commanding ofﬁcer.11 Although the Army Infantry Board originally intended the Parachute Test Platoon, as the new unit was being called, to have the same structure as a regular infantry platoon of one ofﬁcer and thirty-nine enlisted men, it feared that there might be too many washouts and jump casualties. Therefore, an additional nine men were allowed into the platoon, bringing the total number to one ofﬁcer and forty-eight enlisted men.12 Even before the Parachute Test Platoon members were selected, the war in Europe became even hotter. On April 9, 1940, German soldiers, including groups of paratroopers, invaded both Denmark and Norway. Five days later, a disastrous parachute drop took place at Dombas, Norway, when the German paratroopers got all strung out during their drop and were easily killed or captured. On May 10, Hitler turned his forces westward and thundered into neutral Belgium, effectively bypassing the massed French and English troops along the French-German border. Key to this advance was the successful attack by German glider and parachute troops on the fortress of Eben Emael near Liege, Belgium, a brilliantly conceived and executed airborne assault that most experts had believed impossible. The German invasion of France followed a week later.13 As history was being made by paratroopers in Europe, the U.S. Marine Corps began looking into the possibility of ﬁelding its own parachute troops. On May 14, four days after the German airborne attack on Eben Emael, Col. Pedro A. del Valle, acting director of the U.S. Marine Corps Division of Plans and Policies, sent the following memo to his staff: “The Major General Commandant [Thomas Holcombe] has ordered that we prepare plans for the employment of parachute troops.” Although Holcombe had already experimented with the use of parachutes, deploying a “mass drop” of twelve paratroopers in 1927 over Anacostia Naval Base in Washington, D.C., the idea had been all but forgotten until the successes of the Russians and Germans. As historian Gordon L. Rottman explained, “The Marines were aware they ﬁelded only a relatively small combat force, and were more than willing to examine any new idea that might multiply their combat power and be of use to their primary mission as a land force in support of a naval campaign.”14 The next day, May 15, Holcombe himself sent an inquiry to the chief of naval operations asking him if he could get information on foreign paratroop

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training and related topics from his naval attaches in Europe. Holcombe wrote that he was “intensely interested” in the subject. Although it would take a few months, the foreign naval attaches eventually managed to get newsreels and educational ﬁlms, as well as tables of organization, on the German paratroopers and even some on the ﬂedgling British system, which like the United States, was getting a late start.15 Among the information that Holcombe’s intelligence section was able to come up with was a distinction between “air infantry” and “parachutists.”* According to a compiled report, “air infantry” were specialized infantry units trained to be moved by transport airplanes. On the other hand, “parachutists” were specially trained units that were to act as the advance guard for the air infantry. They were expected to go in ﬁrst by parachute and seize the airﬁeld that the air infantry would land on.16 On May 20, only six days after his initial inquiry had been sent out, a report came across Holcombe’s desk from a lieutenant who had been assigned to the New York World’s Fair. The lieutenant stated that two 150foot-tall steel lattice-work parachute towers that had entertained hundreds of people at the fair by lifting them up and dropping them down in controlled drops would be perfect for training Marine Corps parachutists if they could be modiﬁed to simulate the jolt a trooper feels when his chute ﬁrst deploys. The report also mentioned that the Safe Parachute Company, the builders of the towers, had two identical test towers at its home facility at Hightstown, New Jersey, only twenty miles from the U.S. Navy’s Parachute Materiel School at Naval Air Station Lakehurst, where sailors and marines trained in packing parachutes for navy and marine pilots.17 Although it would take months to gather all of the information and draw up speciﬁc plans, the ball had deﬁnitely been set in motion for the creation of a U.S. Marine Corps parachute unit. At Fort Benning, the U.S. Army Infantry Board gave the volunteer ofﬁcers a two-hour written exam in mid-June to determine which man would lead the new Parachute Test Platoon. Finishing in only forty-ﬁve minutes was Lt. William T. Ryder, a 1936 graduate of West Point. A parachute aﬁcionado, Ryder had been studying the development of the Russian and German parachute units for some time and had even submitted a number of articles on paratrooper tactics and techniques to the Army Infantry Board long before the Parachute Test Platoon was even conceived. Although Ryder was married and had a baby daughter, his extremely high score on the exam and his natu* Many authors refer to the U.S. Marine Corps paratroopers as “paramarines.” Most marine corps paratroopers did not like this term since the prefix “para-” means “similar to,” as in “paramilitary” for an auxiliary military force. Therefore, the “paramarine” will not be used in this work.

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ral enthusiasm for parachuting made him the obvious choice to lead the new parachute unit. Later, at the urging of Ryder himself, another ofﬁcer was added to the platoon, 2nd Lt. James A. Bassett, who had scored the second highest on the test.18 Next, the Infantry Board, along with Ryder, helped select the forty-eight men who would make up the platoon. “Selection of personnel,” stated a U.S. Infantry School booklet, “was based on the highest standards of mental and physical characteristics.” The platoon was then organized into four twelveman squads and moved to a special tent city overlooking Lawson Field. Upon acceptance into the new program, the entire platoon was exempt from any other infantry training.19 With the platoon members selected, the Parachute Test Platoon began an eight-week training course. Each man was given his special training uniform: an A-2 cloth ﬂying helmet, two pairs of air corps mechanic coveralls, and special high-top boots, fortiﬁed with a special strap “across the instep to give extra strength to the ankles.” With the two “experienced” riggers and parachutists from the air corps in attendance, training began in an abandoned corrugated steel hangar on Lawson Field.20 After three weeks of steady study in techniques and safety, the entire platoon was ﬂown up to New Jersey. Lawson Field lacked any means to simulate parachute drops, but the Safe Parachute Company did. Like the Marine Corps, the army had noticed the two 150-foot-tall test towers at the Safe Parachute Company facility and had imagined that they would be perfect for training ﬂedgling paratroopers. Contacting the company, Lee obtained permission to use the two towers to train his test platoon. Each tower had two extended arms that projected out to the side. A steel cable ran from the ends of each of these arms down to the ground, where it was attached to a large umbrella-like metal circle. A parachute was held inside this umbrella-like device, and the entire contraption was then hoisted into the sky by the steel cable, with the parachutist hanging down below. When the device touched the arm, the parachute was automatically released. On one tower, the parachute was guided straight back to earth via safety cables, but on the other, the parachutist ﬂoated down freely.21 After ten days on the towers, the platoon ﬂew back to Fort Benning for a few more weeks of training and study. By the beginning of the eighth week, the men were ready to begin jumping from airplanes. Five different jumps were required to complete the training. The ﬁrst two would be “tap-outs,” during which the paratrooper stood in the open door of the plane and waited for the jumpmaster to tap him on the leg before he jumped. It was the jumpmaster’s job to make sure that the man before him had gotten out okay and that everything was clear and safe. He would then tap the trooper on the leg when he felt it was safe to go.

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The third jump was to be a “mass exit.” Every parachutist attached his static line to a horizontal steel cable running along the exit side of the plane, and when the jumpmaster told the ﬁrst man to go, he jumped, and then every other man followed in quick succession. Jumps four and ﬁve would also be mass exits, but the entire platoon would jump from three different planes and assemble on the ground as quickly as possible with their equipment, which was dropped in cargo containers.22 The ﬁrst jump from a plane came on August 11, 1940. Ten men were inside the C-33 transport as it took off and doubled back over Lawson Field. Ryder was the ﬁrst man to leap into thin air after being tapped on the leg by the jumpmaster and became the ﬁrst ofﬁcial paratrooper of the U.S. Army. Moments later, however, when the second man was tapped to go, he froze. Believing that the man may have missed the signal, the jumpmaster repeated the tap and called out, “Go.” When the man hesitated a second time, everybody realized that the soldier was frozen in fear and would not jump. Instead, the next man in line, Pvt. William N. “Red” King, pushed his way into the door, and when tapped on the leg, he ﬂung himself unhesitatingly into space, thus becoming the ﬁrst enlisted paratrooper of the U.S. Army.23 The second tap-out jump went off without a hitch, but the third one— the ﬁrst “mass jump”—established a long tradition for the American paratrooper. The night before the mass jump, some of the platoon members kidded Pvt. Aubrey Eberhardt, the tallest men in the platoon at six feet, eight inches, that he would freeze in the door the next day and forget his name. These ﬁrst American paratroopers were supposed to shout their name as they exited the plane. Somewhat angered, Eberhardt, who had just seen a Wild West movie featuring the legendary Apache leader Geronimo, bragged that not only would he make the jump successfully, but he would also shout “Geronimo!” as he exited the plane. True to his word, when the men began exiting the plane one after the other during the ﬁrst mass jump of the Parachute Test Platoon, Eberhardt was heard to shout, “Geronimo!” as he leaped out into space.24 The fourth jump, done with cargo containers and timed to see how long it took for the men to get to their weapons and equipment and assemble for battle, went off without a hitch. The ﬁfth jump, the last, done on August 29, 1940, however, had a couple of “ﬁrsts” for American paratroopers. As numerous assembled ofﬁcers and dignitaries watched, including Secretary of War Henry L. Stimson, General Marshall, and Major Lee, the entire platoon began exiting from three aircraft ﬂying overhead. Upon exiting the plane, Pvt. Steve Voils discovered that one of his parachute suspension lines had somehow gotten looped over the top of his parachute, causing the main chute to partially inﬂate and appear like two huge bulges. Being well trained,

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Voils simply released his main chute so that it would not get in the way and deployed his reserve chute, which brought him safely down to earth. During the same drop, with the VIPs watching, Pvt. Leo Brown was caught in an updraft as he neared the ground and was carried away from the intended drop zone. Instead, he accidentally landed on the roof of a hangar building and had to be helped down with a long ladder. Among the VIPs were visiting ofﬁcers from South America, who were “doubly impressed by the accuracy of U.S. parachutists who could land men on the top of buildings.”25 After the completion of their training, the platoon was “unceremoniously disbanded” and split into two groups. Much impressed by the discipline he had seen in the last parachute drop, Marshall made plans to establish a battalion of paratroopers. Ryder and most of the men remained at Fort Benning to act as instructors and as a cadre to train the new men while Bassett took a small group of men to Chanute Field near Rantoul, Illinois, for seven weeks of “intensive training in parachute rigging and maintenance.”26 Among the groups of ofﬁcers and dignitaries who had watched the last mass jump of the Parachute Test Platoon were a few U.S. Marine Corps ofﬁcers. Vastly impressed by what they saw, the ofﬁcers brought their information back to Holcombe. Having already instituted his study group in May, Holcombe brought the information of the success of the army paratroopers to Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox. In late October 1940, at the urging of Holcombe, Knox decided that each present Marine Corps regiment should train a battalion of air infantry and that at least one company of each air infantry battalion was to be trained as paratroopers.27 Holcombe’s vision of Marine paratroopers was ﬁnally coming to fruition. In the army, however, the success of the Parachute Test Platoon had caused an argument between the air corps, the engineers, and the infantry over who should control the paratroopers. The air corps argued that the paratroopers were part of their branch because they were carried to their targets in airplanes. The engineers argued that the paratroopers should be a part of their branch since they would be trained in the use of explosives to sabotage enemy installations once dropped behind enemy lines. The infantry, in the form of a livid General Lynch, argued that, “Once on the ground, the parachutist becomes an infantryman and ﬁghts as an infantryman.” Additionally, it had been an infantry idea to begin with, and all previous training had been at the expense of the infantry. After the representatives from all three branches had argued their cases, the ﬁnal decision was Marshall’s. “I want you to know that we are in fact going ahead with plans to form a parachute battalion,” he told them. “The ﬁrst one will be activated in just a few weeks. It is my decision to place the formation and development of that battalion under the control of the Infantry at Fort Benning.”28

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On September 16, 1941, the War Department issued an order that read, “The 1st Parachute Battalion is constituted and will be activated at the earliest practical date at Fort Benning, Ga.” Unfortunately, however, the navy had beaten the War Department to the punch. Although no actual Marine Corps paratrooper units had been selected or trained, the Navy Department had already claimed ﬁrst rights to the name “1st Parachute Battalion.” Consequently, on September 26, the War Department issued an “amendment” to its earlier order. The new army parachute units would start in the 500 series, so the new unit was renamed the “501st Parachute Infantry Battalion.” Any new army formations would be numbered consecutively.29 As established, the army parachute battalion was to consist of 518 men of all ranks. The battalion would include a battalion headquarters and HQ Company and three riﬂe companies. The battalion headquarters and HQ Company would consist of a company headquarters platoon, a communications platoon, a supply platoon, and a medical detachment. Each riﬂe company would be made up of a company headquarters and two riﬂe platoons. In addition to their regular riﬂes and submachine guns, each platoon would carry two light machine guns and one 60-millimeter mortar.30 Since Major Lee, the “Father of Airborne,” could not be spared at this time from his many duties in Washington to head the new army parachute battalion, command was given to Maj. William M. Miley, Fort Benning’s athletic ofﬁcer. Although forty-two years old at the time of his selection, he was a West Point graduate (class of 1918) and in top physical shape. With Miley as its commander, the 501st Parachute Infantry Battalion was activated on October 7, 1940.31 Almost immediately, a memorandum went out to all corps commanders that the army was looking for volunteers for their new parachute battalion. This time, an enlisted man must be unmarried and between the ages of twenty-one and thirty-two; have a minimum height of ﬁve feet, six inches, and a maximum of six feet, two inches; weigh no more than 185 pounds; have at least one year of infantry service; and be free of any heart or blood-pressure problems. Additionally, each volunteer had to have a letter of recommendation from his superior ofﬁcer based on his “demonstrated soldierly qualities; agility; athletic ability; intelligence; determination; and daring.” Since the army still envisioned using the paratroopers behind enemy lines to disrupt communications, each man also had to have the “necessary education to enable him to rapidly absorb instruction in map reading, sketching, radio, and demolitions.” Ofﬁcers were required to have all the same qualiﬁcations, except they could be as old as thirty-ﬁve and be married.32 In no time at all, Miley had more than enough men to ﬁll a battalion. Selecting only the best, his men began training in the ﬁrst week of November under the tutelage of Lieutenant Ryder and the other former members of

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the Parachute Test Platoon. Housing for the men consisted of hundreds of tents, but even as training commenced, construction started on more permanent wooden barracks buildings. The army also had two 250-foot lattice-work parachute drop towers constructed at Fort Benning, similar to those used by the test platoon at Hightstown, New Jersey. A section of woodland was cleared for a better jump area.33 A week before, on October 26, 1940, the ﬁrst class of two ofﬁcers and thirty-eight enlisted men from the U.S. Marine Corps had started parachute training at the U.S. Navy’s Parachute Materiel School at Naval Air Station Lakehurst in New Jersey. Like the army, the marine volunteers had to meet the same rigid qualiﬁcations regarding age, height, weight, health, and marital status. According to Marine Corps historian Lt. Col. Jon T. Hoffman, “Applications were to include information on the Marine’s educational record and athletic experience, so Headquarters was obviously interested in placing above-average individuals in these new units.”34 As the ﬁrst class was assembling, Capt. Marion L. Dawson, who had been selected to oversee the new program, went with the two ofﬁcers picked for the platoon, 2nd Lt. Walter S. Osipoff and 2nd Lt. Robert C. McDonough, to check out the two 150-foot-high towers at the Safe Parachute Company installation at Hightstown, just twenty miles from Lakehurst. Following the example set by the army, the Marines had arranged to use the two towers for their initial training until their own could be built. After watching how the towers worked, Dawson was urged to try one out himself. Strapped onto the free-fall tower, Dawson was hauled upward and then dropped loose. He ﬂoated down nicely but broke a leg on hitting the ground.35 In spite of the accident, Osipoff and McDonough took their platoon over to the Hightstown towers on October 28 for ten days of parachute drops. When the group returned to the Parachute Materiel School at Lakehurst, they immediately began the standard sixteen-week course given to all navy and marine parachute riggers and packers. The ﬁrst class was scheduled to graduate at the end of February 1941.36 At Fort Benning, November brought an announcement from the War Department that three more parachute battalions would be formed in 1941. Although the 501st Parachute Infantry Battalion was still being trained, it was imagined that the men could be used to form cadres and help train the new battalions. By mid-January, almost everybody in the battalion had been jumpqualiﬁed after making their ﬁve qualifying jumps. At that time, to highlight the esprit de corps of this highly trained unit, Major Miley obtained permission to allow his graduated paratroopers to wear their tall jump boots with their Class A uniforms. He also authorized them to tuck their trouser legs in the top of their boots and wear them in a bloused fashion so that the entire boot could be seen. Later, Miley also authorized the wearing of a special patch

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insignia on their foldable overseas caps. The small patch was worn on the front left side of the cap and consisted of a fully opened white parachute embroidered on a circle of light infantry blue.37 During this same time period, about the beginning of 1941, a number of other uniform changes were taking place in the army airborne force. Lt. William P. Yarborough, an ofﬁcer in the ﬁrst class after the test platoon, started out by designing the distinctive silver open parachute and wing badge of the paratroopers. Next, he designed better clothing. Getting rid of the one-piece coverall, he came up with the two-piece combat jump uniform. Both the fatigue jacket and the trousers had extra-large pockets, placed strategically so that they could be accessed while the trooper was wearing his parachute harness. Finally, Yarborough designed an efﬁcient high-top jump boot. Concerned that the buckle strap on the old boot might catch on a parachute suspension line during a tumbling bailout, the lieutenant did away with the strap and added a reinforced instep. He also added a slightly rounded steel toe and a heel that had its leading edge cut in a forty-ﬁve-degree angle. Straightedged heels had often gotten caught on rings on aircraft ﬂoors. Safe, functional, and “handsome,” the uniform of the paratrooper set him apart from the other soldiers on the base.38 With the coming of 1941, Major Miley had to decide how to deal with the intended formation of three more parachute battalions, all to be trained by his 501st Parachute Infantry Battalion personnel. Realizing the difﬁculty in heading up his own battalion at the same time as overseeing the training of three more battalions, Miley requested the formation of a special group to take care of the jump training for the new battalions. He also suggested that after each new battalion had been jump-qualiﬁed, it should be moved to another base in order to open room at Fort Benning for the next battalion to be trained. Seeing merit in these suggestions, the Provisional Parachute Group, headed by a newly promoted Lieutenant Colonel Lee, was formed on March 10, 1941, from the men of the 501st.39 In the Marine Corps, the ﬁrst platoon paratroopers graduated, as expected, on February 27, in spite of being hampered by a lack of equipment. Although they had begun training in late October 1940, they had been unable to procure a transport plane until December 6, when a twin-engine Douglas R3D-2 arrived on loan from the naval base at Quantico, Virginia. Although the plane remained on base only until December 21, the Marines were able to complete a few of their required ten jumps, with Lieutenant Osipoff becoming the ﬁrst Marine paratrooper to leap out of a moving plane, before the aircraft disappeared for good. The rest of the jumps were then performed from navy blimps stationed over Lakehurst.40

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After their graduation, some of the members of the pioneer platoon remained at Lakehurst to work as instructors for the next class of Marine paratroopers. The majority of the men were shipped to San Diego, where, on March 22, 1941, they were designated as the 1st Platoon, Company A, 2nd Parachute Battalion, in the 2nd Marine Division, with Capt. Robert H. Williams in command.41 Having already graduated one class, the Marines streamlined their program down from sixteen weeks to ﬁve and cut back on the number of required jumps from ten to six. The ﬁrst two weeks consisted of classroom work and ground school where the volunteers learned how to jump off newly constructed platforms or airplane mockups. During the third week, trainees climbed onto a bus each day and drove the twenty miles to Hightstown to jump off the test towers. Finally, the last two weeks were spent in actual parachute jumps from aircraft and in learning the tactical use of paratrooper operations.42 During the training of this second class, the Marine instructors developed a different method of exiting the plane from that used by the army, which “made a vertical exit from the plane.” According to Marine Corps historian Hoffman, “Marines copied the technique depicted in the German ﬁlm and tried to make a near-perpendicular dive, somewhat like a swimmer coming off the starting block.” All jumps from airplanes were made with static lines, but those made from the blimps required the jumper to wait three seconds before pulling his own ripcord.43 The first three classes to graduate from the streamlined program were sent to San Diego to flesh out Company A of the 2nd Marine Parachute Battalion. The fourth class was sent to Quantico, where it became the nucleus of Company A, 1st Parachute Battalion, 1st Marine Division. Officially formed on May 28, the company was placed under the command of Capt. Marcellus J. Howard. From that point on, alternating classes were sent to alternating coasts—one to San Diego, the next to Quantico, then to San Diego, and so on.44 As planned, each Marine parachute battalion would include a HQ Company and three riﬂe companies. The HQ Company would contain the battalion headquarters, the company headquarters, and a demolition platoon. Each riﬂe company would have a headquarters and three riﬂe platoons, each equipped with their regular riﬂes and three light machine guns and one 60millimeter mortar. However, the Marines did not produce many jumpers and “remained a long way from possessing a useful tactical entity.”45 In April and May 1940, Adolf Hitler used his paratroopers once again. On April 25, they successfully captured a bridge near Corinth, Greece, in an attempt to stem the retreat of British and Greek troops into the Peloponnesus Peninsula. Then, on May 20, 13,000 paratroopers, along with glider-

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borne and air infantry, attacked and captured the island of Crete. The attack on Crete was the largest airborne operation the Germans had ever staged and proved that a massive air attack was possible. When word of the scope of the assault spread to the United States, ofﬁcials were shocked. A new form of warfare had been born, and people in once isolated lands—such as the United States and Great Britain—began to fear surprise airborne assaults. Unknowingly however, nobody realized that the glory days of the German paratroopers were over. Hitler had lost 5,140 paratroopers on Crete, but because he kept the ofﬁcial tally secret, nobody knew the cost of the massive airborne attack. According to Hitler, “Crete proves that the days of the paratrooper are over.”46 In the United States, Lee studied the German attack on Crete and remarked, “After this successful operation, I think it would be dull of us to say that parachute troops will seldom be employed in units larger than a battalion.” On June 28, one company of the 501st Parachute Infantry Battalion was shipped down to Panama to help protect the Canal Zone and show some American strength to Latin American countries that were being courted by the Germans. On July 1, the 550th Airborne Infantry Battalion, a gliderborne unit, was activated in the Panama Canal Zone, formed from volunteers from various units stationed around the canal.47 That same date, July 1, the 502nd Parachute Infantry Battalion was “hurriedly” activated at Fort Benning out of a cadre of members taken from the remaining two companies of the 501st. Maj. George P. Howell Jr., a graduate of the West Point class of 1919 and the former executive ofﬁcer of the 501st, was made commander of the new unit. Both the new 502nd and the two subsequent battalions were also placed under the command of the Provisional Parachute Group under Lee by order of the War Department. With two existing and two promised battalions under his command, Lee suddenly took on the responsibilities similar to an ofﬁcer in charge of a full regiment.48 During that summer of 1941, the 2nd Parachute Battalion of the U.S. Marine Corps, still only a company-size organization, was transferred from San Diego to Quantico and was merged into the 1st Parachute Battalion, which was also still only company size. The leader of the two-company organization became Captain Williams, who had commanded the San Diego group. Once combined, the two companies began to work together on tactical situations, mostly on the ground since it was almost impossible to get enough airplanes to simulate mass jumps. In July, however, Williams heard that the army’s 44th Infantry Division was holding tactical maneuvers at nearby Fredericksburg, Virginia. Somehow, Williams managed to scrounge up enough aircraft to stage a forty-man surprise airdrop on an “enemy” held airﬁeld. Despite strong winds from an approaching thunderstorm, which blew some of the Marine paratroopers

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into a grove of trees, Williams and his men caused havoc and concern among the unsuspecting army leaders. “[The Marine paratroopers’] unexpected arrival in the midst of an army maneuver demonstrated the disruption that parachutists cause to unwary opposing units.”49 In August, the two-company 1st Marine Parachute Battalion took part in a joint amphibious landing exercise off the coast of New River, North Carolina, between the 1st Army Division and the 1st Marine Division. On the ﬁrst day of the exercise, Williams was given the job of dropping his unit behind “enemy” lines one hour before the landing of “friendly” forces to secure and hold a vital intersection. In spite of the handicap of being given only two planes for the entire battalion, he loaded the planes at a small airﬁeld at New Bern, North Carolina, and began dropping on the “enemy” crossroads per schedule. Hampered by the lack of planes, “it took several ﬂights, with long delays in between, to get just one of the under-strength companies on the ground.” Unconvinced that he had seen the real potential of the paratroopers, Marine Maj. Gen. Holland M. Smith secretly arranged with Williams to have one of his squads get back onto one of the transports and be unexpectedly dropped at another spot behind “enemy” lines. They were ordered to cause as much havoc and confusion as possible. One after-action report noted, “the introduction of paratroops lent realism to the necessity for command post security.”50 Two days later, while the army and Marine Corps divisions faced each other along the beachhead, Captain Howard’s company of Marine paratroopers was successfully dropped behind the ﬂank of the “enemy” to “secure [a] road net and bridges in that vicinity.” The move was made in conjunction with the landing of a Marine Corps mobile landing force (the forerunners of the Marine Raiders) and a Marine tank company around the far ﬂank of the “enemy.” Once again, although hampered by the lack of aircraft, the Marine paratroopers performed superbly.51 Though small in number, the Marine Corps parachute troops were becoming a force to be watched. On August 21, the army’s 503rd Parachute Infantry Battalion was activated at Fort Benning and immediately added to Lee’s Provisional Parachute Group. Another former member of the 501st and a 1927 graduate of West Point, Maj. Robert F. Sink, was placed in charge. At the time of its activation, the battalion consisted of 39 officers and 426 enlisted men.52 In only six weeks, the fledgling U.S. Army parachute program had grown by leaps and bounds. Unfortunately, Lee was unprepared to handle this giant increase. Fort Benning had been sucked dry of volunteers, so the army gave Lee permission to recruit volunteers from Fort Jackson in South Carolina and Fort Bragg in North Carolina. With the added income of “hazardous duty pay” and the

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news of the successes of the Russian and German paratroopers, along with the thrill, glory, and prestige of being a paratrooper, volunteers came readily from both camps, and there were soon more than enough men to form a nucleus for the two new battalions.53 To help undertake the training of all these new men, a Parachute School, under the direction of the Infantry School Commandant, was activated at Fort Benning. A large area of land in nearby Alabama, just across the Chattahoochee River, the natural boundary between Georgia and Alabama, was purchased for the paratroopers, and $235,000 was allocated for the purchase and construction of the necessary jump facilities.54 In the little more than two months since the German invasion of Crete, the U.S. Army had worked at a frenzied pace to make up for lost time. In the fall of 1941, Company C of the 501st Parachute Infantry Battalion, stationed in the Panama Canal Zone, took part in America’s ﬁrst ever “combined parachute-air-landing tactical training exercise.” In a very successful demonstration, the paratroopers jumped onto an airﬁeld and secured it, after which elements of the 550th Airborne Infantry Battalion were brought in by plane. When results of the exercise reached Marshall in Washington, he immediately called for the formation of another air-landing battalion. On October 10, the 188th Airborne Infantry Battalion, destined to be a gliderborne unit, was activated at Fort Benning.55 A few days before, on October 5, another new parachute battalion was activated at Fort Benning and added to the Provisional Parachute Group. The newest addition to the group was the 504th Parachute Infantry Battalion, led by Maj. Richard Chase, a 1927 graduate of Syracuse University.56 With three new parachute battalions added to the Provisional Parachute Group in a little more than four months, Lee found himself having a hard time gathering enough equipment for each unit. The army had a contract with the Switlick Parachute Company to provide 3,750 parachutes by July 1 and with the Irvin Air Chute Company (owned by parachute pioneer Lesley Irvin) to supply 200 by September 8 and 100 per week after that. By October 15, neither company had sent even a single parachute. With a main and an emergency parachute required for each man in every battalion, Lee got some funds from the air corps and began making immediate purchases on the open market.57 Although both the army and Marine Corps parachute programs were well underway, some ofﬁcers still looked on the new parachute units as “bastard brats” trying to horn their way into long-established organizations. All of that changed on Sunday, December 7, 1941.

CHAPTER 8

Equipping the American Paratrooper

A

fter the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, training and development were taken more seriously. Appropriations that had been withheld during the Great Depression were suddenly forthcoming. Troop strength was increased. On January 30, 1942, the U.S. Department of War announced that four parachute regiments would be activated as soon as possible from the existing battalions. On March 2, both the 502nd and 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiments (PIR) were activated at Fort Benning.1 The 502nd PIR was formed around the nucleus of the 502nd Parachute Infantry Battalion and ﬂeshed out with graduates from Fort Benning’s Parachute School. The regiment was placed in the able hands of newly promoted Lt. Col. George P. Howell Jr., who had commanded the 502nd Parachute Infantry Battalion. The core of the 503rd PIR was the 503rd and 504th Parachute Infantry Battalions, which became the 1st and 2nd Battalions of the new regiment. This regiment went to William M. Miley, now a lieutenant colonel. Shortly after its activation, the 503rd PIR was moved to Fort Bragg, near Fayetteville, North Carolina, to continue tactical combat training.2 In keeping with the sudden urgency brought on by the unexpected attack on Pearl Harbor, the army performed a “sweeping reorganization” in March 1942. Because of the large amount of men expected to win the war, the army reorganized its training procedures, establishing two central training headquarters: the Army Ground Force, in charge of training all troops that fought on the ground, and the Army Air Force, which would train all soldiers that fought in airplanes. Almost immediately, Lt. Gen. Lesley J. McNair, the head of the new Army Ground Force, established the Airborne Command, based it at Fort Benning, and placed it under the command of Bill Lee, now a full colonel. All of the new and forthcoming parachute units were subsequently placed under the control of Lee’s new Airborne Command.3 With the inﬂux of new troops—whether volunteers who were rushing to recruitment centers or other men who were swept up in the expanded draft—it was suddenly becoming too crowded at Fort Benning. Consequently, on April 9, Lee moved his new Airborne Command to Fort Bragg but left the

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Parachute School at Fort Benning. Separate parachute battalions would be trained and graduated from jump school and then sent to Fort Bragg for inclusion in their regiment for tactical training.4 To keep up with this growth in the paratrooper department, the Air Corps created the Air Transport Command at Stout Field near Indianapolis, Indiana, in April. It had the job of training the pilots needed to ﬂy both the paratrooper transport planes and the gliders used by the airborne infantry.5 On May 1, Lee received another unit when the 504th PIR was activated at Fort Benning. A few days later, Field Manual 31-30, “Tactics and Techniques of Airborne Troops,” was published. The booklet stated that paratroopers were to be used as “the spearhead of a vertical envelopment or the advance and guard element of air landing troops or other forces.” In other words, the paratroopers were expected to go in ﬁrst and grab key objectives such as airﬁelds, road junctions, or bridges until more troops could be brought in by airplane or on foot. The booklet pointed out the need for thorough planning, reconnaissance of the targeted area, cooperation between paratroopers and the air transport units, pilot-jumpmaster conferences, and the desire to have a rehearsal. Unfortunately, since no American airborne assault had ever been performed, everything in the booklet was theory, although it was based on what had been learned in various exercises and from study of the German, Russian, British, and even the Japanese parachute drops.6 In mid-May, two parachute battalions began preparing for deployment overseas. On June 6, 1942, the 2nd Battalion of the 503rd PIR sailed from New York Harbor aboard the Queen Mary, bound for Scotland. Four days later, the 1st Parachute Battalion of the 1st Marine Division set sail for New Zealand from Norfolk, Virginia, aboard the USS Mizar. Upon arrival at Wellington, New Zealand, on July 11, it joined up with the parent division. On August 7, after further training in New Zealand and Fiji, the 1st Marine Parachute Battalion landed via landing craft on the island of Gavutu as part of the Guadalcanal campaign in the Solomons, where it became the ﬁrst American parachute unit to see combat in World War II.7 Two days before the army paratroopers left the states, the 503rd PIR had been brought up to a full three-battalion unit. Its 3rd Battalion was activated on June 4 from the 1st Battalion of the 504th PIR. During the switch from old to new, Companies A, B, and C and HQ Company of the 504th now became Companies G, H, I and HQ Company of the 503rd.8 During the hectic summer of 1942, the War Department began looking into the feasibility of dropping an artillery battery by parachute. Visualizing the added punch that artillery would give to the paratroopers, but uncertain whether such a thing could be accomplished, the department activated the Parachute Test Battery at Fort Benning. Following in the footsteps of the

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Parachute Test Platoon, the test battery would determine how to get an entire battery of big guns out of a plane and onto the ground via parachute.9 On July 6, the army activated the 505th PIR at Fort Benning and, exactly two weeks later, formed the 506th PIR at Camp Toccoa, near Toccoa, Georgia. This newly created 17,530-acre basic training center was about 175 miles north of Fort Benning in the north Georgia hills and offered plenty of opportunities for drill sergeants to “toughen up” their new recruits before sending them down to Fort Benning’s Jump School. Each recruit came to dread “double timing” up and down Currahee Mountain, located adjacent to the camp.10 Working faster than the air corps could produce aircraft and pilots to transport the new paratroopers, the army activated the 507th PIR at Fort

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Benning on July 20 and the 508th PIR at Camp Blanding, Florida, on October 20.11 In early August, Bill Lee, now a brigadier general, returned from a mission to England and reported that the English were about to form an airborne division. Lee suggested that the United States do the same. In less than two weeks, McNair responded to the suggestion and announced the formation of not one, but two airborne divisions. On August 15, 1942, the 82nd and 101st Infantry Divisions became the 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions.12 The command and utilization of these new divisions would have to be learned on the ﬂy. Army doctrine had just been written to address the use of airborne regiments, so there was nothing on airborne divisions. Much of the doctrine would be gathered from the ﬁeld, and by the winter of 1942, one army parachute regiment was already on its way to the Paciﬁc.13 Under secret orders, the 1st and 3rd Battalions of the 503rd PIR, now under the command of Col. Kenneth H. Kinsler—along with Company A of the 504th PIR, the “best” riﬂe company in the 504th—boarded trains at Fort Bragg on October 10, 1942. While at Fort Bragg, the 1st Battalion had been sent to the snowcapped mountains of Utah for extensive ski training, which prompted some of the paratroopers to speculate that they were bound for Europe and then perhaps Norway. The men ﬁgured that they would be sent to New York and then to Great Britain, where they would be reunited with their 2nd Battalion, which had gone to Scotland on June 6. At 10:00 A.M., with their heads ﬁlled with wild ideas, the train pulled out of Fort Bragg.14 Instead of heading north toward New York, the train headed west. The next morning, a paratrooper looked out the window and exclaimed, “Hey, we ain’t heading towards New York! We’re in Tennessee—that’s my pappy’s farm out there!” By the time the train reached Elko, Nevada, the men were thoroughly bored. While the engine took on water, a few of the men decided to wet their own whistles. Spotting a liquor store on the other side of the tracks, the paratroopers, who were conﬁned to the cars, managed to get some townspeople to run across the tracks and bring back a few bottles of alcohol. Even as the train was pulling out of the station, a few townspeople were running up to deliver the goods. For the next few hours, the trip was anything but boring, even after a sweep by the regimental ofﬁcers collected some of the contraband.15 Almost at midnight on October 16, the train ﬁnally reached its destination: Camp Stoneman near Pittsburg, California, about thirty miles northeast of San Francisco “in the low rolling hills of the California Coast Range.” Camp Stoneman was more or less a processing center that got units ready to go overseas. Over the next few days, the men were inoculated against tropical diseases and put through a number of ship safety drills. Then, under the

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cloak of darkness, the paratroopers left Camp Stoneman at 10:00 P.M. on October 19, arriving at Fort Mason outside San Francisco at 1:30 the next morning. Almost immediately, the troopers began boarding the old Dutch merchant ship Poelau Laut, a 10,000-ton vessel built in 1928. Although captained by Dutch ofﬁcers, the 494-foot-long ship had an Indonesian crew. While the crew loaded the battalion’s heavier equipment, the paratroopers themselves began boarding the ship. At 9:45 A.M., all of the men and gear were aboard, and the Poelau Laut slipped out into the cool fog of San Francisco Bay.16 Instead of traveling west toward Hawaii or Australia, the ship turned south almost immediately and hugged the coast of the United States and Mexico. Finally, at 10:30 A.M. on November 1, the Poelau Laut docked at Balboa City in the Panama Canal Zone. Curious questions may have been asked as the men wondered if the ship would continue east through the canal and on to England. Instead, the ship had only traveled south to pick up the 1st Battalion of the 501st PIR (minus Company C, which was being left behind). At this point, the attached Company A of the 504th PIR ofﬁcially became Company D of the 503rd. The two new companies that came aboard, Companies A and B of the 501st PIR, were designated E and F in the 503rd. All three newly designated companies constituted the 503rd’s new 2nd Battalion, thereby effectively replacing the battalion that had been sent to Scotland. Battalion strength was now at 1,939 ofﬁcers and men.17 Leaving the Canal Zone at 8:45 at night, the Poelau Laut headed slightly southwest, passing the Galapagos Islands on November 4 and crossing the equator on November 5. According to the 1st Battalion’s historian, “All men on board who had not previously crossed the equator were initiated and made members of the Ancient Order of the Deep.” Traveling at between fourteen and nineteen knots, the transport did not cross the International Date Line until November 20. Finally, on November 27, after almost six weeks at sea, the 503rd PIR sighted Australia when the transport dropped anchor off Brisbane, near the center of the east coast. However, as part of what seemed to be a cruel joke, the boat-weary men were kept aboard the ship, which moved up to Townsville before continuing on to Cairns, 215 miles north along the coast. Then, on December 2, 1942, after forty-three days aboard the slow-moving tramp steamer, the 503rd PIR touched terra ﬁrma again. Climbing into trucks at Cairns, the men were taken to nearby Gordonvale and began erecting a semipermanent camp site one mile west of town in a driving rain. As a pleasant surprise, the ladies of Gordonvale “provided the troops with a late lunch.”18 By the time the 503rd PIR arrived in Australia, a number of logistical problems had been worked out by the U.S. Army. Unlike the German and

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Japanese armies, the Americans decided to forgo a coverall jump smock for their paratroopers and instead went with the large-pocketed paratrooper jacket and pants designed by Lieutenant Yarborough. With a few improvements, the uniform became known as the M-1942 and was equipped with a cloth belt with “prongless bar buckle.” Wind- and rain-resistant, the M-1942 coat and pants were deemed perfect for the new American paratroopers.19 Likewise, Yarborough’s boot design became standard issue for all combat paratroopers in August 1942. Since most of these sturdy, high-topped boots were manufactured by the Corcoran Company of Stoughton, Massachusetts, the paratroopers’ distinctive footwear inevitably came to be known simply as Corcorans.20 The T-4 parachute, with its large, cumbersome emergency parachute had been replaced by the T-5. Instead of sitting in a vertical position against a jumper’s chest, the new, slightly smaller reserve chute was carried in a horizontal position. The T-5 harness had a bellyband that fed through the back of the reserve chute and held it ﬁrmly in place against the trooper’s chest. A large D-ring ripcord on the right side of the pack released the reserve chute. Being somewhat more compact and horizontal, the new reserve chute left some room below the jumper’s waist for carrying a combat belt and combat equipment.21 Eventually, the T-5 parachute and harness would be replaced in 1944 with the T-7. This parachute and harness were almost identical to the T-5, except the T-7 had an improved quick-release mechanism for the harness. In training and later in combat, the men complained that it took too long to unsnap the four clips on the center chest plate to release the harness. At ﬁrst, the U.S. Army resisted a quick-release mechanism, fearing that paratroopers would inadvertently hit the mechanism while descending and plummet to their death. When other countries proved that the quick-release plate was feasible, the army changed its mind and issued the T-7.22 On any ﬂight that went over water, the Paciﬁc paratrooper wore a B-4 or B-7 inﬂatable life vest under his parachute rig. In case the paratrooper accidentally landed in water or his plane was damaged while still over the ocean, the paratrooper could land in the water, discard his parachute and rig, and inﬂate the bright yellow vest with a small, self-contained compressed-oxygen bottle. The vest was designed to keep the wearer aﬂoat for a reasonable amount of time until rescued.23 The combat equipment for the army paratrooper remained essentially the same as for the regular infantryman. Each man was issued a canteen and cover; entrenching tool (shovel) and cover; meat can and cover; utensils; gas mask and canvas bag; M-1936 suspenders; shelter half with collapsible tent pole, guy line, and ﬁve tent stakes; and a ﬁrst-aid kit and pouch. Since a para-

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trooper could not jump with a ﬁeld pack on his back, he was issued a canvas M-1936 musette ﬁeld bag. Depending on the type of weapon that each trooper was issued—the M1 Garand riﬂe, M1 carbine, Browning automatic riﬂe (BAR), or Thompson submachine gun—the belt that the individual was issued could vary from a plain M-1936 webbed canvas pistol belt with accompanying ammunition pouches to a M-1923 ten-pouch canvas cartridge belt.24 Going into combat, the paratroopers could not wear the cloth A-2 ﬂight helmet or even a football-style Riddell crash helmet that had been used once the parachute program really got started. Instead, the paratroopers would be jumping out of their planes and going into combat wearing a slightly modiﬁed version of the new general-issue M1 steel-pot helmet, the M2. Like the M1, the paratrooper’s M2 was made in two pieces, a steel outer pot and a ﬁber inner pot. For the paratroopers, the outer steel pot had large, cocked Dshaped ﬁxed chinstrap loops welded to the sides of the helmet. Special short canvas straps with snaps on the end were attached to the loops and then went up and snapped inside the ﬁberglass liner. The feature was intended to help keep the steel pot afﬁxed to the ﬁber liner. The light ﬁber inner liner had a nylon headband on the inside that kept both the inner and outer helmet pieces in place. A leather chinstrap was riveted to either side of the liner but was often stretched over the front lip of the steel outer helmet once both pieces were together as a second way to keep the two pieces from separating. The special feature of the paratrooper liner, however, was inverted A-shaped canvas straps that hung down over each ear. A leather spoon-shaped chin cup was attached to each inverted A strap and kept the entire helmet ﬁrmly on the head of the jumper.25 When training ﬁrst began, paratroopers were expected to eat the same type of food as the regular foot soldiers. The main army fare was the C ration. Developed in 1938 and tested during the 1940 maneuvers, C rations were supposed to provide the soldier with all of the nutrition that he needed. Coming in twelve-ounce metal cans, soldiers were expected to eat three B units and three M units to fulﬁll their daily nutritional needs. B units contained biscuits, sugar, instant coffee, and a sweet. M units came in three different varieties: meat and beans, meat and vegetable hash, and meat and vegetable stew. Along with the six different units, the soldier also received salt, cigarettes, matches, chewing gun, and toilet paper.26 Fairly quickly, the paratroopers began complaining that the C rations were too heavy and bulky. In response, the army began experimenting and eventually wound up with the K ration, named after Dr. Ancel Keys, a nutritionist. Standard issue for the army by November 1942, a set of three K rations (breakfast, dinner, and supper) provided a man with all the nutrition that he needed for twenty-four hours. Each ration came in a double package

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measuring 7 inches long, 31⁄2 inches wide, and 11⁄2 inches deep. While both the inner and outer packaging was of thin cardboard, only the inner package had a light wax coating on it to keep the moisture out. Inside both packages were a small can of food, biscuits, a sweet, instant drink (coffee or lemonade), chewing gum, cigarettes and matches, a can opener, and toilet paper. The paratroopers looked upon the new boxed K rations as a vast improvement over the old canned C rations.27 Finally, in case of an emergency, each paratrooper was suppose to carry a D-ration bar on his person at all times. Small enough to ﬁt into a jacket pocket, one day’s worth of D ration consisted of three small bars, each weighing only four ounces. Adopted for use by the army in 1936, the emergency ration was made of chocolate, sugar, skim-milk powder, cocoa fat, oat ﬂour, artiﬁcial ﬂavoring, and vitamin D. Although the D ration looked like a thick candy bar, it was packed full of nutrients and vitamins, and the consumption of too many in a row could make a person sick. To combat this, the bar was purposely made with a bitter taste. As was printed on each package, the bar was to “be eaten slowly (in about a half hour),” which was really no problem to most soldiers. Wrapped inside a thin foil, three bars were then placed into a thin cardboard box to provide a day’s worth of emergency rations.28 The weapons that the American paratroopers carried varied greatly. The table of organization issued on February 17, 1942, stipulated that each parachute infantry regiment should consist of 140 ofﬁcers, 5 warrant ofﬁcers, and 1,884 enlisted men. Each regiment was to be supplied with 1,173 .30caliber riﬂes, 495 .30-caliber carbines, 154 .45-caliber submachine guns, and 1,754 .45-caliber semiautomatic pistols. Additionally, each battalion had 132 .30-caliber light machine guns, 27 60-millimeter mortars, and twelve 81millimeter mortars.29 By the time the 503rd PIR sailed for Australia, the M1 Garand riﬂe had become the standard weapon of the American soldier. In the words of Gen. George S. Patton, the M1 Garand was “the greatest battle implement ever devised.” Manufactured in 1936, the M1 Garand was a semiautomatic riﬂe measuring 431⁄2 inches long and weighing 91⁄2 pounds. The M1 ﬁred eight .30caliber bullets that were fed through the top by a black metal clip. As fast as the soldier could pull the trigger, that’s how fast the M1 ﬁred, which made it so much better than its predecessor, the bolt-action M1903 Springﬁeld. After the last round, the M1’s clip shot out of the open bolt with an audible ping that let the soldier—and sometimes the enemy—know that the weapon was empty. A tough, rugged weapon, the M1 was capable of killing at 600 yards. Because of its length and weight, however, it was often carried by a descending paratrooper in a padded case strapped to his side or leg, since the Amer-

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icans did not like dropping individual weapons in cargo carriers or having paratroopers drop almost indefensible.30 Despite its bolt action, the M1903 Springﬁeld riﬂe was still issued to the “grenadiers” in each squad. Grenadiers were specially trained and equipped paratroopers capable of ﬁring grenades from their riﬂes. Although the ’03 Springﬁeld normally ﬁred a .30-06-caliber bullet from a ﬁve-round stripper clip, blanks were used when launching a grenade. While most hand grenades were designed to be thrown, a few were designed to be launched. To ﬁre one of the special grenades, the grenadier had to attach a special M7 grenade launcher to the muzzle of his Springﬁeld and an M15 riﬂe grenade sight to the left side of the stock. When ready to ﬁre, the grenadier slid an M9A1 antitank grenade, an M21A1 aerial ﬂare, or an M1 “projection adapter” over the grenade launcher. The M1 projection adaptor allowed the grenadier to launch a regular MK2A1 fragmentation grenade toward the enemy.31 With the use of the M7 grenade launchers on the Springﬁeld riﬂes, each squad had instant access to added ﬁrepower while waiting for the mortar crews to retrieve and assemble their weapons from the separate cargo carriers. A shorter version of the M1 Garand riﬂe, the M1 carbine, was purchased by the U.S. government beginning in November 1941. The M1 carbine was a semiautomatic gas-operated, self-loading weapon that ﬁred a .30-caliber bullet fed up from the bottom through a ﬁfteen- or thirty-round magazine. Although the weapon weighed only 51⁄2 pounds and was only 351⁄2 inches long, it had a shorter range than the M1 Garand, ﬁring only 327 yards instead of 600. For the paratrooper, the M1 carbine was eventually manufactured as the M1A1, which had a “folding metal stock extension” and a wooden pistol grip. When folded, the M1A1 was only 251⁄2 inches long, which made it the perfect length for the paratrooper. Placed inside a padded weapons case, the carbine could be carried against the chest, behind the reserve parachute, where it was ready for deployment upon landing. Unfortunately for the Paciﬁc paratroopers, it would soon be discovered that the carbine, “when ﬁred, closely resembles the report of the Jap .256 riﬂe. For this reason, the ﬁring of the carbine in a ﬁre ﬁght proved very confusing. . . . It is contemplated to replace the carbine within the squad with M1 riﬂes.”32 Prior to World War II, the Thompson M1928A1 and M1A1 semi- or fully automatic submachine gun found its fame with the gangsters of 1920s Prohibition. Produced in 1919, the Thompson—or “Tommy gun”—ﬁred a heavy .45-caliber bullet from either a twenty- or thirty-round magazine or even a ﬁfty-round drum. Its low muzzle velocity gave it excellent stopping power. Although only 32 inches long, the Thompson lacked the range of the other weapons (only about ﬁfty yards) and had a much heavier weight (ten pounds, ﬁve ounces). Still, it was an excellent weapon craved by squad leaders and

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junior ofﬁcers alike. “The Thompson Sub-Machine Gun proved a favorite weapon in the squad for jungle ﬁghting,” noted the headquarters staff of the 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment. “A second Tommy gun per squad would have advantages. The 30 round TSMG clip in lieu of the 20-round clip is preferred.” For the paratroopers, the Thompson could be bundled in an oddshaped padded canvas cover when jumping out of an airplane.33 A weapon that would come out in late 1942 and be used by the paratroopers was the fully automatic M3 submachine gun or “grease gun.” Small (221⁄2 inches long with the sliding metal stock retracted or 291⁄2 inches long with the stock out) and light (slightly over eight pounds), the gun was a perfect weapon for the paratrooper to carry on a combat jump. Resembling a mechanic’s grease gun, the M3 ﬁred the same .45-caliber bullets as the Thompson submachine gun but from a different thirty-round box magazine. Using stamped and pressed metal parts, the M3 was cheap to make at about $20 per gun, though it was not as reliable as the Thompson.34 One type of light machine gun issued to the paratroopers was the aircooled, gas-operated M1918A2 Browning automatic riﬂe (BAR). First used in World War I, the BAR ﬁred a standard .30-caliber bullet on either semi- or full automatic from a twenty-round magazine. Although long (forty-eight inches) and heavy (more than twenty pounds with bipod), the BAR had excellent range (880 yards) and was reliable when used as an automatic riﬂe. When set up and used as a light machine gun, the barrel tended to heat up and warp. It was also difﬁcult to maintain a heavy rate of ﬁre since the weapon was not belt fed. To lighten the gun, most paratroopers removed the bipod and used the BAR for close-range ﬁre. “The BAR proved itself a valuable aggressive weapon for parachute troops in ﬁghting in the jungle,” concluded a study by the staff of the 503rd PIR.35 The other type of light machine gun issued to the paratroopers was the crew-serviced Browning .30-caliber M1919A4 machine gun. Fired from a tripod, the gun used a .30-caliber bullet fed into the breech by fabric or, later, by metal links from 250-round belts. An air-cooled machine gun, it weighed forty-ﬁve pounds with the tripod (thirty-one without), measured forty-one inches long, and had an effective killing range of almost 1,000 yards. It took two men to ﬁre the weapon, a gunner and an assistant. When on the march, the gunner usually carried the gun and one loose belt of ammunition while the assistant carried the tripod and two fully loaded boxes of belted ammunition. For paratroopers, the gun, tripod, and ammunition boxes were dropped in a cargo container.36 For added punch, the paratroopers were issued two types of mortars. The 60-millimeter M2 mortar consisted of three parts: a base plate, a smooth-bore barrel or ﬁring tube, and a bipod. The M2 was ﬁred by dropping either a

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high-explosive (HE), smoke, or illumination shell down the open mouth of the 281⁄2-inch-long barrel, bottom down. A shotgun shell primer on the bottom of the shell struck a ﬁring pin on the bottom of the tube and ignited the powder inside the shell, sending the dangerous top part ﬂying toward the enemy. The rate of ﬁre was thirty to thirty-ﬁve rounds per minute at a maximum effective range of 1,000 yards. Paratrooper staff personnel noted, “The 60mm mortar proved a particularly efﬁcient jungle weapon where clearance could be obtained.”37 Although generally ﬁred by two people, the M2 60-millimeter mortar was a squad weapon that needed a number of people to carry and crew it properly. One person, usually a corporal, carried the base plate and the sighting device. Another, the gunner, carried the ﬁring tube and the attached bipod. A third man, the assistant gunner, helped with the ﬁring and usually carried twelve rounds of ammunition. Finally, two more men served as ammunition carriers. The different projectiles weighed between three and four pounds while the entire mortar, when assembled, weighed forty-two pounds. For the paratrooper, the mortar pieces and its ammunition had to be dropped inside cargo containers.38 The heavier 81-millimeter M1 mortar delivered a more powerful punch than the 60-millimeter but was also heavier to carry. Consisting of three parts, the ﬁring tube weighed 441⁄2 pounds, the base plate weighed 45 pounds, and the bipod weighed 461⁄2 pounds. The heavier 81-millimeter shells weighed between 7 and 15 pounds each and could be ﬁred at a rate of about eighteen to thirty rounds per minute over a maximum distance of 3,300 yards. The lighter HE rounds had the effect of a 75-millimeter howitzer while the heavier rounds struck with the effect of a 105-millimeter howitzer. Crewed similarly to the 60-millimeter, the 81-millimeter M1 mortar also had to be broken down and dropped in padded cargo containers for the paratroopers.39 Out of the 2,029 total men who were supposed to be in a parachute battalion, 1,754 were to be armed with the .45-caliber semiautomatic pistol. A workhorse of the infantry from the time Gen. John J. Pershing went after Pancho Villa, the Colt M1911 and M1911A1 held a seven-round magazine and ﬁred a heavy .45-caliber bullet capable of stopping a man ﬁfty-ﬁve yards away. When the last round was ﬁred, the top slide locked back in the open position, indicating that the weapon was empty. Issued to most paratroopers, the weapon could be carried in either the M1916 hip holster or the M3 shoulder holster.40 While paratroopers armed with the M1 Garand and the M1 carbine carried the speciﬁc bayonet for those weapons, almost all of the paratroopers carried an M2 pocket knife. A switchblade design, the M2 parachutist’s knife was supposed to be carried in a small zippered pocket sewn along the front

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seam and just below the collar. The knife was to be used to cut the canopy riser lines if a paratrooper got stuck in a tree, on a roof, or on a utility pole.41 Stuffed into some of the larger pockets of the paratrooper as he ﬂoated downward were undoubtedly an assortment of hand grenades. The most commonly used grenade was the MK2A1 fragmentation grenade. Scored with a serrated pattern, the “pineapple” grenade was meant to do maximum damage when it exploded, spraying the area with dozens of serrated shrapnel pieces. Made with two safety devices, a pin and a ﬂy-off safety handle, both the pin and the handle had to be removed before the grenade was primed. Even then, there was still a four-second delay fuse before the device exploded. Originally painted with a yellow body, the MK2A1 was eventually painted olive-drab overall and given a small yellow ring around the neck to identify it as an armed, fully charged hand grenade. The MK2A1 could also be launched towards the enemy by a trained grenadier.42 Other types of hand grenades used by the American paratroopers were the MK3A1 concussion grenade, the M16 smoke grenade, the M15 whitephosphorus grenade, and the M14 thermite grenade. All four grenades had the same fused pin and handle safety device as the pineapple fragmentation grenade, but all four had round, smooth-skinned, canister-shaped bodies. The MK3A1 concussion grenade was designed primarily to stun the enemy. The M16 smoke grenade was used to emit a thick cloud of smoke in a variety of colors to mark a target, signal an airplane, or provide a smoke screen. The M15 white-phosphorus grenade burned hotter than the regular smoke grenade and was great for starting a ﬁre or clearing out an enemy bunker. The M14 thermite grenade burned hottest of all and was used to melt machinery or warp the barrel of an enemy artillery piece when dropped in the right spot.43 Although the paratroopers had begun their training by jumping out of Douglas C-33 troop transports or B-18 bombers, they went into combat jumping from the Douglas C-47 “Skytrain.” A military version of the successful Douglas DC-3, the twin-engine C-47 could be ﬂown slowly enough for a parachute drop, was strong enough to pull a glider, and was rugged enough to land on relatively short runways. The C-47 had a single cargo door behind the main wing on the left side and was capable of carrying twenty-eight fully loaded paratroopers and their equipment. Strong and reliable, the C-47 would carry the American paratroopers in all theaters of World War II.44 For the U.S. Marine Corps paratrooper, basic combat equipment was almost the same as for the army trooper, with a few variations. The Marine paratroopers carried the standard-issue canteen, entrenching tool, cartridge belt or pistol belt, and ﬁrst-aid pouch. By 1943, the Marines had developed a special two-piece uniform of reversible camouﬂage, mottled green on one

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side and mottled tan or brown on the other. The parachutist’s coat was similar to the reversible coat worn by the regular Marine except for large slanted pockets on the chest. Likewise, the trousers were similar to what every Marine wore except for two huge pockets sewn into the seat of the trousers and accessed through slanted, covered openings.45 During the early training days, U.S. Marine Corps Capt. Robert H. Williams designed an olive-drab long-sleeve, short-leg jump smock to be worn over a paratrooper’s regular fatigue coat and pants. Based on the German design, the Marine jump smock (parachutist’s coverall) had leatherreinforced pockets on the front thighs and leather-reinforced patches on the elbows. Besides two breast pockets, including one made speciﬁcally to carry the emergency D-ration bars, the smock also had a large pouch sewed into the back of the smock. Later, with the development of the parachutist’s jacket and trousers, the Marines came up with a second model smock. Made of the same reversible material and pattern as the jacket and trousers, the smock still had full sleeves, now with reinforced cloth elbows, and it came down only to the knees. However, instead of having the large leather pockets on the thighs and two small pockets on the chest, the new smock had two large cloth pockets over the thighs and large slanted pockets on the chest, which matched the two slanted pockets of the utility coat. In place of the odd-looking pouch on the back of the ﬁrst smock, the second model had a large pocket on the back entered from either side by covered ﬂaps, which was “believed to be designed to hold a poncho or blanket.” Before the war ended, a third model jump smock would be designed by the U.S. Marine Corps. Still reversible and with long arms, reinforced elbows, and short legs, the new smock did away with all of the visible front pockets and instead substituted four almost invisible internal pockets accessed through openings along the front closure. The smock itself and the pockets were all closed by black metal snaps. Access to the large rear pouch was through one side and was closed by a zipper instead of snaps.46 On their feet, the Marine paratroopers wore the highly efﬁcient Corcoran boots, and for headgear, they wore either the standard-issue M1 or the special army-paratrooper helmet. Sometimes, because the Marines always seemed to get the last of everything, the parachutists wore their leather ﬂight helmets under their regular M1 helmets when making their training jumps. Like other Marines, the paratroopers liked to wear the distinctive reversiblecamouﬂage helmet cover over their steel-pot helmets.47 Similar to their army counterparts, the Marine troopers used the T-4 and then the T-5 parachute and harness. The Marine paratroopers never got to jump with the improved T-7 chute and harness because the Marine Corps

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began terminating its paratrooper program in November 1943 simply because “there were far too few transport planes in the entire Marine Corps for the [paratroopers] to jump into combat, which was [their] only reason for existence.”48 For ﬁghting equipment, the Marine Corps paratroopers used the same weapons as the army troopers with a few exceptions. In addition to the M1911 and M1911A1 Colt semiautomatic pistols, M1 Garand riﬂes, M1 and M1A1 carbines, Thompson submachine guns, BARs, and .30-caliber light machine guns, the Marines also gave some of their paratroopers an M55 Reising submachine gun. Adopted in 1940, the gun weighed only 61⁄4 pounds and had a crude folding wire stock. Fed by a twenty-round magazine, the Reising ﬁred the same .45-caliber bullet as the Thompson submachine gun but was not as rugged. It tended to jam easily under sandy conditions and was prone to go off accidentally. Because of these problems, production of the Reisings ceased in 1942.49 Another weapon given to the Marine Corps paratroopers and not to their army counterparts was the M1941 Johnson .30-caliber semiautomatic riﬂe. Preceding the issue of the M1 Garand, which proved to be a much better riﬂe, the M1941 Johnson riﬂe had been designed by Marine Corps reservist Capt. Melvin Johnson and operated by recoil from the preceding shots—the only recoil riﬂe used in World War II. It weighed 91⁄2 pounds, same as the Garand, and measured about 451⁄2 inches long, 2 inches longer than the Garand. The barrel could be removed, making it possible for a paratrooper to carry it in the same padded bag as an M1A1 carbine. Using a ten-round rotary clip, the Johnson riﬂe could easily hit somebody at a distance of 600 yards. Johnson also produced the .30-caliber M1941 light machine gun. Although similar to the semiautomatic riﬂe, the Johnson light machine gun had a folding bipod attached to the front stock, a modiﬁed butt, and a pistolgrip handle. Instead of ﬁring a rotary clip, the Johnson was fed by a twentyround curved magazine that could be charged while still in the gun by using Springﬁeld 1903 ﬁve-round stripper clips. Weighing slightly over fourteen pounds and measuring almost forty-two inches long, the Johnson was actually lighter and shorter than the BAR. Still, both the Johnson semiautomatic riﬂe and the Johnson light machine gun never caught on in the way the M1 Garand and BAR did.50 Marine paratroopers also used the same hand grenades and riﬂe grenade launchers as their army brethren but carried a different kind of knife. Instead of being issued with a small, concealable switchblade knife, the marines gave their paratroopers large utility knifes. Although there were four manufacturers, all of the knives eventually became known by one name, the

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K-Bar. Standard issue to all Marines in a combat zone after 1943, a good Marine paratrooper would not be caught dead without a K-Bar knife or a Camillus Cutlery Company stiletto.51 Armed, prepared, and ready to go, the 1st Marine Parachute Battalion had already been committed to combat on Gavutu, near Guadalcanal Island in the Solomons, albeit via landing craft, when the army’s 503rd PIR arrived at Gordonvale in Australia on December 2, 1942. In 1943, American paratroopers were ﬁnally going to take part in a combat parachute jump.

CHAPTER 9

Operation Cartwheel

T

hroughout the ﬁrst half of 1942, the Allies were losing the war in the Paciﬁc. In the Philippines, the Japanese entered the capital city of Manila on the island of Luzon on January 2, and after a pugnacious retreat by the American and Filipino troops, the Japanese laid siege to the Bataan Peninsula. On April 9, 76,000 men, including 12,000 Americans, surrendered. On May 7, 15,000 more American and Filipino soldiers on Corregidor Island at the mouth of Manila Bay laid down their arms. In Malaya, the British and Commonwealth troops were pushed down the Malaysian peninsula until they were isolated in the island fortress of Singapore. On February 15, 70,000 British, Indian, and Australian soldiers surrendered in the largest capitulation in English history. The several important islands of the Netherlands East Indies fell like dominoes between January and March. Borneo, Celebes, Sumatra, Timor, Ambon, and Java all fell. Islands in the Central Paciﬁc fell also. New Ireland, New Britain, Buka, Bougainville, and Tulagi were all invaded and occupied during the ﬁrst four months of 1942. In Burma, the Japanese continued to advance against the stubborn Chinese, British, and Commonwealth forces that gave ground grudgingly. On March 5, the Japanese landed unopposed at Salamaua in northeastern New Guinea and three days later landed at Lae, New Guinea. While consolidating their hold on the northern side of the huge island, they began eyeing the important city of Port Moresby on the south coast and at Australia, only a few hundred miles to the south.1 Then, on April 18, the Japanese were completely stunned by an aerial attack on their home islands. Taking off from the deck of the American aircraft carrier Hornet, sixteen twin-engine B-25 bombers led by Lt. Col. James H. “Jimmy” Doolittle unexpectedly bombed Tokyo and several other Japanese cities before continuing on towards China. Although the Doolittle raid caused little damage, it was a huge shot-in-the-arm for Allied morale at a time when the Japanese looked untouchable. More importantly, however, it scared the Japanese into making a critical decision.2 Prior to Jimmy Doolittle’s raid, the Japanese General Staff had been divided over the idea of whether Japan needed to expand its defensive

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perimeter farther east. Some generals and admirals had felt that the perimeter was far enough and that Japan should concentrate on the conquest of New Guinea and the invasion of Australia. Other leaders had wanted to expand outward to Midway Island, 2,250 miles from Japan and only 1,100 miles from Hawaii. Adm. Isoroku Yamamoto, the architect of the attack on Pearl Harbor, had argued that the capture of Midway would force the Americans to sally out and attack the Japanese Navy, resulting in a Japanese victory in the “decisive naval engagement” of the war.3 Two days after the Doolittle raid, the generals and admirals who advocated expansion won out. In early May, during their ﬁrst attempt to move their defensive ring outward, the Japanese headed an invasion force around the eastern edge of New Guinea and headed toward Port Moresby. In the Battle of the Coral Sea, U.S. Navy planes met and stopped the invasion. It was the ﬁrst real victory of the Paciﬁc War for the United States, in spite of the loss of the aircraft carrier Lexington and damage to the carrier Yorktown.4 Next came the decisive Battle of Midway. After breaking the Japanese secret code, the Americans knew the Japanese were moving to invade Midway Island and positioned their aircraft carriers northeast of the island. On June 3, a Japanese task force built around four aircraft carriers was sighted by an American PBY ﬂying boat. Over the next few days, American and Japanese planes fought a bitter air battle over the waters around Midway, attacking each other’s ships. By June 7, the battle was over. The Americans had lost one aircraft carrier, one destroyer, and 137 aircraft; the Japanese had lost four aircraft carriers, one heavy cruiser, and 332 airplanes—a clearcut American victory.5 The Japanese juggernaut rolled to a stop after Midway while the Americans picked up steam. In August, the 1st Marine Division invaded Guadalcanal in the Solomons while the 1st Marine Parachute Battalion landed on Gavutu. For the next six months, until February 9, 1943, the Japanese and Americans slugged it out in the steamy jungle of Guadalcanal. When it was all over, the Americans were the ones still standing. In New Guinea, the Australians moved quickly to stop a Japanese advance over the Owen Stanley Mountains, the horizontal spine of New Guinea. Fighting along the Kokoda Trail, the Australians ﬁrst halted the Japanese advance and then began pushing them back towards the village of Buna, on New Guinea’s north coast. From October 1942 through January 1943, the Australians, augmented by American soldiers, assaulted the Japanese. Buna was eventually captured by American forces on January 2 and by the middle of March, the Japanese had evacuated the entire Buna area, shifting their forces westward to strengthen their hold around the Lae-Salamaua area.6 Having taken the initiative, the Americans were not about to give it back. Gen. Douglas MacArthur wanted to take all of the northern New Guinea

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coast back from the Japanese as he worked his way toward his ultimate objective, a return to the Philippines. On March 11, under orders from Roosevelt, MacArthur had left his troops on the Bataan Peninsula and Corregidor in the Philippines. Flown to Australia from Mindanao, MacArthur had vowed to someday return to the Philippines. With that in mind, he let his newly victorious, yet exhausted and malaria-ridden troops reﬁt while he planned a series of leapfrog operations along the northwest New Guinea coast.7 In order for MacArthur to make these leapfrog advances safely, he needed air superiority. With Adm. Chester Nimitz receiving all of the aircraft carriers, MacArthur’s only way to achieve air superiority was with land-based ﬁghters and bombers. In order to have his land-based planes support his leapfrog moves, he needed airﬁelds. Each leap forward included the capture of some enemy airﬁeld or airstrip, which could then support the next leap forward. The capture of enemy airﬁelds was an important and integral part of each leap. MacArthur and his staff were studying the map of the northern coast of New Guinea in search of viable airﬁelds.8 In the meantime, even though the Japanese had lost at Guadalcanal and Buna, they were far from defeated. Knowing that the Americans and Australians would eventually be moving westward, the Japanese wanted to build up their strength at Lae, a major airbase and anchorage on the Huon Gulf. Once this was accomplished, the Japanese planned to move eastward under an umbrella of air cover and seize a forward airbase at Wau, only 150 miles from Buna. If the Australians and Americans waited too long, the Japanese would strike at Buna with airplanes and infantry from Wau and then swing southward once again over the Owen Stanley Mountains toward Port Moresby.9 In early January 1943, the Japanese tried to reinforce Lae from Rabaul on New Britain Island in the Bismarck Archipelago. Once again, the Americans were aware of the move through the broken Japanese code, and the ships were attacked repeatedly by American planes. Only 4,000 Japanese troops reached New Guinea, about one-third of the intended allotment. Although the Japanese attempted to capture Wau with what they had, they were stopped dead by the Australians, and as they retreated back toward Salamaua and Lae, the Australians, who had been reinforced by fresh troops from their home continent, went after them.10 As the reinforced Australian troops began moving slowly westward through the New Guinea jungles, the Japanese called for reinforcements again. Once again, the Americans were waiting. From March 2 through 5, American planes attacked the Japanese ships in the Battle of the Bismarck Sea. Eight transports and four destroyers were eventually sunk, and only about 1,000 demoralized Japanese troops reached Lae. Although the time might have been right to attack Lae, MacArthur did not have the men or

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materiel ready yet. With Roosevelt and Marshall agreeing on a “Germany ﬁrst” strategy to win the war, most men and supplies were being sent to Europe and the Mediterranean. In the meantime, MacArthur continued to gather reinforcements and plan his next attacks.11 In the European theater of operations, the American paratrooper had ﬁnally made his ﬁrst combat drop on November 8, 1942. Unfortunately, it did not go well. As a part of Operation Torch, the Allied invasion of North Africa, the 509th Parachute Infantry Battalion (originally the 2nd Battalion of the 503rd PIR) had been dropped in Algeria. Taking off from England, the men were in the air for more than eight hours and 1,500 miles, the longest ﬂight by paratroopers during the entire war. Unfortunately, bad weather along the way scattered the thirty-nine planes. Some men were dropped over Spanish Morocco, some ran out of gas and landed in the desert, and others were shot down by German ﬁghters. Only a handful of planes reached Algeria, where they dropped their sticks thirty-ﬁve miles east of the intended drop zone, leaving the paratroopers unable to assist the Allied invasion.12 With this failure, some in the United States began to question whether the expense in training, equipping, and maintaining airborne troops was worth it.13 Then came Operation Husky, the invasion of Sicily, in the summer of 1943. On July 9, 226 aircraft carrying both American and British paratroopers took off from North Africa for a night drop on Sicily, despite the fact that the Americans lacked experience in night operations. The American troopers were from the 505th PIR, the ﬁrst airborne regiment to be dropped as a whole. Once again, the drop went awry. Strong crosswinds, inexperienced pilots, and missed drop zones placed almost 80 percent of the paratroopers in the wrong place. Once on the ground, the paratroopers performed admirably, cutting communication lines and ambushing German patrols. Just the mere presence of the paratroopers behind enemy lines caused enough disruption among the German brass to aid the success of the Allied seaborne invasion of Sicily.14 Two nights later, Gen. George S. Patton, in charge of the American troops on Sicily, called for another American airborne drop, this one by the 504th PIR. They were to arrive as reinforcements and be dropped close behind the American lines. Unfortunately, in the haste to get the men in the ﬁeld, someone forgot to notify the navy ships surrounding the beachhead and the antiaircraft units on the ground. Out of 144 C-47 aircraft involved in the “milk run,” 23 were shot down and 37 badly damaged. More than half of the rest had minor shell holes. The Americans lost 229 paratroopers and 90 aircrewmen killed or wounded.15 When Husky ended, the American high command once again studied the effectiveness of the airborne effort and, once again, found it to be lacking, especially the troop carriers. Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower was not pleased

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with the effort. An investigation ordered by Eisenhower determined that five major errors had caused the ineffectiveness of the paratroopers, none having to do with the paratroopers themselves. Still, the question of whether large-scale airborne operations could be successful was suddenly up for discussion.16 On one side of the table was Maj. Gen. Joseph Swing, who believed that in reality, the Sicilian drops had been too small. Both the Americans and British had dropped two separate parachute regiments at four separate locations, all with disastrous results. Swing believed that the four regiments should have been concentrated and dropped at one spot behind enemy lines to cause maximum damage and disruption. On the other side was Gen. Lesley McNair, who by now was beginning to believe that it was impossible to effectively drop more than a battalion of paratroopers at any single location. He believed that the drops in Sicily had failed because they were too large.17 What was needed to convince either side was success in the ﬁeld. While the American airborne effort was having trouble in North Africa and Sicily, the 503rd PIR marked time at Gordonvale, in northern Queensland, Australia. Although far from Fort Benning and the United States, training continued. On January 25, the 1st Battalion participated in an exhibition jump with heavy loads.18 Beginning on February 24, the men participated in a three-day march. “Incessant rain” pelted the paratroopers as they marched along, causing the nearby Mulgrave River to “become a torrent of water” and exceed flood stage. In this so-called “march in flood,” Pvt. John Kobiska of Company A was swept up in the current and drowned before ever seeing an enemy combatant.19 In order to maintain the $50 additional hazardous duty jump pay, the army required that each paratrooper had to make at least one jump per month. In April, May, and June, the regiment participated in a number of practice jumps. On May 5, the 503rd PIR jumped from the low height of only 400 feet and, the next day, took part in a jump on an airstrip. During the May 6 drop, Pvt. Robert H. White from Company I landed on some high-tension wires and was electrocuted. On June 26, during an exhibition jump witnessed by MacArthur, Pvt. Donald Wilson was killed when his “parachute failed to function properly.”20 MacArthur may have been in attendance at the June 26 jump in order to answer some questions that he had regarding the paratroopers and their use in his upcoming Operation Cartwheel, the isolation of Rabaul. In early 1942, after capturing the port of Rabaul, the Japanese had turned the area into a strong naval and airbase. Using Rabaul as a jumping off point, the Japanese had been able to send naval forces toward Port Moresby, Guadalcanal, and New Guinea. Realizing how tough a nut Rabaul would be to crack,

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MacArthur decided to bypass the stronghold. Instead of capturing Rabaul, he would seize islands around and behind the Japanese base, thereby leaving it to wither on the vine. As part of Cartwheel, MacArthur planned to use the paratroopers of the 503rd PIR.21 Operation Cartwheel needed two pincers to surround and isolate Rabaul, and on the night of June 29–30, an American task force commanded by Adm. William F. “Bull” Halsey Jr. invaded New Georgia in the Solomons, about 160 miles northwest of Guadalcanal. That same night, in an attempt “to ease the problem of supplying the troops that were to attack Salamaua and Lae,” about 800 American troops landed at Nassau Bay in New Guinea, about 120 miles west along the coast from Buna and 45 miles south of Lae. Moving inland from the coast, the Americans linked up with the Australians, who had been moving westward behind the retreating Japanese. Together, the combined force continued northward toward Salamaua and Lae.22 With the American and Australian ground troops close to Salamaua, the Japanese began shifting troops from Lae, thirty-ﬁve miles to the north, down to the threatened area. This was exactly what MacArthur wanted. He was hoping to weaken the Japanese garrison at Lae and then try to capture the Markham Valley, seventeen miles west of Lae, and the Huon Peninsula to the east. Then the Allies would converge on Lae from opposite directions. At the time, however, MacArthur lacked the aircraft and landing craft needed to seize both the Markham Valley and the Huon Peninsula by either airborne or seaborne troops alone. Likewise, because of the thick New Guinea jungle, the area could not be captured solely by his troops pushing through the jungle. Instead, MacArthur realized that in order for his plans to work he had to use all three.23 While his American and Australian infantry were continuing to work their way north through the jungle from Nassau Bay toward Salamaua, MacArthur set the date for his attack on Lae for August 1. MacArthur planned to have the 9th Australian Division and the American 2nd Engineer Special Brigade, approximately 10,200 men, make an amphibious landing twenty miles east of Lae on the south coast of the Huon Peninsula and attack westward with another 6,200 reinforcements landing the next day. On August 2, one battalion of the 503rd PIR would drop by parachute and seize an abandoned old civilian airstrip at Nadzab on the north bank of the Markham River, about seventeen miles due west of Lae. While this was going on, the Australian 7th Division, coming up through the jungle, would travel over uncompleted and seldom-used roads to assault Lae from the west.24 Near the end of July, Australian Maj. Gen. George Vasey, commander of the 7th Division, began to worry about the assignment for his troops. He did not like the idea of moving his men over unﬁnished or little-used roads and instead suggested that the entire 7th Division be airlifted into the captured

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airﬁeld at Nadzab. From there, the division would attack eastward toward Lae. At the same time, he advocated using the entire 503rd PIR for the drop on the airﬁeld, not just one battalion. When asked if he would like to use his entire regiment instead of only one battalion in the upcoming drop, Colonel Kinsler “jumped” at the chance. Jumping along with the American paratroopers would be the Australian 2/6th Field Artillery, which would help provide some defensive ﬁrepower. When the new plans were presented to MacArthur, the commanding general readily agreed to all the changes.25 As August 1, the date of the invasion, drew near, everyone realized that the date would have to be changed. There were not enough C-47s assembled yet, and they were integral to dropping the paratroopers at Nadzab and bringing in the 7th Australian Division. Lt. Gen. George C. Kenney, commander of the Fifth Air Force, promised that enough planes would be available by September 1, but he was worried about the weather. Kenney wanted fog over the water to protect the invasion ships but clear skies over the Markham Valley for the paratrooper drop. After talking to both Australian and American weather forecasters, Kenney and MacArthur decided to change the amphibious landing to September 4 and drop the paratroopers on the ﬁfth.26 The attack on the Markham Valley and the Huon Peninsula would include numerous ﬁrsts for the Paciﬁc War. The jump by the 503rd PIR would be the ﬁrst American combat parachute drop in the Paciﬁc. The drop of one full parachute regiment would be the ﬁrst—and only—time in the Paciﬁc that an entire regiment would be dropped in one lift. The combination parachute drop, airlift, and amphibious assault would also be a ﬁrst in the Paciﬁc. It would also be the ﬁrst time that Allied ﬁghter planes and bombers would use inland airﬁelds cut into the jungle behind the slowly advancing Australian and American infantrymen from Nassau Bay to cover a seaborne invasion force.27 On July 24, the 503rd PIR, still marking time in Australia, received word that one battalion was going to be used in an upcoming combat jump. Not knowing which unit would be chosen, all three battalions began to prepare while Colonel Kinsler went to Port Moresby to confer with General Vasey. When Kinsler returned, it was reported that all three battalions would be jumping.28 In order to prepare their men for the jump and the airlift, Vasey and several members of the 503rd PIR made a low-level reconnaissance ﬂight over the Nadzab airstrip on August 7. That same date, MacArthur’s General Headquarters issued the orders for the entire 503rd PIR to be moved to Port Moresby, where they would take off for the ﬁrst American combat parachute drop in the Paciﬁc.29 On August 9, the Sixth Army, under whose command the 503rd PIR fell, sent “a tentative movement order” to the regiment. On August 12, orders

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arrived to pack the cargo containers with all of the equipment that had to be air-dropped. The 2nd Battalion received movement orders on the fourteenth telling them that they would be going to Port Moresby via plane while the 1st and 3rd Battalions would be going by ship. Within two days, the 2nd Battalion began striking their tents, and very early on the morning of the eighteenth, they were trucked to Cairns Airport and took off for Port Moresby. After a three-hour trip, the planes carrying the 2nd Battalion landed at Port Moresby. The men were immediately taken to an area seventeen miles north of the town. Second Lt. Jerry Riseley, the adjutant of the 2nd Battalion, commented, “The Australians named this ‘17 Mile’ which is a way the Australians have of not wasting anything.” When the rest of the 503rd arrived two days later onboard the Australian ship Duntroon, the entire regiment settled down in large six-man pyramid tents. “Everyone has his parachute with him,” noted Riseley on August 20, “and takes great care to keep it off the ground and dry. There is a mild rain, a heavy dew.” A day later, Riseley added, “The parachutes being kept by each person in his tent will not be too good if kept this way. The danger of a wet parachute is that it may not open, or that it may be slow in opening.”30 Over the next few days, the 503rd PIR marched up and down the foothills around Port Moresby, getting their bodies acclimated to the tropics. Every man was issued halazone tablets meant to purify contaminated water because large numbers of men from each battalion were coming down with dysentery. Training and preparation continued throughout the last week before the jump. On August 30, the “sand table,” a huge three-dimensional layout of the Nadzab area, was set up in Colonel Kinsler’s tent and guarded twenty-four hours a day by men with Thompson submachine guns. On the morning of September 3, all of the ofﬁcers were brought in to look over the table and were briefed on what was expected of their battalion or company. Starting at 11:00 A.M., every platoon was systematically brought into the tent for a briefing. Among the information passed along to each trooper was the fact that since Nadzab was an abandoned ﬁeld, the kunai grass that had reclaimed the area might be between four and six feet high. Additionally, although reports indicated that the Japanese did not use the ﬁeld, it was believed that between 100 and 200 Japanese made daily patrols of the small village of Gabsonkek, just north of the airstrip.31 According to the layout of the area, Kinsler wanted his three battalions to land in three separate areas around Nadzab. His 1st Battalion, under Lt. Col. John W. Britten, would jump directly on the airﬁeld and clear it of enemy troops (if any were there). Britten would then wait and link up with the Australian 2/2nd Engineers, which would be coming to the area by boat via the

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Watut and Markham Rivers after cutting their way northward from the Nassau Bay area. Kinsler’s 2nd Battalion, commanded by Lt. Col. George M. Jones, was to be dropped to the north of the airstrip. Once assembled, the battalion was to move slightly ahead and attack any Japanese within Gabsonkek. Once the village was secured, the 503rd PIR would use Gabsonkek as their regimental command post. The 2nd Battalion was then responsible for defending the area north and northwest of the airstrip. Finally, Lt. Col. John J. Tolson’s 3rd Battalion would jump to the east of the airﬁeld and then move south to capture the small cluster of huts at Gabmatzung, an old German Lutheran missionary site on the bank of the Markham River. The battalion was then supposed to “deny inﬁltration from the big town [Lae].” Since the 503rd PIR would be dropping one day after the Australian landing to the east of Lae, it was expected that the paratroopers would meet little opposition. The Japanese would be busy elsewhere.32 After everyone was ﬁnished looking at the sand table, they were given their jungle equipment, which included a compass, a tube of olive-drab camouﬂage paint, a can of foot powder, and a jungle ﬁrst-aid kit. Unlike the standard ﬁrst-aid kit, which contained a sterile compress, the jungle version contained iodine, sulfanilamide (sulfa) powder, compresses, safety pins, morphine syringe, salt tablets, halazone pills, and atabrine pills. The men were also issued K rations and emergency D rations.33 During the day, as the men prepared for their ﬁrst combat drop, a few truckloads of Australian soldiers suddenly showed up. Unbeknownst to the American paratroopers, the Australians would be jumping into the Nadzab area with them. They were members of the 2/4th Field Artillery Regiment under the command of Lt. Johnnie Pearson, part of the Australian 7th Division. On August 8, when the commanding ofﬁcer of the 2/4th Field Artillery was told that he would be supporting the 7th Division’s airlift into Nadzab, he proposed dismantling two 25-pounder short Mk 1 artillery pieces and dropping them and their crews into the area with the American paratroopers. Intrigued by the idea, Vasey agreed.34 Although none of the men of the 2/4th Field Artillery were told what was in store, four lieutenants and twenty-nine “good all around men” volunteered for the secret mission. For the next week, the men were put through a rigorous training regimen that included “forced marches, running along the beach, climbing ropes, [and] tumbling.” When the trucks arrived with the men at the 503rd PIR bivouac area at 5:00 P.M. on September 3—less than forty-eight hours before the scheduled combat jump—Kinsler was amazed to discover that the gunners had not been told of their mission. After addressing the men and informing them that they would be paradropped into the

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Nadzab area, he offered them a chance to refuse. Gunner Ian George Robertson proudly recalled, “Not one man took a pace out of the ranks.”35 For the next twenty-four hours, the Australians were taught how to jump, land, and roll by Lt. Robert Amstrong from the 1st Battalion’s headquarters. At the end of the day, the thirty-three men were taken up in a C-47 and, for the ﬁrst time in their lives, jumped out of an airplane. Flying over Port Moresby’s 30 Mile Airstrip, the men jumped from 1,200 feet by static line. Three men, including one of the lieutenants, were injured in the jump. Lt. Alan Clayton, an Australian who had not taken part in the jump, volunteered to take the injured ofﬁcer’s place. Too late for a practice jump, Clayton would make the ﬁrst parachute jump of his life over the combat zone at Nadzab.36 While the Australians were being hastily trained, the 9th Australian Division landed almost unopposed twenty miles east of Lae. By midmorning, however, as the Australians continued to come ashore, Japanese planes suddenly appeared and began bombing the beachhead. In the late afternoon, they came back. Most of them were intercepted by some of Kenney’s P-47 ﬁghters, but two ships were damaged and more than 100 Australian soldiers and American sailors were killed. In spite of their best efforts, the Japanese could not stop the ﬁrst phase of the plan to capture Lae.37

CHAPTER 10

Nadzab

T

he men of the 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment (PIR) were awakened from their restless slumbers before 3:00 A.M. on September 5, 1943, and fed breakfast in the dark. Today was to be their big day, their ﬁrst combat jump, their baptism of ﬁre.1 At 4:30 A.M., the men gathered up all of their equipment and began climbing into the backs of waiting trucks. Each truck carried twenty or twenty-one men, an entire stick of paratroopers for one plane. Each truck was numbered, and each waiting C-47 transport plane had an identical number. All the men had to do was get off the truck and ﬁnd the plane with the same number. It was that easy. The army brass was doing things right.2 It took an hour to load the dozens of trucks in each battalion area, and by the time they started out, a light mist had begun to fall. Although the trucks had to take the men only ten or twelve miles, the quickly deteriorating weather and the long line of densely packed trucks started to turn the New Guinea road into a quagmire. At 7:00 A.M., one and a half hours later, the men ﬁnally reached their respective airdromes: the 1st Battalion at Ward Drome, ﬁve miles from Port Moresby, and the 2nd and 3rd Battalions at Jackson Drome, seven miles from the town.3 As the men climbed out of the trucks at Jackson and put their parachutes on, they marveled at the sight before them. “On the ground are more transports than most people have ever seen at one time,” commented Adjutant Riseley. “On adjoining strips the ﬁghters are warming up, across the way bombers are taxiing from their revetments, creeping along like gigantic cats slinking behind a fence towards the kill.”4 All of this activity was part of the air armada that would proceed or protect the paratroopers. The eighty-two waiting C-47s at both airdromes were from the 317th Troop Carrier Group of the 54th Troop Carrier Wing and had been practicing diligently for this day. A few days before, the planes and aircrews had participated in a full practice run over Rorona Airstrip, an abandoned ﬁeld thirty miles west of Port Moresby. Coming in at about 400 feet altitude in three parallel battalion columns, the crews dropped weighted dummies attached to parachutes out of their planes to check on timing and accuracy. All of the dummies landed exactly on the drop zone, and the men heartily congratulated themselves.5

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The bombers spotted by Riseley were part of six squadrons of twin-engine B-25 medium bombers that would be the ﬁrst planes over the drop zone. Each plane carried fourteen .50-caliber heavy machine guns, with eight strategically placed in the nose, and 120 fragmentation bombs. Coming in just minutes before the transports, the bombers would drop down low over the Nadzab Airstrip and Gabsonkek village and strafe and bomb the targets.6 Directly behind the B-25s would be six A-20 twin-engine bombers, assigned to drop smoke along the edges of the jump ﬁeld to obscure the vision of any defending Japanese. The eighty-two C-47s would come next, ﬂying in three parallel battalion columns. Each column would consist of sixplane formations staggered to the right rear, with thirty-second intervals between each formation. Behind the transports would be ﬁve B-17 fourengine heavy bombers loaded with 300-pound packages of supplies. The heavy bombers would remain in the area for up to four and a half hours, dropping supplies whenever and wherever needed.7 Following even farther behind would be a group of twenty-four B-24s and ﬁve B-17s that would break away from the air armada as it neared Nadzab and drop a pasting of bombs at a suspected Japanese strongpoint halfway between Nadzab and Lae.8 Watching the whole affair from above would be General MacArthur, General Kenney, and Brig. Gen. Richard K. Sutherland, MacArthur’s chief of staff. All three men would be observing the ﬁrst combat parachute drop from his own circling B-17F bomber. Several days before, Kenney had expressed his desire to watch his air armada from a B-17. When MacArthur expressed his doubts, Kenney recalled that he said “they were my kids and I was going to see them do their stuff.” In response, MacArthur had added, “You’re right, George, we’ll both go. They’re my kids, too.”9 To protect all of the bombers and transports, Kenney had more than 100 P-39 and P-47 ﬁghters either accompanying the ﬂight or close by and on call. In all, the massive air armada scheduled to attack the abandoned airstrip at Nadzab amounted to 302 airplanes, “the biggest air armada yet assembled in the South West Paciﬁc Theater.”10 At 7:05 A.M., in spite of the constant drizzle, the men lined up in front of the door of their assigned transport. The ﬁrst man in would be the last man out, so the men lined up in reverse order. As they waited for the order to enplane, Riseley stood watching the men of his stick, especially 2nd Lt. Max H. Bradbury, the jumpmaster of the plane. The jumpmaster transmits his coolness to the men, inspects their equipment rigidly producing strong cord for a man who might lose his helmet, tape for another who was sweating some equipment catching on the door, rearranges the attachment of weapons so that

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they won’t get lost or bang their weapons on the chin. He lines them up and designates again the order in which they shall jump, warns them that on this jump they may have to stand up a little longer, but by his manner lets them understand that he knows exactly what he is doing and exactly what he is going to do.11 Around 7:15 A.M., the order was given to climb into the planes. Passing in through the port side door, the men shufﬂed down the length of the plane, took their positions on the canvas benches along either side of the fuselage, and buckled themselves in. Then, after settling in, the 503rd PIR had to wait. Riseley guessed that the wait came because “the coordination of a hundred odd transports with ﬁghter escort and bomber support . . . takes patience.” In reality, the planes were waiting for the weather to clear over the Owen Stanley Mountains.12 As the men sat and waited, the jumpmasters distributed maps to each person. The paratroopers were then told to memorize the “azimuth from the jump ﬁeld to the assembly area.” Each man was then required to hold up his compass and show it to the jumpmaster, letting the master know that each man had his compass and could get to it when he got on the ground.13 Around 8:00 A.M., both Jackson and Ward received word from a weather plane ﬂying over the Owen Stanley Mountains that the weather was beginning to clear. A few minutes later, at Jackson, the C-47s began warming up their engines and taxiing around the airﬁeld “like a row of prehistoric monsters.” At 8:25, the planes began taking off from Jackson, and ﬁve minutes later, they lifted off from Ward. For the next forty-ﬁve minutes, the planes circled high above Port Moresby as the new arrivals rendezvoused with the ﬁrst planes to take off.14 When all of the planes were in the air and assembled, they began to climb to 9,000 feet to get over a low saddle in the Owen Stanley Mountains. “Over the [mountain] range the men are cold and quiet and this attitude is natural enough and yet strangely, too,” noted Riseley. Off to one side as the planes passed over the mountains were the three B-17s of the “brass-hat ﬂight.” With a bit of a queasy stomach, MacArthur hoped that he did not “get sick and disgrace himself in front of the kids.”15 Once over the mountains, the planes dropped back down to 3,500 feet and re-formed into their three parallel battalion ﬂights. Around 10:00, the pilots spotted the ﬁrst checkpoint, Tsili Tsili Airstrip, and the jumpmasters removed the doors from the sides of the C-47s. In twelve minutes, they would be reaching the second checkpoint, the Markham River, and three minutes after that, the paratroopers would be jumping on Nadzab.16 “Stand up and hook up,” shouted the jumpmasters as they recognized the big Markham River. On each airplane, the men stood with their face toward the open side door. Audible clicks ran through the plane as the men hooked their static lines to the cable on the port side of the fuselage.

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“Sound off for equipment check.” Each man checked his own snaps and buckles and made sure his helmet was on tight, his weapon in place. Then he checked the equipment of the man directly in front of him. If something was wrong, the men ﬁxed it. When everything was right, they informed their partner. “Twenty-one, okay,” came the call from the last man in the stick. “Twenty, okay,” came the next man. And so it went until the jumpmaster himself bellowed out, “One, okay.” On every plane, it was the same routine until every man was set and ready to go. The jumpmasters then moved the cargo containers into the doors, balancing them so that they were half in and half out. They then bent over, each one watching for the signal to go.17 On one plane, carrying ﬁfteen paratroopers from Company C of the 1st Battalion, a defective door blew from its hinges and got hung up on the outside of the plane. No matter what the jumpmaster or the crew chief of the airplane tried to do, they could not free the door. Determining that the door would “endanger the life of every man who would have tried to jump,” the two men decided against letting the men jump. Fifteen disappointed paratroopers knew that they were going to miss the big combat jump on Nadzab.18 On another transport, with the door wide open and the men standing erect, a disaster almost occurred. Paratrooper R. E. Broadwell, with the 3rd Battalion, was on the plane and recalled: On our way to Markham Valley, a fighter nearly hit our plane, putting us into a dive. [The paratroopers] hit the top of the ceiling; I felt like we were glued to the ceiling for five minutes, but it was actually only a second or two. Eventually everyone hit the floor. One of the sergeants cut his head open. I thought the plane was going down, so I was standing in the door looking out. They said, “Don’t jump!” I really thought that I’d be the only one that would survive. The plane leveled off, and the pilot came back, apologized, and said, “The plane would have been cut in half, and we’d all been killed if I hadn’t dove.” Anyway, several men had cuts.19 Identifying the Watut River, the armada followed the winding wild waterway until it made a junction with the Markham River. Here, the armada turned right and dropped from 3,500 feet down to 400 or 500. At such a low altitude, the weather suddenly became hot and humid. The sudden drop in altitude, the high humidity, the bumpiness of the airplanes because of the humid air, and the high anxiety accompanying this ﬁrst combat jump caused a number of paratroopers to become airsick and reach for the “honey buckets.” On one ﬂight, instead of getting sick, one man passed out and slid to the ﬂoor of the plane.20

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Riding in one of the 2nd Battalion formation planes, Riseley recorded the last few minutes before the jump: The jumpmaster is standing with the bundle on his left, watching the ground and the plane ahead for the moment when the first parachute shall blossom. The planes are low. Very low. They pitch and buck. It is the low approach we have been told about. . . . Out the door can be seen other planes. ‘44’, a plane of Co ‘F’, is evidently out of line because it is flying right alongside when it should be to the left and the second plane ahead of this plane. . . . Following and even lower, maybe two hundred or two fifty are the planes of Headquarters Company 2nd Battalion.21 Rushing in at 9:59 A.M. were the B-25 bombers, which strafed and bombed the “jump areas and surrounding villages” with the utmost precision. At the Nadzab airstrip, the A-20s dropped down low and followed right behind the B-25s. While the crewmen ﬁred their .50-caliber machine guns into the jungle, the A-20 ﬁghter-bombers belched out a thick column of smoke that suddenly obscured the jungle from the airstrip. Between 10:05 and 10:20, the B-25s and A-20s shifted over to bomb and strafe the northern shore of the Markham River and Gabsonkek Village. Then came the transports.22 At 10:22 A.M. on September 5, 1943, the ﬁrst American paratrooper began the ﬁrst combat parachute drop of the Paciﬁc War. The ﬁrst man to jump from one of the passing C-47s was Lt. Col. John J. “Jack” Tolson, the commanding ofﬁcer of the 3rd Battalion. His battalion planes were on the far righthand side of the formation as the C-47s ﬂew east near Nadzab. His battalion had been given the assignment of landing to the east of the airstrip and seizing the Gabmatzung Mission area. As Tolson’s plane approached the drop zone, he knew exactly where he was from accompanying several reconnaissance ﬂights over the area the week before. As he waited and watched, the red warning light came on to get ready. Then it blinked off, but the green “go” light never came on. He was supposed to wait for the green light, but the planes were passing over the drop zone. Instead of missing the drop zone, Tolson simply jumped out on his own, and his men dutifully followed.23 Paratrooper Broadwell was on one of the 3rd Battalion planes and also recognized the drop zone from having studied his map and the sand table. He recalled, We all got excited when we came to this field and leveled off. We had a green light, and we were supposed to jump after the lieutenant. We were passing the field, but the planes in front didn’t jump. I knew that this was the field, but we were passing it. I told the Lieutenant,

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‘Goddamn it, jump! Get out of the way; I’m getting out! This is it! This is it! Either jump or get out of the way! This is it! This is it!’ They were waiting for the plane in front of us to jump. I don’t know if he [the lieutenant] panicked or what, but we finally jumped. Because of the delay in the ﬁrst plane—Tolson’s—about one half of the 3rd Battalion’s paratroopers landed in the jungle trees on the eastern end of the drop zone.24 Pvt. Hugh H. Reeves of Company G, 3rd Battalion, recalled, I was in the sixth plane in our group, and when I went out the door I could see nothing but tree tops. My chute opened, made one pendulum swing and I felt myself crashing through limbs. All I could do was fold my arms to cover my face, keep my feet together, point my toes down and say a quick prayer that I would not hit a large limb, for just as I reached the outer edge of that swing, I saw my chute collapse like a busted paper bag as it hit the top of the tree before I did. While plummeting through the tree or upon hitting the ground, Reeves was knocked unconscious.25 Another member of Company G, Pvt. Reynaldo Rodriguez, also ended up in the trees, but with much worse results. “I landed in a tree and drove a branch as sharp as a spear completely through my thigh, emerging in my groin area. Doctors later told me it had grazed the main artery ﬂowing into my right leg and had it been cut I would have bled to death in seconds. . . . I quickly became a jump casualty.”26 When Private Reeves regained consciousness, he was lying on the ground with a medic asking him for the correct password. “I looked up at my chute still hanging to a large vine with thousands of one-inch long [pine] needles sticking out,” he said. “My guardian angel had looked after me once more, for that tree was well over a hundred feet high and that would have been a free fall had that pine not been there to slow me down.”27 Inside a 1st Battalion plane was Louis G. Aiken of Company B. Part of his job on exiting the plane was to reclaim the cargo bundle shoved out by the jumpmaster. To make recognition easy, the paratroopers all had green parachute canopies while the cargo containers had white ones. Aiken recalled, “I was eight or nine back from the door of the aircraft before the jump and very alert. . . . I moved very smartly to the door ducking to keep [William] Kid Arris from unloading on me as he appeared to be very puff about the jaws and I suspected the worst.” As he jumped out of the moving transport only 300 feet above the ground, Aiken had trouble seeing where the white canopy of the cargo container was falling.28

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Pvt. Richard F. O’Brien of Company A, 1st Battalion, was standing directly behind his jumpmaster when the green “go” light went on. O’Brien held the static line in his right hand and his 1903 Springﬁeld in his left. When the light ﬂashed green and the jumpmaster plunged out of the open cargo door, O’Brien was right behind him.29 Over all three drop zones, hundreds of paratroopers were being dropped right on target as the planes ﬂew over and disgorged their human cargo. In four and a half minutes, eighty-one transports were empty. A total of 1,565 men were now ﬂoating toward the ground. The only paratroopers still inside the planes were the one man who had fainted and never regained consciousness and the C Company troopers stopped by the broken exit door. As the historians for the 503rd PIR would write, “No man refused to jump on this mission.”30 Watching from the ground and well concealed from the explosive ﬁre from the B-25s and A-20s was a group of Australian engineers and pioneers. A week prior to the drop, the 2/6th Field Company Royal Australian Engineers under Lt. S. L. Frew and the Australian 2/2nd Pioneer Battalion, commanded by Lt. Col. J. T. Lang had been secreted in to Tsili Tsili airstrip, which had been cut into the New Guinea jungle about forty miles inland from the Huon Gulf and sixty miles south of Nadzab, along the Watut River. As planned, both units were supposed to advance to Nadzab and be in position to help the American paratroopers prepare the airstrip once it had been captured and secured from the Japanese. A few days before the American drop, both groups had set out to reach Nadzab and be in position by the morning of September 5, both by separate means of travel. The engineers of the 2/6th Field Company had moved their heavy equipment and themselves to the Nadzab area via twelve collapsible boats. They had ﬁrst moved northward down the dangerous Watut River and then headed east at the junction of the wide Markham River. A wild, swift, and curvy waterway, the Watut was barely navigable, with rapids and shifting sand bars. It was expected that the 2/6th might lose 50 percent of its equipment and men in the move. However, on the morning of September 5, as the engineers pulled up in position opposite the Nadzab jump area, they had lost only three boats and one man.31 Meanwhile, the 2/2nd Pioneer Battalion had been leading roughly 800 natives of B Company of the Papuan Infantry Battalion overland toward the airdrop sight. Widening existing trails and cutting new ones where none existed, the Australians and natives forced their way forty-ﬁve miles over mountains and through swamps and jungles. In spite of the jungle heat and humidity and the pesky insects, the column reached the south bank of the Markham River opposite Nadzab exactly on schedule on the morning of September 5. Once there, they linked up with the engineers of the 2/6th Field Company and waited and watched as the American parachutes began to ﬁll the New Guinea sky.32

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As the men of the 503rd PIR descended from their C-47s, they heard the last of the B-25s making their attack runs and saw the smoke from the A-20s. “In the air the chute openings can be heard, the rattle of machine guns strafing; the aerial laid [smoke] screen can be seen on the ground,” remembered Riseley. Writing in the third person, he continued, “The jumper gives a hasty glance at the canopy after the shock [of the opening], [and] grabs his risers to slip towards where the planes are coming from. . . . Scans the ground for a trail he doesn’t see. Then the grass comes up rapidly, and the jumper prepares to land and swings into the high grass covering the ground with no more than a training jump bang.”33 As the generals looked on from their circling B-17s, with MacArthur “watching the show and jumping up and down like a kid,” the men began landing in kunai grass, some of the tallest grass in the world. They had been told to expect grass “maybe two to four feet” high but landed in grass well over their heads. “[We] jumped and landed in grass as high as this ceiling,” recalled R. E. Broadwell years later as he sat in a room with a ten-foot-high ceiling. Andrew Amaty remembered, “The underneath part was impossible to walk over—kind of like deep snow when you’re trying to walk on it in the winter.”34

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Once down inside the kunai grass, the men could not see one another. Once again, Riseley reported in the third person: [He] struggles on the ground to remove his parachute. He rolls and tosses and it seems as though the thing will never come off. . . . After he gets the chute off he remembers to ball and chain the chute and carry it to the assembly area. He listens hopefully but everything is quiet as moonlight on a lake. The chute now in the kit bag, he realizes that all that can be seen is kunai grass and he can barely see the top of that. After taking the compass bearing he shoulders the chute and starts to fight his way through the grass.35 Trooper Aiken, in the 1st Battalion drop zone of the airstrip, remembered as he drew closer to the tall grass that he was supposed to assemble on his plane’s cargo bundle. “[S]woosh into the kunai grass, up to and over my ass and I couldn’t see nothing much less a door bundle,” he wrote. “Hell, I didn’t know where I was, much less a door bundle, and frankly, by then, I didn’t much give a damn where the bundle was. I was suffocating in the tall grass and was hoping to hell the Japs, if there were any, or somebody else, didn’t strike a match.”36 Company A’s Private O’Brien also landed in the kunai grass and was “bewildered by its extreme height.” He tried moving in different directions but discovered that no matter which way he went, the grass got no shorter. Hearing the voices of two other men, he began moving in their direction, chopping at the tall grass with a machete that he had been issued. Once the three men were together, they began working their way toward what they thought was their assembly point, spending the next few hours chopping their way through the resilient grass.37 Fortunately for the American paratroopers, no Japanese were in the immediate area. Although the men had been dropped over their correct drop zones, the different battalions were having a hard time assembling. “Assembly was very difﬁcult because of the kunai grass,” wrote a 503rd PIR historian. In spite of the problems on the ground, Kenney’s Fifth Air Force had managed to pull off the ﬁrst successful mass American jump in the Paciﬁc—indeed during the war. According to Kenney, the drop of the 503rd PIR at Nadzab was “the most perfect example of training and discipline” he had ever seen. Even General MacArthur agreed: “One plane after another poured out its stream of dropping men over the target ﬁeld. Everything went like clockwork. The vertical envelopment became a reality.”38 Still trying to ﬁnd the cargo bundle from his plane, Aiken took out his compass and took a reading. “I set an azimuth and struck out in what I considered to be the general direction of our assembly point. Shortly thereafter,

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I heard a rustling in the tall grass headed in my direction from the left ﬂank. I immediately prepared for hand-to-hand combat.” Fortunately, the unseen intruder turned out to be a member of a machine-gun crew from another company. “He had his portion of the gun,” Aiken wrote, “and he wondered out loud what he was supposed to do if he encountered the enemy with only a .45 side arm and part of a light machine gun. I suggested he piss on it and throw it at the Japs if we encountered them. I actually think he thought it was a good idea.”39 Around 10:35 A.M., after dragging his parachute maybe twenty feet through the tall kunai grass in 100-degree heat, Riseley ﬁnally sat down, “panting [and] wet with sweat.” He remembered, “A smart man would leave this goddamn parachute here.” When he stood up again, he was so exhausted that he felt he was seeing cross-eyed. “To hell with that parachute,” he said to himself. “I’ll pay for it on statement of charges.” Leaving his heavy parachute behind, Riseley fought his way through the grass until it became a little shorter and he could make out a couple of helmets bobbing up and down above the grass. As he watched, he noticed that each helmet had the color orange on it, the color of his battalion. When he was able to see their shoulders, he noticed that these men had also discarded their heavy parachutes.40 All around the three drop zones, men were getting together in groups of three or four or ﬁve and slowly cutting their way through the sharp-edged kunai grass until they reached the edge of the jungle. Andrew Amaty remembered, “Finally, we got off the kunai and onto the trails that were well used by the natives and Jap patrols. We shot azimuths with our compasses and moved according to our maps.”41 Along the west side of the airstrip, Aiken and the lost machine gunner had ﬁnally managed to reach the jungle and ﬁnd a handful of men from Company B, Aiken’s unit. Among the assembled men was 1st Lt. Bill Bossert, Aiken’s jumpmaster. Aiken was still worried about the lost cargo bundle. “I reported and told him I didn’t know where the hell the bundle was. He had jumped ahead of me and stated he didn’t have any idea where it was either.”42 On the eastern side of the airstrip, near the boundary of the 1st and 3rd Battalion drop zones, elements of Company C of the 1st Battalion and Company G of the 3rd Battalion began shooting at one another. Unable to see through the kunai grass and already scattered and nervous, troopers from both companies began ﬁring at each other when they heard noises coming from the opposite direction. After ten minutes, when the two different groups radioed battalion headquarters that they were under attack, headquarters determined the direction that each group was ﬁring and concluded that each company was ﬁring on the other. Colonel Kinsler immediately ordered a ceaseﬁre but not before two privates, both from Company G, were slightly wounded.43

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In the 2nd Battalion’s drop zone to the north of the airstrip, a handful of men from Companies D, E, and F began to assemble along the edge of the jungle. They were supposed to assemble and move toward Gabsonkek, but nobody knew exactly where they were. Finally, around 11:05 A.M., after sending out a few patrols, the men started moving north down a narrow track. After crossing “a bit of kunai grass,” the group of paratroopers passed through a banana grove and came upon four or ﬁve native huts in a clearing too small to be Gabsonkek. With caution, a couple of ofﬁcers moved out and “captured” the abandoned collection of huts.44 Around 11:20, an hour after the 503rd PIR was dropped on Nadzab, Lieutenant Armstrong and the four ofﬁcers, twenty-seven gunners, and the two disassembled 25-pounder short Mk 1 howitzers of the Australian 2/4th Field Artillery Regiment were dropped over the Nadzab airstrip. Prior to the jump, three C-47s had ferried the group to Tsili Tsili airstrip. With the twin artillery pieces broken down, bundled in padded parachute containers, and strapped under the wings of the three planes, Armstrong and his trainees boarded two other planes a few minutes before their jump time and took the short ﬂight to Nadzab, scheduled to jump in the 1st Battalion sector over the airstrip itself.45 “Jump, you bastard, jump!” Gunner Ian Robertson heard before he plunged head ﬁrst out of one of the ﬁrst two C-47s. Going head ﬁrst, he suddenly heard a loud crack and was wrenched upright by the deployment of his parachute. For only the second time in his life, he and all of the rest of the Australians were making a parachute jump—and this one into combat. Dropped from 600 feet, the new paratroopers had only a few seconds to remember all of the basics laid out for them the day before by Lieutenant Armstrong. As soon as the men landed in the tall kunai grass, they moved to assemble, guided by Lieutenant Pearson’s voice on a megaphone. Because of the inexperience of the Australian jumpers, they had not been allowed to carry their riﬂes and gear with them during the drop. Instead, their weapons and equipment had been loaded into cargo containers and dropped out with the gunners. Pearson chose the cargo containers as a point of assembly.46 Once everyone was assembled, it was discovered that only one of the virgin jumpers had been injured by landing in a tree and hurting his shoulder. With riﬂes in hand, the men spread out and began to look for the various pieces of the disassembled howitzers, which had been dropped from the last three C-47s. Although it would take over three hours, Sgt. Wally Murnane and his crew were the ﬁrst ones to stumble upon all of the parts of their gun and get it all back together again, thereby becoming the ﬁrst airborne artillery in the Paciﬁc. As for ammunition, some rounds had been dropped with the two disassembled guns, but at 3:30 P.M., a circling B-17 dropped an additional 192 rounds before turning back to Port Moresby.47

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After a few hours of trying to assemble the 2nd Battalion of the 503rd PIR at the small collection of native huts, the assembled ofﬁcers decided to move toward the east and locate Gabsonkek, their objective. Two trails ran out of the collection of huts, one on the north through coconut groves and one on the south through the jungle. If the Japanese had been in the area, the battalion was suppose to split up and advance on Gabsonkek down both trails, but because of the lack of enemy opposition, the ofﬁcers decided to supersede their orders and send everyone down the coconut grove trail. Around 1:00 P.M., as they started out, the collected men of Company E were in the lead, followed by parts of Company F, some of Company D, one mortar squad with their entire gun, and most of the light machine-gun platoon.48 “Some platoon leaders have 10 men and some have 50,” reported Riseley. “Before we have gone a quarter of a mile [we ﬁnd] men sitting exhausted along the side of the trail, drinking milk out of coconuts. These are probably the people who lost their energy carrying their parachutes and wandering aimlessly instead of sitting down and studying their maps.” The winding, wellused trail led past coconut and papaya trees and deeper into the stiﬂing jungle. “The men are beginning to throw away some ammunition and at least one mortar plate,” Riseley noted. “One mortar sergeant threw away his mortar sight and base plate. When we met the rest of his squad they were disappointed in him. What they said will never ﬁnd its way into a courts martial, but the corporal commanded the squad from there on.”49 As the collection of battalion personnel slowly pushed eastward, small groups of men came up from behind, sent forward by a section of men that had remained at the collection of huts. Around 2:15 P.M., Lieutenant Colonel Jones, the battalion commander, came up and took control. When most of the communications section arrived, it was discovered that the cargo containers with the heavy radios and wire and phones were lost. When 1st Lt. Clement H. Jacomini, in charge of the 81-millimeter mortars, arrived and was asked how many he had, he exclaimed, “Hell, I don’t know, I haven’t been worth a damn since the jump.”50 Back at the airstrip, most of the 1st Battalion personnel had reached an assembly area on the west side of the landing ﬁeld by midday. Around 12:30 P.M., seventeen C-47s ﬂew over the captured airstrip and dropped tons of supplies to the paratroopers. Later, an additional ﬁfteen tons would be dropped by ﬁve B-17s.51 After determining that there were no enemy troops in the area, as per their orders, they began to ready the strip for the airlift that was scheduled to arrive in less than twenty-four hours. At ﬁrst, the men began hacking at the tall kunai grass with their issued machetes. Soon, however, the toughness of the grass, combined with the oppressive heat and humidity, began to sap each soldier’s strength. To quicken the job, the men set ﬁre to the grass.52

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Unfortunately, everybody in the 1st Battalion forgot to warn the gunners of the Australian 2/4th Field Artillery Regiment. The unwary Australians were still with their one and only discovered gun in the middle of the kunai grass when the ﬁeld was set on ﬁre. “[O]nly the bushmanship of some of the gunners saved their position from being destroyed.” It will never be known how much equipment and how many unrecovered parachutes were destroyed in the runaway ﬁre before it was ﬁnally put out.53 Around 3:30 P.M., after going 1,500 yards to the east on the coconut road, the 2nd Battalion paratroopers came upon a small clearing that had been targeted by the B-25s. Riseley remembered, “Moved out of the jungle and into a clearing—the trail across the clearing is a tribute to the air force. Every ten yards or so there is a new bomb crater.” A half hour later, at the edge of another coconut grove, the men found Gabsonkek and discovered that it was completely deserted. In fact, noted Riseley, “parts of it had not been lived in for some time.” Having reached their objective, Jones set up the battalion command post in an abandoned hut. “This isn’t the tactical thing to do,” admitted Riseley, “but when it rains, it’s mighty convenient.” By 5:00 P.M., the last of the 2nd Battalion stragglers were dragging themselves into Gabsonkek.54 After the B-25s had bombed the north shore of the Markham River and after the paratroopers had all been dropped, the Australian engineers and pioneers, along with the natives waiting on the south shore, slowly came out of hiding and began building a pontoon bridge across the wide river. Using the nine remaining collapsible boats brought downriver by the 2/6th Field Engineer Company, the 2/2nd Pioneer Battalion and its native helpers managed to build a temporary span across the river. Moving cautiously forward, the men ﬁnally reached the 1st Battalion command post around 4:30 P.M. and immediately began working on clearing and extending the Nadzab runway.55 Around 6:00 P.M., the entire 503rd PIR began to dig in. The regimental command post had been set up about 500 yards west of the airﬁeld with the regimental aid station only 100 yards away. Although there was still no radio contact between battalions, wounded and injured men began to ﬁlter in to both the regimental and battalion aid stations.56 It would take a few days before everyone was accounted for, but in the end, it was determined that each battalion had one man perish in the jump. Two men, Cpl. John M. Parker of the 2nd Battalion’s HQ Company and Pvt. Paul E. Blumﬁeld of the 1st Battalion’s Company C died from “total parachute failure.” With the men jumping from such low altitude, it was almost impossible to deploy a reserve parachute if the main chute failed to open. Although Parker’s body would be recovered from the kunai grass in a few days, the body of Blumﬁeld was consumed in the ﬁre of September 5 and not found until much later. The third trooper to die, PFC Gerald S. Rogers of Company G, 3rd Battalion, was one of the many men from the 3rd Battalion

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who landed in the trees. When he attempted to cut himself down, he fell sixty feet to the ground, fracturing both ankles. The regimental surgeon determined that the cause of his death was “probably shock.”57 A total of thirty-four additional troopers were seriously injured in the jump, most sustaining ankle or leg injuries. The 1st Battalion suffered thirteen jump injuries, the 2nd Battalion had six, and the 3rd Battalion, which had emerged late from their planes and had about half of their men overshoot the drop zone and land in the trees, suffered fourteen. The regimental surgeon wrote, “The jump casualties . . . only include those . . . evacuated; not those treated on the ﬁeld and [at] battalion dispensaries and then returned to duty. Several sprains were [treated] on the ﬁeld . . . with excellent results. The individual continuing combat assignment.”58 As night began to fall on the Nadzab area, the tired but triumphant paratroopers dug individual foxholes and hunkered down for the night. In spite of their exhaustion, many remained wide awake, certain that the Japanese would take advantage of the darkness to inﬁltrate their positions.59

CHAPTER 11

Baptism of Fire

P

aratrooper Louis G. Aiken was a member of Company B of the 1st Battalion, but just before nightfall on September 5, 1943, he and ﬁfteen or twenty other men from his company found themselves just outside of the perimeter of the 2nd Battalion’s command post. They had followed 1st Lt. William T. Bossert into the area on their way to establish a forward outpost between Nadzab and Lae. “When we arrived,” Aiken recounted, “it was rather late in the day and everybody was dug in and had made preparations for whatever might occur on this ﬁrst night in a Combat Zone.” Although the Company B men had wanted to dig their foxholes inside the 2nd Battalion’s perimeter, they were told to remain on the outside and dig in along each side of the road they had come in on.1 As the sun set, Bossert, Aiken, and the rest of the Company B men sat low in their individual foxholes, spaced about ten to ﬁfteen feet apart. “Nightfall and all is quiet,” Aiken wrote, “and then sometime, to the best of my knowledge, between ten and twelve midnight, all hell broke loose in the 2nd Battalion C.P. [command post].” Without warning, jittery paratroopers of the 2nd Battalion suddenly began a wild ﬁreﬁght.2 Lieutenant Riseley was inside the 2nd Battalion’s perimeter and remembered what happened. “Gabsonkek is on the edge of a coconut grove, and every time a coconut would fall, someone would imagine it to be a personal attack on his foxhole and let go with a tommy gun, machine gun, or anything he had.”3 Caught on the outside of the perimeter, Aiken was totally in the dark about what triggered the ﬁring. I sat there in my foxhole and dug a little deeper trying to figure out what was going on. Man, I figured this was it. Japs were everywhere and the continuous firing and explosions of hand grenades convinced me I was absolutely right. Before daylight came I had about twenty clips of M-1 ammo stacked on the lip of my foxhole, a machete, a knuckle-type trench knife for hand to hand combat, a bayonet and several hand grenades all in position in front of me and I was ready and scared as hell.4

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Chaos reigned supreme inside the 2nd Battalion’s perimeter. Companies D and F got into a grenade ﬁght, tossing lethal bombs at one another, and 1st Lt. William N. McRoberts was almost bayoneted in the throat by one of his own men when he crawled over to one of the machine-gun foxholes. The only bright spot in this wild melee came from Company E. “[There was ﬁring] throughout the battalion,” Riseley said, “except for the positions of Company E. Capt. [Davis P.] Falcon exhibited a high state of discipline by not ﬁring [a] shot.”5 “I guess it was around 2:00 or 3:00 A.M. [on] 6 September 1943,” Aiken continued, “when I hear a loud thud as if something or someone had [thrown] a heavy object to the ground and this was followed by some grunts and cussing. Man this is it! Japs done got into one of my buddies’ fox holes.” In the morning, when the ﬁring died down, Aiken discovered that a coconut had fallen into the foxhole of Briggs Dayton, one of the Company B men. “Briggs said he stabbed that thing seven or eight times before it gave up and [he] realized he had won,” Aiken said dryly.6 With the coming of daylight, the men began cautiously looking around and comparing notes, discovering their mistake. Suddenly, things seemed funny, and the men had a good laugh. That’s when the men began telling what they had seen or done. Somebody told about seeing a large body near one of the trees and opening ﬁre on it. The “body” turned out to be a large hanging water bag. When the draining water sprayed into a nearby foxhole, the occupant of the hole naturally ﬁgured that somebody was bleeding on him. Somebody else reported seeing one of the lieutenants pulling the pins and throwing hand grenades like they were going out of style. When he ran out of hand grenades, he began pulling the pins on the C rations and throwing the cans at the enemy. In spite of all the bullets and hand grenades, only one man was slightly wounded. “[I]t was quite funny,” wrote Aiken, “but damn serious.”7 Inside the 1st Battalion’s area beside the airﬁeld, the American paratroopers and Australian gunners had tried to get some sleep while the Australian engineers and pioneers, instructing the native levees, continued to work on the airstrip. Before going to sleep, instead of eating their “bully” beef, the Australian gunners enjoyed American C rations and then curled up inside their green silk parachutes.8 By 8:30 A.M., the airstrip was ready. The original landing strip had been 1,500 feet long and overgrown with twelve-foot-high kunai grass from twelve months of inactivity. Working throughout the night, the Australian 2/6th Engineer Field Company and 2/2nd Pioneer Battalion, assisted by the 800 natives of Company B of the Papuan Infantry Battalion, had cleared the kunai grass and extended the runway out to 3,300 feet. It was an amazing example of human endurance and fortitude.9

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Shortly after the airstrip was ready, a small Piper Cub observation plane set down on the newly lengthened runway. Almost immediately, Colonel Kinsler climbed in beside the pilot, and the plane was back in the air. Worried about the abandoned parachutes, Kinsler wanted to get up above the kunai grass ﬁelds and use the advantage of height to spot as many as he could. For the next two days, much to the disgust of his men, who remained active on the ground sending out patrols and reconnoitering the area around the captured airstrip, Kinsler circled high above the three different drop zones searching for missing parachutes.10 At 10:00 A.M. on September 6, the ﬁrst C-47 landed on the new handmade runway. Coming in on those ﬁrst few C-47s were two small bulldozers and twelve ﬂamethrowers. In a further attempt to burn away the side brush from the extended runway, the 1st Battalion’s paratroopers and the Australian pioneers employed the ﬂamethrowers. Once again, however, the ﬂames got out of hand and burned for two hours before burning themselves out. One day later, the 1st Battalion’s historian wrote, “Grass ﬁres from previous day swept through jump ﬁeld and most of the 1st Battalion chutes and some initial drop bundles were destroyed.”11 Throughout the day, the 503rd PIR was kept busy retrieving supplies, collecting abandoned parachutes, conducting patrols, and evacuating their wounded. Because the 1st and 3rd Battalions had set up their command posts near the airﬁeld, they took their supplies directly from the arriving C-47s, but the 2nd Battalion, far to the north of the airﬁeld, relied on the circling B-17s, which continued to make paradrops when indicated.12 With the coming of daylight, the Australian gun crews managed to locate and assemble all of the pieces of their second gun. With both guns assembled and ready for action, a couple of forward observers moved to the south where the 2/2nd Pioneer Battalion was stationed, while two more observers went to the 2nd Battalion’s command post at Gabsonkek to join a patrol headed north up a mountainous jungle road leading toward Wewak, a Japanese stronghold. After calling in two shots onto what turned out to be an abandoned Japanese pillbox, the Americans paratroopers and the two Australian observers set up a defensive position beside the road and waited.13 Around 11:30 A.M., the ﬁrst C-47s carrying General Vasey’s headquarters and part of the 25th Infantry Brigade of the Australian 7th Division from Marilinan Field near Tsili Tsili began landing at Nadzab. Riding along on one of the ﬁrst planes was Vasey himself, who immediately set out to see ﬁrsthand what the 503rd PIR had captured. While Australian forward observer Ian Robertson was busy on the trail to the north of the 2nd Battalion command post laying communication wire back to the two 25-pounder howitzers stationed near the airﬁeld, a “cheerful ofﬁcer” walked by. After the ofﬁcer commented on the drop of the two guns, Robertson looked up from his work and

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into the man’s eyes. To his surprise, it was Vasey, “who told Ian he was ‘doing a good job,’ encouraged him to ‘keep it up,’ and wandered off along the track, completely alone.”14 Once on the ground, the ﬁrst elements of 25th Infantry Brigade assembled and readied themselves for a move east along the Markham River toward Lae. By September 10, the entire brigade, about 3,700 men and their equipment and jeeps, had been airlifted from Marilinan and Port Moresby to Nadzab. That day, they started their overland trek toward Lae. Back at Port Moresby, General Kenney could proudly report that by September 11, ﬁve days after the ﬁrst C-47 had landed at Nadzab, his airplanes had brought in 420 planeloads of men and equipment.15 At 12:40 P.M. on September 7, advance elements of the U.S. 871st Engineer Aviation Battalion ﬂew into Nadzab from Tsili Tsili to put the ﬁnal touches on the construction of the Nadzab airstrip. At that point, the 1st Battalion of the 503rd PIR was relieved of its duties associated with the building and maintaining of the airstrip. Within two weeks, the American engineers had two 6,000-foot runways up and operational and were working on constructing six more. In time, Nadzab would become the largest airﬁeld in northern New Guinea.16 As more and more Australians of the 7th Division arrived, the 503rd PIR was eventually relieved of all duties around the airﬁeld and began waiting for the day when they would all return to Port Moresby or Australia. According to one historian, “MacArthur did not want parachute troops doing what regular infantry troops could do. MacArthur directed that after relief by supporting troops, parachute units should be withdrawn to prepare for future operations.”17 There had been about 10,000 Japanese soldiers of the 51st Division around Lae in early July of 1943, but the American landing at Nassau Bay and the overland approach of the Australian column from Buna had drawn most of the men down to the Salamaua area by the end of August. On September 8, however, after the landings of the 9th Australian Division east of Lae and the parachute landings of the 503rd PIR and airlift of the Australian 25th Infantry Brigade of the 7th Division at Nadzab to the west of Lae threatened to cut these troops off, the Japanese commander in the area, Lt. Gen. Hatazo Adachi, ordered the Salamaua garrison to withdraw back to Lae.18 On September 11, one day after the 25th Infantry Brigade began moving east toward Lae, the main body of Japanese soldiers began their withdrawal from Salamaua. While delaying forces at Lae fought the Australian infantry closing in from two sides, the Salamaua garrison moved as fast as they could over jungle roads to avoid capture. While he tried to hold his ﬂanks, General Adachi began pulling the ﬁrst of his troops out of Lae on September 12, moving them north toward Kiari and Lio on the north coast of the Huon Peninsula. On that date, Salamaua was ﬁnally occupied by the Aus-

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tralian 5th Division. By September 14, when the last of the Salamaua garrison reached Lae, more than two-thirds of Adachi’s 51st Division had already abandoned the latter village.19 On the day in between, September 13, at about 5:00 P.M., the 503rd PIR had its baptism of ﬁre. Lieutenant Bossert and a patrol of twenty-nine men from Company B were about one day’s march east of Nadzab, moving up a muddy mountain trail, when they ran into a fortiﬁed Japanese position. Immediately, Bossert deployed his men, sending one squad to outﬂank the enemy on the right while he led another squad around to the left. When a gap developed in the center, Sgt. Edward T. Wojewodzic reconnoitered the area and quickly moved his own squad to plug the opening. He then “led a daring frontal attack which routed the enemy from their position and saved his patrol from heavy casualties.” Mortally wounded in the left shoulder and chest during the assault, Wojewodzic became the ﬁrst American paratrooper to die from enemy ﬁre in the Paciﬁc. For his actions during the encounter, Wojewodzic was posthumously awarded a Distinguished Service Cross.20 With enough Australian units on the ground and the 871st Engineer Aviation Battalion in charge of the airstrip, the 503rd PIR was free to go. On September 14, the 1st Battalion’s paratroopers, minus Bossert and his patrol from Company B, climbed aboard the departing C-47s for the trip back to Port Moresby and the temporary base camp.21 The 3rd Battalion was the next group scheduled to return to Port Moresby but after moving down to the airstrip to enplane, they were suddenly told to grab their equipment and hurry toward the east. The Australian 7th Division was pushing in closer toward Lae, and the Japanese were on the run. Since there were not enough Australian troops to attack the village and still cover the escape routes, the 3rd Battalion of the 503rd PIR had been tagged to plug one of the gaps.22 Trooper Broadwell was a part of this hurried group and recalled: We were told the Japanese were escaping along a trail, so they forcemarched us nearly double time. We marched and carried full field equipment. We were exhausted. It got to the point where some of the guys couldn’t make it. We had some of the older men in the battalion in my squad. We sat down. One of the lieutenants said, “Get up!” I said, “Lieutenant, I’m not getting up.” I said, “If these men get up there [to the trail], one man [Japanese] could whup all of us. I can make it, but they can’t make it. They have to have some rest. Go on in front of us, and we’ll meet you with the rest of the men. We’ll all be together. Just give the men some rest. . . . When we get there, we’ll be ready to go into combat.” We made it up to the trail, and that night they put us in foxholes.23

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After hurrying along an old overgrown prewar road that connected Nadzab to Lae, the 3rd Battalion’s paratroopers ﬁnally stopped and dug in around the village of Yalu, about ten miles east of the airstrip. Here, the prewar road angled southeast, cutting between a low mountain and the Markham River. This was the route that the Australians were taking to get into Lae. On the other side of the mountain was a narrow, heavily overgrown jungle trail. This was the route that the Japanese were taking to get out of Lae. Since the Australians were already engaged with the Japanese rear guard far down the prewar road, only the 503rd PIR could be spared to be hurried over to Yalu to stop the Japanese escape around the other side of the mountain. As the sun began to set on September 14, Lieutenant Colonel Tolson and his 3rd Battalion paratroopers waited nervously for their baptism of ﬁre.24 Broadwell recalled: We were in a native village, and someone yelled, ‘Knee mortar!’ I was with Lieutenant Colonel Tolson. I got behind a tree and, goddamn, the men jumped up and were running like quails. They were running together, bunched up—something you are not supposed to do. [Tolson] called several guys by name and said, ‘At ease, at ease, men.’ Everybody just settled down and relaxed and spread out. Everybody respected him. It was the first time we’d ever been shot at. Under the cover of darkness the Japanese were trying to get around the roadblock established by the 3rd Battalion. “The Japs started crossing a creek,” continued Broadwell, “and we started throwing grenades. They were stragglers.” The next day, September 15, Tolson sent out patrols. Around 4:00 P.M., Lt. Lyle M. Murphy’s Company I platoon ran into a large group of escaping Japanese near a small collection of native huts called Log Crossing. Soon other platoons from Company I were rushed into the fray, and eventually, Jack Tolson committed the entire 3rd Battalion. As a platoon from Company G moved along a lightly wooded ridge to outﬂank the small village, they were ﬁred on from behind by an enemy patrol. S/Sgt. Allie B. Whittington was bringing up the rear of his platoon and turned to see thirty-ﬁve Japanese soldiers advancing on him. Instead of seeking cover, Whittington shouted a warning to his platoon leader and opened ﬁre, trying to buy some time for the rest of the paratroopers to seek cover. In rapid succession, the staff sergeant killed three enemy soldiers before a machine-gun burst hit him in the right side of the neck, killing him instantly. Whittington’s devotion to duty and “gallant conduct . . . saved his platoon from grave danger” and won him a Distinguished Service Cross.25

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The ﬁghting around Log Crossing continued throughout the rest of the day. Two more paratroopers from Company G and one from Company I were killed, and two more men from Company G were wounded. When darkness fell, the paratroopers dug in, establishing a perimeter around the village. Throughout the night, there was an occasional half-hearted attempt by the Japanese to break through the line, but when the sun rose, the enemy were gone. Tolson’s roadblock had held, and the Japanese had been forced to ﬁnd another way out of Lae.26 The ﬁreﬁght in the Yalu village area had cost the 503rd PIR four men killed and two wounded. In return, they had killed approximately forty Japanese soldiers. Including their losses during the combat drop into Nadzab and the death of Sergeant Wojewodzic, the 503rd PIR had lost a total of eleven men killed and forty-ﬁve wounded or injured. On September 16, the Australians captured Lae and sent out a force to relieve Tolson’s 3rd Battalion. The next day, the 2nd Battalion’s paratroopers and regimental headquarters group were airlifted to Port Moresby. On September 19, the troopers from the blooded 3rd Battalion followed. By nightfall on the nineteenth, the entire 503rd was back at its base camp at 17 Mile near Port Moresby.27 Although there had been 10,000 Japanese troops in Lae or Salamaua at the beginning of the Nadzab campaign, more than 4,000 of them died by the time the 51st Division reached Kiari and Lio. Over 1,000 men were killed outright battling the Australian and American forces, 600 perished from illness and exhaustion during the month long trek through the New Guinea jungle to reach the north coast of the Huan Peninsula, and 2,500 died from their wounds during the long retreat. The amphibious and airborne moves against Lae had been a complete success, “a brilliant employment of all available sources of ﬁrepower and maneuver.”28 The combat parachute drop of the 503rd PIR at Nadzab, New Guinea, was the first truly successful American parachute drop of World War II. Although the paratroopers had landed in the tall kunai grass and had taken an extraordinary amount of time to reach their assembly areas, by the end of the day, all of their objectives had been met. The 1st Battalion had seized the airstrip area and was working on clearing the field, even before linking up with the Australian engineers and pioneers. The 2nd Battalion had seized Gabsonkek village and had troops set up to the northwest, north, and east. The 3rd Battalion had established a defensive perimeter from the Markham River to the east side of the airfield. In less than twenty-four hours, the Nadzab airfield was up and running, and the Australian 7th Division was being brought in. Every objective assigned to the 503rd PIR had been attained.29 Without a doubt, the parachute drop of the 503rd at Nadzab helped hasten the fall of Lae and Salamaua. When the paratroopers seized the aban-

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doned airstrip, the Japanese suddenly had a potent force at their own back door. Already facing foes in front of them at Salamaua and to the east of them at Lae, the parachute drop on Nadzab suddenly forced the Japanese to realize that they had been surrounded. After the war, Colonel Shinohara, a Japanese intelligence ofﬁcer with the Eighth Army, which had included the 51st Division, stated, “We were retreating from the Salamaua area . . . when Allied paratroopers landed at Nadzab, which was one place where we thought the enemy would never attack. The remaining elements of our 51st Division were virtually cut in half by this surprise pincer movement.”30 By seizing the airstrip, the 503rd also made it possible for the Australian 7th Division to be airlifted into Nadzab for their advance on Lae.31 When the 503rd PIR had reassembled at 17 Mile encampment, MacArthur sent Colonel Kinsler a telegram: Now that the fall of Lae is an accomplished fact, I wish to make of record the splendid and important part taken by five nought three parachute infantry regiment stop under your able leadership, your officers and men exhibited the highest order of combat efficiency stop please express to all ranks my gratification and deep pride.32 Perhaps the most important thing that the 503rd PIR accomplished by the highly successful combat parachute drop on Nadzab was to save the life of the American airborne division. After the disastrous mass parachute drops in North Africa and Sicily, Gen. Lesley McNair, the commanding officer of the U.S. Army Ground Force, had been ready to abandon the idea of airborne divisions. He felt that the army had gone too far in wanting to create mass paratrooper jumps and had begun to believe that the army should scale back and concentrate on nothing larger than a battalion-size jump in which the troopers would be used to seize a few keys spots and cause a slight disruption behind enemy lines until relieved by other ground troops. Even before the 503rd PIR dropped on Nadzab, Chief of Staff Gen. George Marshall, reacting to McNair’s beliefs, had commissioned an investigation to look into the success or failure of mass parachute drops behind enemy lines. Marshall wanted to know if training procedures could be changed and operating procedures used more effectively. He chose General Swing, commander of a newly created airborne division, the 11th Airborne Division, and a ﬁrm believer in airborne doctrine, to do some research. Swing had already looked into the North African and Sicilian operations for Eisenhower and had concluded that both would have been successful if employed properly. The question Swing had to answer, however, was how a large-scale parachute drop could be employed properly. To put this question

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to the test, Marshall demanded that a large-scale airborne exercise be conducted in North Carolina in early December 1943, using the existing airborne divisions.33 The Swing Board, as it became known, consisted of ofﬁcers representing the paratroopers, the glider infantry, the U.S. Army Air Force, and the artillery. The board met in mid-September, after the Nadzab operation, and by the end of the month, it had forwarded twelve recommendations to Marshall. The ﬁrst four dealt with coordination between the Airborne and Troop Carrier Commands, which resulted in the publication of War Department Training Circular 113 entitled Employment of Airborne and Troop Carrier Forces. In studying the North Africa and Sicily disasters, the board had discovered that there was no “unity of command” between the airborne elements and the troop carriers. However, the only operation that the booklet mentioned by name was the Nadzab operation, pointing out that since both the airborne and troop carrier had been under the control of one directing force—that is, MacArthur—this force maintained the necessary authority to coordinate all ground, air, and sea forces.34 The War Department training publication suggested that paratroopers should be dropped in mass over one speciﬁc target in one wave, instead of in several waves over several days, as had happened at Sicily. This meant that a successful mass drop needed the necessary amount of transport planes, something that Kenney had stressed and MacArthur had agreed to, even pushing the date of the Nadzab operation back one month.35 The document also stressed the need for joint training between the airborne and troop carrier units and raised the idea that airborne operations should not be conducted unless they can be relieved by ground troops within three days.36 While airborne and glider troops could be used to fall behind enemy lines and seize key objectives and disrupt enemy lines of communication and transportation, they were not meant to stay in the area forever. If left unsupported, they would eventually be surrounded and annihilated. Recommendations 5 through 8 of the Swing Board dealt with the proper use of troop carriers. As Swing saw it, the primary role of the troop carriers was for the transportation of paratroopers or the pulling of gliders. After that, troop carriers could be used for the movement of other forces and supplies, the evacuation of wounded, emergency supply drops, and other purposes. As should have been expected, the War Department did not agree. The department felt that the troop carriers were being effectively used within each theater of operations in their present roles of supply and movement, but that they could be brought together in large numbers and used by the airborne troops whenever necessary. However, it was stressed that both the airborne units and the troop carrier units had to be given enough time to train together and coordinate everything for an upcoming operation.37

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Finally, the last four recommendations had to do with such various issues as the development of navigational aids to assist in ﬁnding the drop zone, packaging and delivery of supplies, and the assignment of an airborne advisor to each commanding general of a theater of operations. Although not all twelve recommendations of the Swing Board were implemented, they did open a few eyes within the War Department. On November 23, Secretary of War Henry L. Stimson watched Swing’s 11th Airborne Division stage a nighttime parachute and glider demonstration at Camp Mackall near Hoffman, North Carolina. Impressed by what he saw, Stimson wrote to Swing a few days later, “The Airborne Infantry Division will render outstanding service to our country on some not too far distant D-Day.”38 During the ﬁrst week in December, the 11th Airborne Division and the new 17th Airborne Division staged the mock exercise that Marshall had wanted. The maneuver called for the 11th Airborne, with the 501st PIR and 874th Airborne Engineer Battalion attached, to attack and capture Knollwood Airport and three other nearby airports in north central North Carolina from the 17th Airborne and the 541st PIR, which had been organized at Fort Benning, Georgia, on August 12. The exercise was deemed so important to the existence of the airborne divisions that Undersecretary of War Robert Patterson and General McNair came to North Carolina to watch.39 On the night of December 6, almost 4,700 “attacking” paratroopers from 200 C-47s and almost 1,900 glider troops in 234 CG-4A gliders of the 53rd Troop Carrier Wing dropped on Knollwood Airport and the three nearby airﬁelds. “The units assembled in the dark and gathered their gear as rapidly as conditions permitted,” crowed the 11th Airborne’s historian. “The artillerymen found the pieces of their howitzers, assembled them, and moved to ﬁring positions.” Advancing against the defending soldiers, the attacking troops had all four airports in their possession by daylight. Airlandings over the next ﬁve days brought in an additional 3,734 men, as well as 295 quarter-ton trucks, 274 quarter-ton trailers, and 326 tons of supplies as the two “enemy” divisions “went through simulated combat against the defenders of the objectives.”40 On December 16, a few days after returning from watching the maneuvers, McNair sent an early Christmas present to Swing. In his assessment of the Knollwood Maneuvers, he wrote: I congratulate you on the splendid performance of your division in the Knollwood maneuver. After the airborne operations in Africa and Sicily, my staff and I had become convinced of the impracticality of handling large airborne units. I was prepared to recommend to the War Department that airborne divisions be abandoned in our

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scheme of organization and that the airborne effort be restricted to parachute units of battalion size or smaller. The successful performance of your division has convinced me that we were wrong, and I shall now recommend that we continue our present schedule of activating, training, and committing airborne divisions.41 The achievements of the two airborne divisions in North Carolina and the successful combat drop of the 503rd PIR in the Paciﬁc had breathed new life into the American airborne division concept. In a letter written after the war, Lt. Col. George M. Jones, who commanded the 2nd Battalion, 503rd PIR, during the Nadzab campaign wrote, “When the 503d put all three battalions on their jump targets within 41⁄2 minutes and, of course, with MacArthur looking on with members of his staff from an observation plane, it was bound to affect the thinking of the people in the War Department that said paratrooping was not a feasible means of entering troops into combat. We will never know, but in my opinion, the jump saved the airborne effort.”42 The next combat parachute drop in the Paciﬁc would not take place until July 1944. In the meantime, one of the two divisions that had participated in the Knollwood maneuvers would ﬁnd its way to the Paciﬁc to ready itself for its ﬁrst combat drop.

CHAPTER 12

Birth of a Division, Death of a Program

T

he 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions had been activated on August 15, 1942. Both divisions had been fully trained infantry units prior to being designated “airborne.” Both would eventually be shipped to Europe. The 11th Airborne Division was the ﬁrst airborne division to be built entirely from the ground up—created with recruits and trained as a unit—and would be the only airborne division to see action in the Paciﬁc.1 Out of all of the units that would eventually make up the 11th Airborne, the 511th PIR was the ﬁrst to be formed. Created under Airborne Command at Fort Benning on November 12, 1942, but not activated until January 1943, command of the 511th PIR was given to Lt. Col. Orin D. Haugen, a thirtyfour-year-old graduate of West Point’s class of 1930. A former company commander in the 501st PIR and afterward the executive ofﬁcer of the 505th PIR, Haugen had a great deal of experience and training with paratroopers despite his young age.2 As usual, the new parachute regiment would be built around a cadre of troopers formed from other parachute regiments. To prevent getting the castoffs, Haugen and Maj. Glen McGowan, his executive ofﬁcer, interviewed each and every nominee. One week before Thanksgiving 1942, though still under Airborne Command jurisdiction, the hand-selected core moved north out of overcrowded Fort Benning to Camp Toccoa in the Georgia hills.3 Once at Camp Toccoa, the 511th PIR began to ﬁll out with volunteers sent over from various infantry training centers, spurred on by the “sales pitch” from a visiting McGowan. For the most part, the ofﬁcers were recruited from the 28th Infantry Division while the enlisted men came from the 88th Infantry Division. Right from the start, Haugen set a tough training schedule for his new recruits, pushing them through close-order drill and having them double-time up and down Currahee Mountain. On January 5, 1943, the 511th PIR was ofﬁcially activated. At that time, most people in the War Department ﬁgured that the 511th PIR would become a regimental combat team (RCT), remaining regimental in size but having other units attached, including artillery and engineers. It was

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also imagined that the unit would see combat in Europe. By late February, however, even before all of the regimental numbers had been filled, the 511th PIR was pegged to be the core unit of a new airborne division destined to go to the Pacific. On February 21, the first elements of the regiment moved from Fort Toccoa to Camp Mackall, a new airborne camp in North Carolina.4 One of the last camps to be built by the Army Corps of Engineers in World War II, the 61,971-acre Camp Mackall had originally been named Camp Hoffman, after the nearby town of Hoffman. Started on November 8, 1942, Camp Hoffman, about thirty-ﬁve miles west of Fayetteville, became the home of the Airborne Command and was intended solely for the use of airborne units. Hastily thrown together because of the rapid expansion of the wartime army, Camp Hoffman had many problems, including outdoor latrines and shower rooms, buildings heated with pot-bellied stoves, unpaved roads, and battalion-size mess halls. One of the biggest problems was the single-story barracks buildings, whose boards—built from young North Carolina pine and covered with black tarpaper—began to dry and shrink, causing cracks in the walls and ﬂoors. Busy with other projects around the base, including the construction of three 5,000-foot runways, the army engineers ignored the growing problems.5 On February 8, 1943, during the middle of all of this construction, the War Department decided to change the name of Camp Hoffman to Camp Mackall, after Pvt. John T. Mackall of the 509th Parachute Infantry Battalion. The young private had been one of the ﬁrst paratroopers to be killed in action when his C-47 was strafed by a Vichy French plane during the attack on North Africa. In spite of the new name, the primitive conditions at Camp Mackall remained the same.6 When the 511th PIR moved into its new home, they became the core unit of the newly activated 11th Airborne Division. On February 25, 1943, the War Department had activated the new airborne division at Camp Mackall and placed it in General Swing’s able hands . Upon reaching the site of his new command, Swing immediately reported the primitive living conditions to the army’s chief of engineers in Washington, DC. Although there would be slight improvement over the next few months, most of the problems persisted during the entire stay of the 11th Airborne at Camp Mackall.7 The 511th PIR came to Camp Mackall in ﬁts and spurts, with the 3rd Battalion not arriving until mid-March. As it turned out, it was advantageous to have the regiment come in piecemeal since the newly constructed camp was ill prepared to house and train the entire regiment. “The new facilities, training sites, roads and infrastructure were not overtaxed at the start,” wrote a 511th PIR historian. “As each battalion advanced in training, they moved to new areas and let the next battalion ﬁll in behind.”8

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While the 511th PIR was assembling, the cadres of the other units assigned to the 11th Airborne were also arriving at Mackall. The nucleuses for the 187th and 188th Glider Infantry Regiments (GIRs) and the 674th and 675th Glider Field Artillery Battalions came from the 88th Infantry Division at Camp Gruber, Oklahoma, and from the Airborne Command. The new division’s quartermaster and ordnance units—the 408th Airborne Quartermaster Company and 711th Airborne Ordnance Maintenance Company, which repaired weapons and maintained the jeeps and trucks—were both activated on November 12 at Camp Gruber and Miller Field, New York, respectively. The men selected to be the heart of the engineer, signal, medical, and antiaircraft companies and batteries would come from their own parent training centers. According to an 11th Airborne historian, “Most of the cadremen, trained as ‘ground-pounders,’ were shocked when they found out they were being assigned to ‘glider’ outﬁts. Most of them had not even heard of such a bizarre way to enter combat. They were also a little surprised to ﬁnd out that they had no choice in the matter like the paratroopers, who were volunteers.”9 The gliders on which the 11th’s glider troops would train would be the motorless Waco CG-4A. The body of the glider consisted of a skeleton made of small-gauge steel tubing, a plywood ﬂoor, and a canvas covering. The cockpit area had large Plexiglas windows and was hinged at the top so that it could be lifted up to allow the occupants or transported weapons or supplies to come out through the front. Troops entered through a portside rear door. The CG-4A had a wingspan of eighty-four feet and a length of forty-nine feet, making it big enough to carry two pilots and thirteen fully equipped “gliderriders,” a jeep and six soldiers, or a 75-millimeter pack howitzer and six men. The ﬂimsy, lightweight CG-4A gliders were usually towed into ﬂight by a sturdy C-47 troop transport.10 By the time the 11th was being formed, the Parachute Test Battery had ﬁnished its tests at Fort Benning and had indeed determined that dropping an artillery battery by parachute was feasible. The gun that the test battery settled on was the 1,268-pound 75-millimeter pack howitzer, which was capable of being disassembled into seven different sections, with each section weighing about 180 pounds. The test battery had also discovered that the seven pieces could be wrapped in specially developed padded cargo bundles, and along with two additional bundles containing the ammunition and an ammunition cart, they could be carried in or under a C-47 for delivery to the drop zone. After much experimentation, the test battery ﬁgured that six bundles could be carried beneath the belly of the plane while three were carried inside. Once it was determined how to deliver an artillery piece by parachute, the problem arose about how to get all of the pieces to fall close enough together to allow quick reassembly. The problem was ﬁnally solved by the use of a long

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heavy-duty nylon rope. With the rope connected to each piece, the nine different bundles were shoved or dropped from the plane and ﬂoated down fairly close to each other. The battery crews then only had to follow immediately afterward, locate at least one bundle, and follow the nylon cord to the other eight. It was all quite simple, but it seldom worked exactly as planned.11 The 75-millimeter pack howitzer had been developed after World War I with the capability of being broken down so that the several pieces could be carried by army mules. The M8 pack howitzer, designed speciﬁcally for the airborne troops, was a bit lighter than the original gun but still measured a little over twelve feet long when fully assembled. A single-shot, breech-loaded artillery piece, the M8 could ﬁre up to six shots a minute with a well-trained crew. The effective range for the 75-millimeter pack howitzer was 9,610 yards. Originally designed to travel on thin steel wheels, rubber-tired wheels quickly replaced the steel ones when it was discovered that the pack howitzers would no longer be pulled by army mules or horses, but rather by the crew. The wider rubber tires made it much easier to move the heavy weapon over soft terrain.12 When the 11th was activated at Camp Mackall in February 1943, the 457th Parachute Artillery Battalion came to the division from Fort Bragg, North Carolina, where it had been activated on January 5.13 Although the parachute ﬁeld artillery ofﬁcers and men would receive the extra hazardous duty pay like the regular parachute infantrymen, in a strange quirk of fate, the War Department decided that the glider troops would not. Likewise, while the parachute troops were allowed to blouse their pants and wear their high-top jump boots in camp or on parade, the glider-riders could not. And, in another disparagement, the glider troops were issued standard army fatigues and helmets, while the paratroopers got the multipocketed jump coat and trousers and the special jump helmet with chin cup and inverted-A chin straps.14 To keep unity and prevent any jealousy, Swing issued an order that forbade the paratroopers from wearing their coveted Corcoran jump boots. If the glider soldiers could not wear them, then nobody could. Maj. Henry Muller, an ofﬁcer with the 511th PIR, recalled, “We were in a state of shock. That dreadful morning when we all had to put on ‘leggins’ . . . nearly broke our spirits—but not for long. . . . In the long run, it was good for us too-cocky paratroopers and helped prevent unhealthy rivalry between the paratroopers and the glidermen.”15 In another radical move, Swing decided to get as many people in the division as he could qualiﬁed for parachute jumps. At the same time, he also wanted them qualiﬁed for gliders. In this way, each group of personnel would know what the other had to go through while going into combat. As soon as he could, Swing set up a modiﬁed parachute school at Camp Mackall. According to an 11th Airborne historian, “Clerks, cooks, mechanics—the tra-

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ditionally ‘non-combatant’ soldiers—were offered the opportunity of qualifying as paratroopers. All but a few accepted the chance.”16 Beginning on March 15 and ending on June 21, the entire division went through thirteen weeks of “initial training,” with an “emphasis . . . on physical conditioning.” For the would-be paratroopers, the training was extra hard. “We run them until they don’t think they can go another step,” said one of the non-commissioned ofﬁcers in charge of the initial training. “Then we run ’em ﬁve more miles just to prove they can.” By the time the thirteen weeks concluded, about 25 percent of the original paratrooper recruits had quit and gone back to their infantry divisions.17 For the paratroopers, jump school at Fort Benning started in May, with each of the three battalions taking the three-week course one at a time. By now, Benning’s jump training had been streamlined into four regular stages. Stage A was one week of concentrated physical training. Stage B consisted of a week of classroom training and jumping from thirty-four-foot towers. Stage C took the men up to the 250-foot-high parachute towers that had been built to resemble the ones at Hightstown for one week of experiencing what it felt like to ﬂoat to earth in a controlled or freefall drop. Finally, Stage D included a week’s worth of qualifying jumps. Even with the streamlined course, a paratrooper was required to make ﬁve qualifying jumps before he earned his jump wings.18 While the paratroopers were earning their wings, the other specialized units were becoming more proﬁcient at their particular skills. The 187th and 188th GIRs went to nearby Laurinburg-Maxton Army Air Field for their glider training—“detailed instruction in all phases of loading and lashing gliders.” These Maxton-trained men then returned to Camp Mackall and gave “intensive instruction” to the rest of the division personnel.19 The members of the headquarters and HQ Battery of the 457th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion and the 674th and 675th Glider Field Artillery Battalions went to the artillery school at Fort Bragg while the 152nd Airborne Antiaircraft Battalion went to Fort Fisher, North Carolina, to ﬁre their .50caliber Browning air-cooled machine guns at target sleeves towed out over the Atlantic Ocean. When the artillery units returned to Mackall, they were “paired” with the infantry regiments—the 457th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion with the 511th PIR and the 674th and 675th Glider Field Artillery Battalions with the 187th and 188th GIRs.20 The 511th Airborne Signal Company worked with the newest of radios and signal equipment, and the 127th Airborne Engineer Battalion stayed at Fort Mackall and learned how to construct bridges, set demolitions, cut roads, and build defensive positions with small diesel bulldozers. Even the division’s bands—the 511th PIR’s band and the 11th Airborne’s artillery band, both formed from National Guard bands—practiced their specialized craft.21

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Including all of the above units, plus division headquarters, HQ Company, the 221st Airborne Medical Company, the military police platoon, and the 408th Airborne Quartermaster Company (which now packed all of the parachutes), the 11th Airborne Division—on paper at least—contained 464 ofﬁcers, 29 warrant ofﬁcers, and 7,710 enlisted men, for a total of 8,203 men. On the books, the lone parachute infantry unit, the 511th PIR, had 134 ofﬁcers and warrant ofﬁcers and 1,824 men, a total of 1,958 men divided among three battalions (roughly 608 men per battalion). There were three battalions in each parachute regiment (1st, 2nd and 3rd), and each battalion contained three riﬂe companies: A, B, and C were in the 1st Battalion; D, E, and F in the 2nd; and G, H, and I in the 3rd. Each company had three platoons, and each platoon had three squads, one of which was a mortar squad.22 The two glider regiments, the 187th and 188th, each had 67 ofﬁcers and warrant ofﬁcers and 1,538 men, a total of 1,605 men divided between two battalions. (A third battalion would be added in late 1944–early 1945.) Once again, each battalion had three riﬂe companies. Unlike the parachute regiment, the glider companies had only two riﬂe platoons with three riﬂe squads each. The 457th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion had three batteries (A through C) with four guns each while both the 674th and 675th Glider Field Artillery Battalions had two batteries (A and B) with six guns each.23 While the airborne divisions had a total of 8,203 ofﬁcers and men, a regular infantry division contained 13,668 ofﬁcers and men. Unfortunately, many commanders in the ﬁeld never appreciated the fact that an airborne division contained 5,000 fewer soldiers than a regular infantry division.24 By the summer of 1943, the U.S. Marine Corps was beginning to wonder if it really needed parachute battalions after all. Following the 1st Marine Parachute Battalion’s capture of Gavutu Island in a knockdown, drag-out ﬁght with the Japanese in August 1942, the men were moved to Guadalcanal to help strengthen the American position there. After a few ﬁreﬁghts with the Japanese and dozens of cases of malaria, the paratroopers were pulled off Guadalcanal and eventually sent to a “‘dreadful’ transient camp” near Tonotouta on New Caledonia. After some hard work, the tired Marines transformed the area into a livable campsite, which they proudly called Camp Kiser after one of their ofﬁcers who had been killed at Gavutu. Although the men lived in the large pyramidal tents capable of housing six enlisted men or four ofﬁcers, they built mess halls and a parachute loft; by the beginning of November, they were in serious training once again.25 In January 1943, the 2nd Marine Parachute Battalion joined their brethren paratroopers at Camp Kiser. While the 1st Marine Parachute Battalion had been engaged in the Solomons, the West Coast–based 2nd had been training in “mass” jumps after ﬁnally being able to acquire fourteen R3D-2 transport planes. Once Company C (the last company) was ﬁlled and the

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men were properly trained, the 2nd Marine Parachute Battalion set sail from San Diego for New Zealand on October 20, 1942, arriving at Wellington on the thirty-ﬁrst. For the next three months, the Marine paratroopers had marked time in New Zealand until ﬁnally moving to New Caledonia on January 6, 1943.26 Prior to setting out for New Zealand, a nucleus of troopers had been detached from the 2nd Marine Parachute Battalion to create the 3rd Marine Parachute Battalion. Commanded by Maj. Robert T. Vance, the first company of the new battalion was activated on September 16, 1942, at San Diego. After following the same training regimen as the other Marine paratroopers, the 3rd took part in a simulated amphibious assault by parachuting onto San Clemente Island, California, in January 1943. Ready and eager, the 3rd Marine Parachute Battalion was sent to Camp Kiser in March 1943 to join the other two Marine Corps paratroop battalions that were already there.27 With all three existing Marine paratrained battalions now huddled in one area, the Marines formed the 1st Marine Parachute Regiment on April 1, with Lieutenant Colonel Williams of the veteran 1st Marine Parachute Battalion assuming command. The move was made possible because the U.S. Marine Corps had decided at the end of 1942 to remove the three parachute battalions from their respective divisions. Instead of acting under separate leadership, the three battalions were banded together and placed under the command of the I Marine Amphibious Corps. According to one historian, “This recognized their special training and unique mission and theoretically allowed them to withdraw from the battleﬁeld and rebuild while the divisions remained engaged in extended land combat.”28 During the late spring and early summer of 1943, the U.S. Marine Corps began to draw its parachute experiment to an end. Because of a lack of transport aircraft, which plagued the entire Marine Corps, the new 1st Marine Parachute Regiment was unable to practice mass parachute jumps after May. Instead, the troopers concentrated on “amphibious operations and ground combat.” At almost the same time, the East Coast Marine Corps Parachute School at New River, North Carolina, was shut down to make room for a growing Marine Corps Women’s Reserve. All of the trainees were sent to southern California, where they joined the 4th Marine Parachute Battalion, which had been formed in April. Never joining with the other Marine parachute units, the 4th Marine Parachute Battalion was subsequently deactivated on January 19, 1944.29 In the fall of 1943, the different battalions of the 1st Marine Parachute Regiment made amphibious landings and fought as ground troops on Choiseul Island, northwest of New Georgia, and on Bougainville in the Solomons. Everywhere they fought, they did so with distinction and bravery,

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but in January 1944, with the entire regiment collected on Guadalcanal, the U.S. Marine Corps’ parachute program came to an end. In December 1943, General Holcombe, who had started to question the practicality of special units, such as the paratroopers and the Marine raiders, started pounding in the nails on the parachute program cofﬁn lid. On December 21, with the knowledge and acceptance of the new commandant-designate, Lt. Gen. Alexander A. Vandegrift, Holcombe wrote to Adm. Ernest J. King, chief of naval operations, suggesting that the special units be disbanded. According to a member of King’s staff, suspension of the parachute program alone would save the corps $150,000 per month in jump pay, free up 3,000 personnel who could be used as a cadre to begin a new Marine division, eliminate the special training programs and some of the special weapons and equipment, and—in a branch of service that was already elite—“avoid setting up some organizations as elite or selected troops.” Still, the main reason for disbanding the paratroopers was the lack of Marine transport planes.30 In January and February 1944, all three overseas battalions of the 1st Marine Parachute Regiment were brought back to the United States, where the regiment was ofﬁcially disbanded on February 29, 1944. The former paratroopers and raiders would become the core of the newly created 5th Marine Division, which would go on to invade Iwo Jima in February 1945. Three exparatroopers would be involved in raising the ﬂag atop Mount Suribachi on February 23: Sgt. Henry O. Hansen would help raise the small ﬁrst ﬂag, while Cpl. Harlon H. Block and Cpl. Ira H. Hayes would be among the six men photographed raising the famous second ﬂag.31 Around September 12, 1943, after completing specialized training, the army’s 11th Airborne Division began tactical training, working on company-, battalion-, and regiment-size problems. The paratroopers were now making mass jumps to “capture” strategic targets. As a division historian wrote, “The ‘parade ground’ jumps were past.” Likewise, the glider troops were getting speciﬁc targets to “capture.” The historian continued, “[The] glider infantrymen were charging with full packs out of gliders landing in corn ﬁelds and rivers, in simulated attacks, instead of ‘going along for the ride.’”32 During the summer of 1943, the 11th Airborne’s men acquired a nickname that would stick with them forever. Because of the proud, rowdy attitude of many of the artillerymen that now wore paratrooper wings, Lt. Colonel Doug Quandt, commanding ofﬁcer of the 457th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion, began derisively calling his men “angels,” which caught on with Swing, the division staff, and the whole division.33 By the fall and winter of 1943 the 11th was beginning to work and act like a well-oiled machine. In early December, the division took part in the Knollwood maneuvers, and its performance there—along with that of the 17th Air-

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borne Division and the 501st and 541st PIRs—helped pave the way for largescale parachute and glider assaults. The entire maneuver showed what could be done with well-trained units in a well-coordinated operation. In addition to the parachute and glider attacks, the troops had been entirely supplied by air. Even the wounded had been evacuated by airplane from the captured Knollwood Airport.34 In just a few months, on June 6, 1944, one of the largest combat parachute drops and glider attacks of the war would take place as a part of the Allied invasion of Normandy. A few days after the Knollwood maneuvers, the 11th left Camp Mackall for Camp Polk near Leesville in west-central Louisiana. Rumor had it that the division was being prepared for shipment overseas, but no one knew where. Were they going to Europe or the Paciﬁc? On January 2, 1944, the ﬁrst elements of the division were taken to the train station for their trip to Louisiana. While the lucky ones rode in Pullman cars, the rest rode in cars “with canvas bunks swung on rattling frames.” It took twenty-two trains to move the entire division to Camp Polk by January 10.35 Camp Polk turned out to be a vast improvement over Camp Mackall. After enduring the primitive conditions at Mackall, the men found the conditions at Polk to be “luxurious.” The two-story barracks buildings were “spacious and well heated, and had showers and latrines inside.” However, the troops also discovered that they were not wanted at Camp Polk. “Our intense pride as airborne troops immediately clashed with the pride of that other proudest and most arrogant branch of the Army: the Armored Force,” recalled an 11th Airborne historian. “They wore facsimile jump boots and we didn’t like that. . . . Throughout our short stay at Polk, we felt and acted like hostile dogs in the same room, ordered to lie down by our masters.” Fights between the two branches were not uncommon. Capt. James Lorio, the commanding ofﬁcer of Company G, 511th PIR, recalled, “Amongst the tankers it was said, ‘If you get into a ﬁst ﬁght with a paratrooper, you had better bring your lunch. Those guys never quit.”36 The men had very little time to enjoy the luxuries of Camp Polk or engage in ﬁsticuffs with the tankers. The entire division was being tested to see if it was ready for shipment overseas, and that meant participating in the Louisiana maneuvers. According to the 511th PIR’s historian, “It seemed that the weather had been waiting for [us]. The day we left on maneuvers the sun quit shining and a cold drizzle started. At times it rained hard and a cold breeze blew constantly. We were always in the mud and always hungry. Fires were not permitted and so you seldom got a chance to dry out.”37 The maneuvers ran from February 5 through 18 and consisted of four controlled exercises. The men called them “ﬂag exercises.” George Doherty explained: “Regimental maneuvers were designed to simulate the four stages of a campaign: First, [a] forced march after landing. Second, attack sequence

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on the enemy ‘ﬂags and umpires.’ Third, defending the area previously won. Fourth, the ‘ﬂags’ broke through our lines, forcing a withdrawal during the night through the swamp of ‘gumbo’ mud which stuck to men and equipment like glue.”38 Most of the men remembered the weather and mud. Edward A. Hammerich of HQ Company, 1st Battalion, 188th GIR, wrote, “We had everything as far as weather conditions, snow, sleet, rain, and hail. The mud was up to our—well, let’s say it buried a jeep.” The division historian described the experience: “The 127th Engineer Battalion spent the entire time building corduroy roads over two feet of sticky clay, or hauling mud bound vehicles to some sort of dry ground, usually an island in the vast sea of Louisiana gumbo. The artillerymen were forced at times to take apart their pack howitzers, hub deep in the mud, displace piece by piece to a new position, and reassemble them on planks to prevent their sinking in the viscous, brown earth. The doughboys, as usual, lived with the soil—cold, wet and muddy.39 Fortunately, all of the men of the 11th were in great shape. Lt. Leo Crawford (Co. D, 511th PIReg) remembered, “When we left the sand of North Carolina for the mud of Louisiana for ﬁnal maneuvers I don’t think the United States Army ever had a more physically ﬁt unit with better morale.”40 While the maneuvers were in full operation, Swing established another division jump school for his nonparatroopers. This time, he set up a training facility at nearby DeRitter Army Air Corps Base. When they were not participating in the maneuvers, enthusiastic volunteers from the 187th and 188th GIRs and the 674th Glider Field Artillery Battalion were sent to DeRitter to earn their jump wings. Forced to be glider-riders, the men were actually looking forward to getting out of the ﬂimsy gliders and earning the extra $50 jump pay.41 Swing had been told that his division would head for the Paciﬁc theater on March 15, but complications arose and the move was delayed until April 15. In the meantime, the rumor mill kicked into high gear. Some men believed that the division would be going to Europe to take part in the long-expected invasion of France while others reasoned that the 11th was destined to go to the Paciﬁc since the 503rd PIR was the only airborne unit in that theater.42 By March 15, it was conﬁrmed that the unit would be moving to the Paciﬁc in a month, embarking from Camp Stoneman, California. While the men waited, they were inoculated against all kinds of diseases. “The 511th Medics seemed to be catching up on everything we had ever missed,” wrote a 511th PIR historian.”43 The men were told to hide all of their airborne trappings. “By April 15 we were restricted to the post,” the 11th Airborne’s historian wrote. “Patches were removed from all uniforms, jump boots were packed away. . . . We were no longer the 11th Airborne (we were merely a number) 1855.”44

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A small advance detachment left for Stoneman on April 16, with the rest of the division following on the twentieth. By April 28, the entire division was settled into its new home. Having been told to hide their highly polished, wellearned Corcoran jump boots for fear of being identiﬁed as paratroopers, the men were somewhat surprised by what they found at Camp Stoneman. “The ﬁrst troops we ‘bumped’ into,” wrote the 511th PIR’s historian, “were Amphibian troops who were wearing boots.” It wasn’t so much the boots that irked the paratroopers—they were “greased and not polished and . . . were grimy looking”—but the fact that the Stoneman troops “had the ‘gall’ to tuck their suntans [dress pants] into their boots and blouse them over like paratroopers.” “We didn’t like that,” the historian continued, “and when the opportunity presented itself, we tried to teach them differently.” Between the altercations with the armored personnel at Camp Polk and the amphibian troops at Stoneman, the 511th PIR was living up to its derisive reputation as “angels.”45 To advance that reputation, Haugen’s paratroopers set out to break Camp Stoneman’s speed record for a twelve-mile march after they discovered that the previous record had been set by a U.S. Marine Corps unit. As the entire 511th PIR was just about ready to begin the march, all lined up with “individual weapons and full ﬁeld pack,” a unit of black soldiers arrived to make the same hike. As the black unit went one way on the twelve-mile course, Haugen led his men in the opposite direction. The pace was set by Haugen and his staff, and the breaks were few and short. In less than an hour and a half, the regiment passed the halfway point. At the three-quarter mark, they passed the black regiment going in the opposite direction. As the paratroopers drew ever closer to Camp Stoneman, it suddenly occurred to Captain Lorio that since they were so far ahead of schedule, the regimental band members, who always heralded their arrival back from any march, would not be ready for them yet. The captain received permission to run ahead and warn the band. When his task was completed, he raced back to Haugen to report his success. When the regiment spotted the camp, the individual route step was changed to a cadence step, and the band suddenly broke into Haugen’s favorite piece, the “Washington Post March.” The band continued to play as each battalion entered the fort, ﬁnishing with “The Thunderer” by John Philip Sousa, the favorite of Lt. Col. Edward Lahti, who led his 3rd Battalion onto the base. The 511th PIR had made the entire twelve-mile march—with full ﬁeld gear—in two hours and forty-eight minutes, beating the old record by at least forty-ﬁve minutes.46 Trained, ﬁt, and eager, the 511th PIR was ready to go to the Paciﬁc.

CHAPTER 13

New Guinea Interlude

A

fter more shots and a few courses on how to abandon ship and what to do in case of an emergency while the ship was at sea, the 11th Airborne Division was marched over to the city of Pittsburg, California, on May 2, 1944, and placed aboard ferry boats for the short trip to San Francisco. At the portside metropolis, the men were placed aboard transport ships after passing through a wharfside shed where Red Cross ladies handed each soldier a donut, coffee, and an overseas packet with “some toilet articles and other usables.” According to 1st Lt. Miles W. Gale of Company H, 511th PIR, each packet contained “toothpaste, toothbrush, cigarettes and gun. Also, as an added bonus for those musically bent, we received either a harmonica or an ocarina.”1 No more than three battalions ﬁt on a single ship, so whenever a ship was ﬁlled, it immediately took off for “somewhere in the Paciﬁc.” The ﬁrst ship left San Francisco Bay on May 5, and the last sailed on May 18. The 511th PIR left on the eighth aboard the SS Sea Pike, a C3 cargo ship converted to a troopship.2 With a merchant marine crew, augmented with navy gunners to man her bow and stern gun platforms, the Sea Pike was 492 feet long, with a 70-foot beam. Built in February 1943, her steam turbines could reach a speed of just over 191⁄2 miles per hour. Although only ﬁfteen months old, many of the paratroopers felt that the Sea Pike had “already seen better days.” The 511th PIR’s historian reported: “When we boarded it, we were sent into one of the ship’s holds where canvas bunks were laced to a frame of pipes. They were tiered less than two feet apart and the aisles between the tiers were about two feet. A dislike for the ‘Sea Pike’ started immediately.”3 Although the Sea Pike had an experienced captain and crew, the merchant seamen seemed to be unprepared for the almost 2,000 paratroopers crowded onto their ship. “We could understand that the sheer number of people on board could be a problem,” wrote the 511th PIR’s historian, “but we did not understand the apparent lack of decent rations.” Lieutenant Gale was more succinct. He wrote, “Shipboard food was bad. So nobody asked for seconds. The two meals a day were just enough to keep one’s skin and bones separated, but barely.” According to the regimental historian, “As it was, you stood in line for two hours and for breakfast you might be given a box of dry

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cereal, mixed with powdered milk, a cup of terrible coffee, and an apple or orange. Usually there was no pretense of having lunch, but in late afternoon you started lining up for dinner—‘S.O.S.’ or canned meat of some kind, dehydrated mashed potatoes, bread, and some fruit cocktail.”4 Chaplain Lee E. Walker of the 511th PIR remembered: “In the next thirty days I saw my poor body gradually shrivel up. . . . Some of us found better food in the garbage cans on the aft end of the ship than we did in whatever they called the mess hall.”5 Perhaps to help them forget the terrible fare, the men turned to their ocarinas and harmonicas. “The two thousand non-musical paratroopers with sweet potatoes and mouth organs all practicing at one time was sheer torture,” Gale recalled. “Mercifully, after one day, the ship’s captain placed a one hour time limit on the music practice. After the third day, any loose or unattached instruments were tossed overboard.” For the rest of the voyage, music was provided by the 511th PIR’s band.6 Another complaint that the paratroopers had was with the cramped living conditions. The cramped bunks were twelve tiers high, and with the crew enforcing strict blackout conditions, the temperature inside the holds rose to unbearable conditions. To beat the heat, hundreds of men slept outside on the deck but met further peril at the hands of the crew. According to Lieutenant Gale, “At ﬁrst light . . . the decks were watered down with ﬁre hoses and sleeping paratroopers would wake up in a river of salt water. A lot of vulgar language was directed at the hose crew, who seemed delighted in their job.”7 On June 4, after twenty-seven days on the ocean during which the Sea Pike refueled a navy destroyer at sea and some of the men were inducted into the Neptune Society when the ship dipped below the Equator, the paratroopers sighted land, “green, thickly vegetated, beautiful mountainous terrain.” Instead of going to Australia, as many of the men had thought, the ship pulled into Milne Bay on the far eastern tip of New Guinea. After only a few hours at Milne Bay taking on fresh water, the ship set sail again and steamed westward, hugging the northern New Guinea coast. Two days later, the ship ﬁnally dropped anchor in Oro Bay near Buna village.8 The ﬁrst transport carrying the members of the 11th Airborne arrived in Oro Bay on May 26. The men were ferried from their transport ship to the shore in army DUKWs (amphibious trucks) and then taken by truck to their encampment near Dobodura. By June 15, the entire division had arrived at Dobodura.9 Upon reaching their new home, the men set up large pyramidal tents. Fortunately for the 11th, most of the area had already been cleared of brush and jungle. Kenney’s Fifth Air Force had encamped in the same area some

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time before, moving out as MacArthur’s troops moved farther west along the northern coast of New Guinea.10 For the next few weeks, the men were put to work completing their camp while their bodies became accustomed to the heat and humidity of a tropical island. Mess halls, showers, chapels, and even new jump platforms were built. As soon as possible, and with the permission of Lt. Gen. Walter Krueger, the commanding ofﬁcer of the Sixth Army, Swing restarted his division jump school. With training beginning in July and carrying on through August, the 11th was able to qualify 75 percent of its enlisted men and 82 percent of its ofﬁcer as paratroopers.11 Swing also received permission to set up a glider training course at Nadzab Airﬁeld, where Swing trained replacements who were shipped to the division from the States as well as any paratroopers who wanted to be trained as glider-riders. An 11th Airborne historian noted, “This was in keeping with the policy of training troops for use either as parachutists or gliderists for any particular operation.” Aircraft and gliders for both training schools were provided by the 54th Troop Carrier Wing, which sent a squadron of planes to the division each week. This special interservice training for parachutists, glider infantry, and troop carrier pilots helped foster a feeling of unity within the division and between the division and the troop carrier wing.12 The Sixth Army also conducted a number of special schools during this time period. One school provided jungle survival training to the paratroopers while another, the Alamo Scout School, was a specialty school set up so that the recently created 11th Airobrne Division’s provisional reconnaissance platoon could train for “independent reconnaissance behind the enemy lines.” Platoon member Terry Santos explained: “The Platoon was the brainchild of General Swing, who wanted a small, well-trained, all volunteer unit to deploy as he deemed necessary, without explanations. . . . We became the ghosts, the ‘Snooper’ men who weren’t there.”13 It was during this time in New Guinea that the “angels” of the 11th Airborne added to their heavenly reputation. Whenever the men needed something and it wasn’t nailed down, they were not above the practice of “appropriating” it for their own use. In time, the entire division became known as “Joe Swing and his 8,000 thieves,” playing off the title of the Arabian tale known as “Ali Baba and His 40 Thieves.” In response, Swing supposedly said, “My angels wouldn’t possibly be involved in such shenanigans.”14 While most of Swing’s division went through jump or glider school and hundreds of division personnel went through specialized training, another combat parachute drop was taking place in the Paciﬁc. In June 1944, the 503rd PIR was preparing for a jump on Noemfoor off the northwestern end of New Guinea.

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“Our dress was boots and GI shorts,” wrote Pvt. Chester W. Nycum of Company G about the 503rd’s stay at 17 Mile Camp after the regiment returned from Nadzab. Having made the ﬁrst Allied parachute jump of the Paciﬁc War, the regiment returned to the Port Moresby area and immediately tried to readjust to “civilization.” Beards were cut off, hair was trimmed, and the men were given showers for the ﬁrst time in a week. When that was done, the men redrew their bunks and bedding from supply and went right to sleep.15 Perhaps because of their immersion into the jungle at Nadzab or because of the conditions at 17 Mile, dozens of men began to come down with malaria. On September 26, the 2nd Battalion alone counted four ofﬁcers and seventy-eight men in the hospital. The next day, after receiving permission from the Sixth Army, which had control over the Port Moresby area, the 503rd PIR began preparing for a move out of 17 Mile and closer to Jackson Airdrome. On September 28, a handful of trucks were assigned to each battalion, and the move began.16 Over the next few weeks, as the 503rd PIR set up its new camp, morale began to drop. Officers seemed to be more interested in their own selfpromotion and took little or no interest in their men while those few ofﬁcers who did seem to care for their companies were court-martialed by Colonel Kinsler on minor charges. The 2nd Battalion’s adjutant, Lieutenant Riseley, wrote, “This regiment is full of hate and ambitious Brutuses. . . . Most of the ofﬁcers have forgotten any concepts of honor whatever.”17 Among the enlisted men, discipline was lax. Men began to dress in nothing more than boots and GI shorts, despite orders that long sleeves should be worn to help prevent bites from malaria-spreading mosquitoes. Although prohibited, alcohol stills sprang up all over the place. “It was during this stay in camp that I tasted Kick A Poo Joy Juice, another name for it was Jungle Juice,” recalled Private Nycum. “The concoction was made up from stolen canned fruit from the Mess Hall (apples, peaches, prunes and mixed fruits), poured into a five-gallon gas can, and hidden for several weeks to allow it to ferment. After fermentation we strained it through a clean sock and drank it.”18 When word reached the Sixth Army’s headquarters that there was trouble among the ofﬁcer corps of the 503rd PIR and that morale and discipline had plummeted, the inspector general of the army was sent out on October 16 to see what was wrong, going “through the outﬁt like a monkey searching for ﬂeas.”19 Over the next few days, the inspector general remained in camp, talking to a long list of people. When all was said and done, the rumor began to spread that Colonel Kinsler would be removed from command of the 503rd. On the morning of October 21, the inspector general had a personal meeting with Kinsler. That same afternoon, Kinsler called his lieutenant

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colonels into his tent and shared a bottle of whiskey with them. In the evening, he took an Australian nurse with him to a nearby gravel pit and there, in front of the nurse, shot himself through the heart with a pistol.20 Although the suicide of their commander came as somewhat of a shock, it appeared as though few in the regiment regretted it. In fact, Colonel Britten summed up the feelings nicely when he wrote his wife a few months later: “You probably wonder about the suicide of Col. Kinsler. Boy, what a foul individual he was. His escapades with the women and his drunken orgies was known by every soldier in the Regiment. Furthermore, his inefﬁcient handling of the Regiment was pathetic. However, his downfall occurred due to his intense likes and dislikes among ofﬁcers.”21 Thirty-four-year-old Lt. Col. George M. Jones, the very capable commander of the 2nd Battalion, took over as regimental commander. Since the regiment had been formed from parts of several different units, Jones had a tough job ahead of him. “Colonel Jones must form three separate units, each of which have little love for one another, into one regiment,” noted an adjutant of the 503rd PIR. “Within the ranks and enlisted men, there are the rivalries, jealousies and the espirit de corps of four separate units, each forced to unite under orders of Army.”22 Immediately, Jones began instilling discipline back into the 503rd. “My philosophy of command was to put out as few orders as possible,” Jones wrote. “To simplify the task of seeing that they were carried out, ascertain by roll call that everyone got the word. After forty-eight hours has passed, ﬁnd an ofﬁcer who was not obeying the order and promptly court-martial him for disobedience of orders. I found after doing this a couple of times, that I got excellent responses and compliance to my orders.”23 In addition to instilling discipline, Jones also set out to raise morale and infuse the regiment with pride again. Field exercises were held at both battalion and regimental levels and awards were issued to those individuals who had been either wounded or killed or who had distinguished themselves in the Nadzab operation. However, because it was difﬁcult to obtain transport planes, no practice parachute jumps were undertaken.24 One thing that helped improve morale was an alert from general headquarters that the men would soon be going back into combat. As General MacArthur developed his plans for the isolation of Rabaul, he drew up a blueprint for the invasion of Cape Gloucester on the southern tip of New Britain. The plan called for the 1st Marine Division, veterans of Guadalcanal, to make an amphibious landing at Cape Gloucester while the 503rd PIR, veterans of Nadzab, dropped on a nearby airﬁeld. However, because General Kenney complained that he would have to move a bomber group out of northern New Guinea and back to Port Moresby to make room for the 503rd and their C-47s, MacArthur deleted the paratroopers from the plan. Instead,

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he believed that the bombers would be more helpful ﬂying numerous missions from northern New Guinea before and after the invasion than they would be if they had to ﬂy over the Owen Stanley Mountains everyday.25 The cancellation of the mission had a negative effect on the esprit de corps that Jones was trying to build. 1st Lt. William T. Calhoun, a new arrival assigned to Company F, explained: “After spending untold hours, weeks, months, and even years in back-breaking, gut-wrenching, physical labour training to kill the enemy, the alert had sharpened us, given us focus, purpose and good cheer. . . . When the Gloucester mission was cancelled disappointment almost consumed the 503d, and from the pinnacle of readiness, the great drop in morale presented problems for we new arrivals.”26 As circumstances happened, Kenney’s bombers raided the Cape Gloucester area over and over again before the Marines made a successful landing on December 26, 1943. By the end of January 1944, the Marines were ﬁrmly entrenched on the southern end of New Britain, and the Japanese stronghold at Rabaul had been effectively isolated. Although the strong enemy naval and airbase contained some 135,000 troops, they were effectively cut off from the rest of the Japanese forces. At the end of the war, the 135,000 Japanese soldiers, sailors, and airmen were still sitting and defending Rabaul.27 In the 503rd PIR, Jones and others were doing their best to boost morale. On Christmas Day 1943, the regiment received a welcome telegram for “best wishes” from General Marshall, Secretary of War Stimson, and President Roosevelt. On January 25, 1944, the paratroopers were placed aboard troopships and sent back to Australia. Jones was hoping that some rest and relaxation would help rebuild the ﬁghting spirit of his paratroopers. At ﬁrst sent to their old campsite at Gordonvale, they were eventually shifted down to Camp Cable, twenty-ﬁve miles outside the big city of Brisbane, in the middle of Australia’s east coast. Here the men received a little R-and-R in a real city.28 On February 18, Colonel Jones began sending men back to training, once again trying to instill a sense of discipline within his regiment. A number of men were sent to Jungle Warfare School while others were sent down to the riﬂe range to work on their marksmanship, which was noted to be lacking during the Nadzab operation. On February 23, the 503rd PIR made a mass parachute jump, its ﬁrst in more than ﬁve months.29 Although the training regime was tough again, the men were given plenty of time to enjoy the sights and sounds of Brisbane. “The troops were given the freedom to roam the town,” remembered Private Nycum, “in an effort to relieve their anxieties. . . . Having found the Zoo to be within walking distance of our camp I spent each day enjoying the varied animals and the ﬁsh in the Aquarium.”30 Other paratroopers also enjoyed their excursions into Brisbane.

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155

On March 29, while the 503rd was at Brisbane, the regiment was joined by the 462nd Parachute Field Artillery Battalion, fresh from the United States. The Sixth Army was preparing to turn the parachute regiment into a regimental combat team containing its own riﬂe companies, ﬁeld artillery, engineers, and other support units. A “bastard unit” assigned to nobody but the Sixth Army, the 503rd, once it was established as a regimental combat team, could be assigned more difﬁcult operations without the need to attach artillery or engineer units from other regiments, or it could be used to help reinforce the other regiments and bring along its own specialized sections.31 Around that same time, the adjutants of the different battalions could once again report that morale was “high.” On April 1, the regiment began hearing rumors that there would be another move. Sure enough, ﬁve days later, the 503rd PIR, minus the 462nd Parachute Field Artillery Battalion, once again climbed aboard an American transport ship, this time the USAT Sea Cat, and began steaming northward along the Australian coast to an “unknown destination.”32 At Cairns, the Sea Cat dropped anchor and took on equipment for the 503rd, consisting of “parachutes, Jungle Kits, and Aerial Delivery Containers.” It was apparent to everyone that the regiment was getting ready to go back into combat, and more than a few enlisted men took advantage of perhaps their last time in Australia to visit a town and have a last drink. According to the 1st Battalion’s journal, “these men were apprehended by the MP’s and placed in the SEA CAT brig for the duration of the move.”33 From Cairns, the Sea Cat went to Port Moresby, where it dropped anchor for only a few hours before heading around the eastern tip of New Guinea. “I believe we are on a sightseeing tour reviewing our old encampments,” wrote Colonel Britten to his wife after seeing Gordonvale and Port Moresby. “We arrived in New Guinea this afternoon and docked at our former camp. However, we did not debark for the ofﬁcials told us to move on. Everyone was quite elated for we feel any spot in Guinea will be an improvement.”34 After continuing around the eastern end of New Guinea and traveling westward along the northern coast, the Sea Cat ﬁnally docked near the Dobodura area of Oro Bay at 7:30 A.M. on April 14. Like the 11th Airborne’s troops before them, the paratroopers of the 503rd PIR were transported to land via DUKWs. After touching land and climbing into trucks, the men were taken to an old campsite called Camp Sudest, which had once been the home of an air force unit. “This was an old and cleared camp site, so all we had to do was to set up our pyramidal tents,” recalled Lieutenant Calhoun. By 9:30 A.M., the men were setting up their tents and digging latrines.35 Each company in each battalion was sent out on two-day exercises while encamped near Camp Sudest as the men once again became accustomed to the heat, humidity, and rain of the New Guinea jungle. “We went into inten-

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sive jungle warfare training in a heavy rain forest adjacent to our camp,” noted Lieutenant Calhoun. “It was an excellent training area where we could practice using the principles we learned at the [jungle warfare] school.”36 Rumors began to run rampant that the 503rd would see combat at any time. Beginning on May 29, the paratroopers boarded C-47s at the Dobodura airstrip and were taken northwest to Cyclops Airdrome near Hollandia in Netherlands New Guinea. (The western half of New Guinea was controlled by the Dutch before World War II.) As part of his attempts to move closer to the Philippines, General MacArthur had invaded the Hollandia area with the 41st Infantry Division on April 21. By the time the paratroopers were brought in, the 41st had eliminated the Japanese defenders and secured the area, including Cyclops, which was named after a nearby mountain range, and had then moved on for an invasion of Biak. For the men of the 503rd PIR, their time at Hollandia would be spent mopping up bypassed Japanese positions.37 The 503rd PIR had been moved to a new campsite at Eberly Plantation in the Hollandia area not only to mop up the remaining Japanese defenders but also to guard Cyclops Airdrome and perhaps act as reinforcements for the 41st Infantry Division on Biak. While they waited to hear what was happening on Biak, news arrived from Europe. “We heard the invasion of Europe began today,” a Company F adjutant wrote after the invasion of Normandy on DDay, June 6, 1944. “Must be some show.”38 As it turned out, the 503rd PIR’s stay at Eberly Plantation, seven miles south of Hollandia, was a short one. On June 28, rumors of another move began circulating around camp, and two days later, when dozens of C-47 airplanes began arriving at Cyclops, the men were informed that they would be participating in another combat jump. Although they were informed that they would be participating in “the invasion and occupation of Noemfoor Island, Dutch East Indies,” most of the paratroopers had no idea where Noemfoor was.39

CHAPTER 14

Noemfoor

A

t the end of the wide open mouth of Dutch New Guinea’s Geelvink Bay, near the western end of New Guinea, sat Biak Island. When Gen. Douglas MacArthur was looking to move farther west along the New Guinea coastline and closer to his ultimate goal of the Philippines, he naturally began to eye the three Japanese airdromes on Biak. Capturing those airﬁelds would provide him air cover to move farther west and capture New Guinea’s giant Vogelkop Peninsula. Once that was clear of Japanese troops, MacArthur could then take the momentous step toward the Philippines. On May 27, 1944, soldiers from the 41st Infantry Division stormed ashore to the east of the airﬁeld areas on Biak and began ﬁghting their way westward. Unfortunately, the Japanese defenders were well dug in inside caves and cliff escarpments and dealt the American infantrymen a number of staggering blows. When it became apparent to MacArthur that the 41st Infantry Division would not be able to capture the Biak airﬁelds within the timetable that he had allotted them, he began to look for other airstrips.1 One place that he spotted was little Noemfoor Island, sixty miles southwest of Biak. Although only ﬁfteen miles long by twelve miles wide and oval in shape, Noemfoor contained three partially developed Japanese airdromes. In addition to the airdromes, Noemfoor was also being used by the Japanese on the Vogelkop Peninsula as a staging area before sending troops to reinforce Biak. By capturing Noemfoor, MacArthur would be depriving the Japanese of their staging island and giving the Americans another jumping off place for further expansion westward and eventually northward. On June 4, while the 41st Infantry Division was battling against “the caves of Biak,” General Headquarters began hasty preparations for the invasion of Noemfoor.2 As envisioned by General Headquarters, Gen. Walter Krueger, who was now commanding both the Sixth Army and Alamo Force (an independent force subordinate only to General Headquarters), would send the 158th Regimental Combat Team (RCT) to capture Noemfoor, with the 503rd PIR in reserve. Utilizing air cover from airplanes taking off from one of the captured airstrips on Biak and from one being constructed on Owi Island off southeastern Biak, Krueger drew up plans to invade Noemfoor on June 30.

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By June 20, it appeared that the planners of Operation Table Tennis, as the operation was being called, had been a bit too optimistic. It now appeared as though the Biak airﬁeld might not be operational by June 30 and that the airstrip on Owi might still be under construction on that date. Subsequently, the date of Operation Table Tennis was pushed back two days until July 2.3 The main objective on Noemfoor was to seize the Kamiri Airﬁeld on the northwest coast and quickly expand it for use as a base for ﬁghter planes and medium and light bombers. With this primary objective in mind, the 158th RCT, approximately 8,000 men strong, was augmented with 5,500 service per-

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159

sonnel, mostly Australian engineers. The American infantry would land directly opposite the coastal airﬁeld, in spite of the distinct possibility of suffering heavy casualties, and then move inland as far as possible, thereby splitting the other Japanese defenders on Noemfoor between the two remaining Japanese-held airﬁelds, Kornasoren on the north coast and Namber on the southwest coast.4 As the reserve unit for Alamo Force, the 503rd PIR would remain in the Hollandia area but be ready for immediate deployment to Noemfoor if called on. As in the Nadzab campaign, the unit responsible for transporting the paratroopers and dropping them on the Noemfoor drop zones would be the 54th Troop Carrier Wing. However, this time, since there were not enough C47s in the area to transport the entire regiment on one ﬂight, three separate ﬂights would be utilized if the 503rd PIR were needed as reinforcements.5 The 503rd was apprised of its part in Table Tennis on June 30. All battalions were called in from patrol and concentrated at Eberly Plantation. The next day, 2,200 freshly packed parachutes were brought in from the rear base at Gordonvale, where Australian women were now being employed by the U.S. government to pack parachutes. Immediately, the men drew their parachutes and equipment, inspected all of it, and then began to prepare themselves for combat if called upon. A 503rd PIR historian wrote, “All troops were informed and familiarized with the jumping operation on 1 July 1944. Sand tables, maps, photos and orientation lectures were used to familiarize all troops with conditions of the terrain and enemy situation.”6 As estimated by MacArthur and his staff, the Japanese had between 2,850 and 3,250 men on Noemfoor, of which approximately 2,000 were combat troops. Fortunately, this time the army guessed too high. The actual Japanese garrison consisted of probably less than 2,000 men, with only about 900 combat effective, mostly from the 219th and 222nd Infantry Regiments. Although there were also about 600 Formosan laborers and another 500 Javanese slave laborers, neither of these groups could be expected to help the Japanese defend the island. Still, while the American paratroopers listened to their ofﬁcers about their possible upcoming assignment or studied the sand table, they had no idea that the American estimate of Japanese defenders was way out of line.7 In keeping with the suggestions laid out by the Swing Board and the War Department’s Employment of Airborne and Troop Carrier Forces, Colonel Jones, his battalion commanders (Maj. Cameron Knox of the 1st Battalion, Lieutenant Colonel Britten of the 2nd Battalion, and Maj. John R. Erickson of the 3rd Battalion), and a few other ofﬁcers ﬂew over Noemfoor on four reconnaissance ﬂights on July 1 to obtain ﬁrsthand knowledge of the area where their men might have to land. While this was going on, the thirty-eight C-47s of the 54th

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Troop Carrier Wing of the Fifth Air Force that would carry the 503rd PIR to Noemfoor ﬂew a practice ﬂight, “stressing formation, speed and altitude.” To further ensure success, each plane contained the ofﬁcer who would jumpmaster the plane if the regiment were called on the next day as reinforcements.8 When all the C-47s returned from the practice ﬂight, any small kinks in the plan that had been discovered were corrected and the planes were parked according to how they would take off. U.S. Army Air Force personnel, working under the direct supervision of the assistant regimental operations ofﬁcer, numbered each plane and taped down any loose items that might snag a paratrooper’s equipment. Every plane had to be “in jumping condition.”9 Around 4:15 P.M., Colonel Jones was informed by the Alamo Force planning and training ofﬁcer that at least one battalion of the 503rd PIR would be needed on July 3, D+1. The paratroopers would be dropped on the Kornasoren Airdrome on the north coast. Jones immediately tagged Major Knox’s 1st Battalion as the unit that would make the jump and then invited all of the 1st Battalion’s ofﬁcers back into his tent for another look at the photos, maps, and sand table regarding Kornasoren.10 At 8:00 on the morning of July 2, after days of sustained aerial bombardment, and an hour of heavy naval bombardment, the independent 158th RCT stormed ashore directly opposite Kamiri airﬁeld. Taking the Japanese almost totally by surprise because they thought that a main invasion of Noemfoor would be staged on the north shore opposite Kornasoren Airﬁeld, the invaders met very little resistance. By 8:15, as the infantrymen expanded the beachhead, LCMs (landing craft, mechanized) began bringing in the ﬁrst engineers and heavy construction equipment.11 The Japanese did not respond to the invasion until a little after 9:00 A.M., when mortar shells suddenly began raining down on the now-crowded beachhead. By that time, however, it was already too late; the Americans had already expanded outward to seize the entire Kamiri Airdrome and were waiting for the No. 62 Works Wing, an Australian engineer unit, to come ashore. As he waited, Brig. Gen. Edwin D. Patrick, in command of the landing troops, surveyed the captured airstrip and came to the conclusion that he would rather have the reinforcing battalion of paratroopers from the 503rd PIR drop on the Kamiri Airdrome since the Kornasoren Airdrome was still in Japanese hands. At 10:28 A.M., he sent the recommendation to General Krueger, Alamo’s commander.12 At 11:15 A.M., General Patrick sent another radio message to Krueger, this time asking for his reinforcements. Having learned—incorrectly—from a captured Japanese soldier that Noemfoor had been reinforced with 3,000 more men on June 25, Patrick decided that instead of just one battalion of paratroopers, he would need the entire regiment. His reason for calling

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upon the entire 503rd PIR was “to guard against unknown situation as to enemy strength and to speed up operations on island.” At 2:30 P.M., the message was relayed to Colonel Jones. The 1st Battalion would jump onto Noemfoor on July 3, the 3rd Battalion would jump on July 4, and the 2nd Battalion on July 5.13 According to the proposed plan, the roughly 2,000 paratroopers from all three battalions would not complete their arrival on Noemfoor until the morning of July 5. Meanwhile, the 34th Infantry Regiment of the 24th Infantry Division was in Alamo Force reserve on Biak, where the 2,700 soldiers of the 34th had been assembled on the beach as early as June 30. If Patrick had contacted the infantry instead of the paratroopers at 11:15 on July 2, the 34th Infantry could have been brought to Noemfoor by landing craft in less than ten hours. As historian Robert Ross Smith surmised, the reason for using the 503rd PIR instead of the 34th Infantry may have already been made by ofﬁcers higher up than General Patrick. Already apprised that at least one battalion would be used on Noemfoor, the request for the entire regiment came as no surprise to Jones. What did surprise him was the change in the drop zone. Instead of jumping on Kornasoren, which had been thoroughly studied, they now had to drop on Kamiri. Once again, Jones called his ofﬁcers and men together and, this time, had them study the maps, photos, and sand table in regard to Kamiri.14 The night of July 2–3 may have been a ﬁtful night for some of the 739 ofﬁcers and enlisted men of the 1st Battalion of the 503rd PIR and the elements of the headquarters and service companies, knowing full well that they were going back into combat, but it was a short night, and the men were up and waiting when thirty-eight trucks showed up at 3:00 A.M. to take them to the airﬁeld. As before, each planeload of paratroopers climbed into the truck with the corresponding number of their transport plane. After all of the trucks were loaded and everything was checked, a long convoy snaked its way out of the Eberly Plantation area and headed toward Cyclops Airdrome near Hollandia.15 Lieutenant Calhoun, who was scheduled to make the jump with the 2nd Battalion on July 6, remembered all of the equipment that a paratrooper had to carry. The paratroopers jump in jump suits with web belts and suspenders, machete, entrenching tool, ammo, and grenades. Riflemen carry 128 rounds. Rifle grenadiers carry fragmentation and anti-tank rifle grenades. BAR gunners jump with their BAR and 280 rounds of .30 cal ammo. The assistant BAR gunner carries an M1 carbine with 105 rounds of ammo plus 280 rounds of BAR ammo. The BAR ammo

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bearer carries an M1 rifle with 128 rounds of ammo plus 280 rounds of BAR ammo. Each jumper carries two hand grenades. One canteen is carried on the web belt. The musette bag is carried in the parachute kitbag which hangs down in front below the reserve chute. All of this, with a steel helmet, makes a heavy load.16 By 5:05 A.M., the trucks had reached the airﬁeld, and ten minutes later, the men began emplaning. Sitting slightly away from the loading transports were three B-17 Flying Fortresses that would be used to drop supplies and ammunition on Kamiri. By 6:15, the thirty-eight C-47s were all loaded, and the men were at their stations. Fifteen minutes later, the ﬁrst plane took off from the runway, followed every thirty seconds by another transport until all forty-one planes, including the three B-17s, were in the air and assembling over Humbolt Bay, just off the coast of Hollandia.17 Once assembled, the planes formed into a column of Vs of twelve planes each, with ﬁve planes trailing in a smaller V. The entire formation then ﬂew northwest through fair weather conditions along the New Guinea coast for about three hours until they neared Noemfoor. Only a few minutes before the drop, the columns of Vs shifted to ﬂights of two planes each, echeloned to the right rear, and each ﬂight dropped back 600 feet from the planes in front of them. Then the ﬁrst plane, with its partner to the right rear, began dropping down to a prescribed jump altitude of 400 feet.18 Just before 6:00 A.M., even before the planes took off from Cyclops, General Patrick had been advised by a Canadian paratroop ofﬁcer with the ground invasion force on Noemfoor that the Kamiri airstrip was too narrow for the intended drop from two planes astride one another. The entire airﬁeld was only 5,500 feet long and 250 feet wide, with a 100-foot-wide runway down the center. Parked along both sides of the runway, among a few wrecked Japanese planes, were dozens of bulldozers, trucks, jeeps, and other pieces of equipment belonging to the American and Australian engineers. The concerned paratrooper suggested that the C-47 pilots should be told to come over the airstrip in single-ﬁle formation. Totally agreeing with the assessment, Patrick quickly radioed the suggestion for the new formation to Alamo Force.19 Although it was sent at 6:00 A.M., Alamo Force headquarters did not receive the decoded message until 7:40, and the message was not dispatched to the G-3 Plans and Training Section until 9:15. However, in the interlude, the message did manage to reach Fifth Air Force headquarters, but the C-47s were already airborne and winging their way toward Noemfoor. No attempt seems to have been made to contact the pilots; it might have been too late for a change in any event.20 Without notiﬁcation of the suggested change, the transport pilots ﬂew blissfully on, intending to drop their paratroopers in two-plane ﬂights.

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It was just before 10:00 A.M. when the planes swung wide to approach from the south and began dropping down in altitude. Inside the ﬁrst plane were Colonel Jones, some of his staff members, and the regimental communications section. Supposedly, the lead plane was being ﬂown by an army air force lieutenant colonel. No matter who was ﬂying the plane or how high he was in rank, the pilot had made a terrible mistake and had failed to adjust his altimeter from the height above water to the height of the coral island drop zone. “When [the pilot’s] altimeter showed 300 feet, we were actually only at 150 feet,” wrote 1st Lt. Charles R. Rambo, communication ofﬁcer for the 503rd PIR, a passenger on the ﬁrst plane.21 Unfortunately, a number of the other transports were keying on the movement and actions of the lead plane, and they too dropped well below the prescribed drop altitude. “On 3 July 1944, the majority of the ﬁrst ten planes dropped below the prescribed 400 feet,” noted Lieutenant Colonel Tolson, who headed up a panel to look into the low drop. “The ﬁrst two planes of the ﬂight dropped at approximately 125 to 200 feet. . . . There were 20 men in each of these two planes.”22 Lieutenant Rambo remembered: I was to jumpmaster the first plane into Noemfoor . . . [but] after we became airborne, Col. Jones stated that he wanted to jumpmaster the plane. I was moved to the rear of our jump stick to ensure that everyone got out of the door quickly since the airstrip we were jumping on was relatively small. As we approached the drop zone, I noticed that the plane was dangerously low to the ground, but I assumed that we would climb to the standard jump altitude of 300 feet. This didn’t happen, the green light went on and we jumped at the unsafe altitude of 150 feet. Those of us at the rear jumped even lower.23 Jumping at 10:10 A.M. at an altitude of only 125 to 150 feet, the ﬁrst stick of paratroopers had only a few seconds for their parachutes to deploy before they hit the ground. The ﬁrst man out of the plane was Jones, who crashed onto the hard coral surface of the runway and slammed backwards, cracking the back of his head. Luckily, his steel pot helmet prevented his head from being split wide open, but he suffered a throbbing headache for the next eight days.24 Rambo was the last man out of Jones’s plane and recalled, “I landed on the airstrip that was made from crushed compacted coral and broke my ankle. That day we had quite a few casualties. In our plane alone, [Capt. Thomas H.] Lane (doctor), [Capt. Francis X.] Donovan (S-3 [Plans and Training]), and I all broke our ankles.” Major Knox, the 1st Battalion’s commander, suffered a broken foot. Out of the twenty men in the ﬁrst plane,

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nine became casualties without ﬁring a shot. “The next to last man in the ﬁrst plane [Jones’s radio operator],” reported Tolson, “landed on the airstrip and suffered multiple fractures of both legs and a fractured skull.”25 In the second plane, the casualties were just as bad. Seven men suffered some form of debilitating injury that made them immediately unﬁt for combat. Planes 2 through 10 contained the members of Company C, 503rd PIR, and all of them dropped their loads from below 300 feet. The company suffered twenty-one casualties. Although the other planes dropped from a slightly higher altitude, the casualties continued to pile up because of trees, antiaircraft emplacements, and other hazards. Out of the entire total of 739 paratroopers dropped on Noemfoor Airdrome on July 3, a total of 72 ofﬁcers and enlisted men were injured. Out of the 72 injured personnel, 31 suffered severe fractures.26 As soon as Jones had assembled as many men as he could, he reported to General Patrick for instructions, and the 1st Battalion was given the task of relieving the 158th RCT from the defense of Kamiri Airdrome. As members of Jones’s medical staff scurried about the airstrip tending to the breaks and fractures among the injured, the rest of the men began setting up a defensive perimeter around the ﬁeld. By 3:30 P.M., the infantrymen had moved off and the paratroopers had completed their move in.27 The ﬁrst reports to reach Alamo Force Headquarters stated that the casualties sustained in the morning jump were only about 1 percent. Alamo Force immediately forwarded this false information to the remaining members of the 503rd PIR as the 3rd Battalion prepared for its July 4 jump.28 At Noemfoor, regimental and 1st Battalion command posts were set up beside the Kamiri airstrip as the wounded were being collected and treated. In the absence of proper regimental medical facilities, the injured were taken down to 158th RCT aid stations on the beach. From there, they were taken aboard ships and eventually carried to a hospital in Finschhafen, New Guinea, on the Huon Peninsula. By the evening of July 3, the injured had all been removed from the airstrip, and the 1st Battalion had “set up [a] perimeter for defense of the airstrip.”29 Around 2:00 in the morning of July 4, Alamo Force ﬁnally received word that the 1st Battalion of the 503rd PIR had suffered 6.7 percent injuries in its drop on the Noemfoor airstrip. The cause of the injuries, the new report said, was the low altitude of the ﬁrst jump and the fact that a number of paratroopers had landed among the parked vehicles and engineering equipment. Although the 3rd Battalion of the 503rd PIR was still expected to jump on Kamiri that morning, it was now stipulated that the C-47 pilots adjust their altimeter so that every stick jumped from above the prescribed 400 feet and that all construction equipment be moved as far off the runway as possible. Another order went out that the C-47s should ﬂy in single-ﬁle when unloading their paratroopers, not double-ﬁle.30

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In almost a complete repeat of the day before, the trucks picked up the paratroopers of Major Erickson’s 3rd Battalion and another portion of the headquarters and service companies from their encampment around 3:00 in the morning. A few hours later, the men were climbing aboard their correctly numbered transport planes at Cyclops, and by 7:00 A.M., they were winging their way along the New Guinea coast toward Noemfoor.31 “The most exciting incident on the flight was the engine fire that caused our left wing plane to turn back,” recalled Private Nycum of Company G. “Like everyone else, I wished that I had been on that plane.” The remaining C-47s, containing a total of 685 officers and men, continued on uninterrupted for the next three hours. “After what now seemed to be a short flight, we were given the order to stand up and hook up,” said Nycum. “The plane began losing altitude, ultimately dropping to I believe 500 feet.”32 Coming in from the south again, the planes broke formation and came in single-ﬁle, one at a time. At 10:15 A.M., the lead jumpmaster in the ﬁrst plane bailed out into space, followed seconds later by every man in his plane. For the ﬁrst two dozen or so planes, the wind was negligible, blowing at a rate of between zero and two miles per hour, but for the last ten planes, the wind kicked up a bit and blew in from the northwest at between ﬁve and nine miles per hour, forcing some of the paratroopers off to the west side of the airstrip.33 Nycum recalled: The go signal was given with a tap on the first jumpers’ leg. With my Tommy gun strapped to my wrist, I went out the door, the number three man in the string. My chute popped open, and I had a brief moment to look over the area as I descended. We had approached from the south. Our landing site was the airstrip. I hit the ground near the center of the runway. The ocean was about 500 feet from me on the east, and a [Japanese] Betty bomber lay about 100 feet to the east of where I landed. The Betty had been knocked out prior to our jump.34 Fortunately for the second group of paratroopers jumping on Noemfoor’s Kamiri airdrome, all of the construction vehicles and most of the enemy’s wrecked planes had been pulled back off the narrow landing strip “as far as practicable,” and all shell holes from the naval and aerial bombardment of D-Day had been ﬁlled in. Unfortunately, however, the white coral runway had been “graded and rolled” by the construction engineers trying to make the runway usable by Allied airplanes. The hard-packed coral was now as tough and unyielding as concrete.35

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Capt. Logan W. Hovis of HQ Company, 3rd Battalion, landed hard on the compacted white coral and sustained an injury to his back. “They wanted to medevac me out of there, but I refused to leave,” he remembered. “I didn’t ﬁnd out until after the war that I had fractured two vertebra.”36 In all, because of the hard surface of the runway—and perhaps because between ﬁve and seven planes were slightly off mark and the wind changed a little—56 of the 685 ofﬁcers and men that dropped on Kamiri airdrome on July 4 became jump casualties. Out of the 56 injured paratroopers, 28 were serious fracture cases. Without even meeting the enemy, the 503rd PIR had already lost 128 out of 1,424 men—almost 9 percent of its ﬁghting force. Among those lost were one battalion commander, three company commanders, the regimental communications ofﬁcer, a regimental surgeon, a regimental planning ofﬁcer, and numerous key noncommissioned ofﬁcers.37 While the 3rd Battalion tried to assemble and gather up its injured paratroopers for transport down to the beach aid stations, the 1st Battalion was looking for the Japanese. “Vigorous patrolling of the island started with all companies participating,” recorded the 1st Battalion’s historian.38 After a time, even the 3rd Battalion began patrolling the nearby jungle. “Our job was to purge the island of remaining Japanese,” said Private Nycum. “We assembled at the southern end of the runway and, in patrol formation, moved inland. I was scouting about 100 feet in front of the company. When I came upon a native village, I cautiously moved to a vantage position looking into the village.” As Nycum peered out from within the concealing jungle, he spotted what appeared to be three Japanese soldiers with their hands behind them tied to posts. Upon further investigation, he discovered that the three men were dead. “As I walked up to them I could see . . . [that their] ankle bone had been hewed off on the outer part of each leg, probably by a sword. . . . I learned later that these men were from Formosa (Taiwan). The Japanese had used them as labor troops. They had been disabled to prevent them from working for us.”39 While his men probed the surrounding jungle, Colonel Jones approached General Patrick to request that the jump of his 2nd Battalion onto Noemfoor be cancelled. Taking into account the injuries sustained from the ﬁrst two jumps, Jones asked Patrick to bring his last battalion in by water. Although Patrick agreed that another parachute drop would be too dangerous, he instead suggested that the last battalion of the 503rd PIR be airlifted to the Kamiri airdrome. With the approval of General Krueger, Jones and Patrick began making arrangements for the airlift of Colonel Britten’s 2nd Battalion from Hollandia to Noemfoor.40 Unfortunately, nature had other plans for the 2nd Battalion. Torrential rains over the next few days turned the Kamiri airdrome into a sea of white coral mud, and a shortage of heavy equipment forced the aviation engineers

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to abandon any hope of getting the airstrip operational in time to bring in the last battalion of paratroopers. Instead, Britten’s men were ﬂown from Cyclops to Mokmer Airdrome on Biak, from which they were transported by LCIs (landing craft, infantry) to Noemfoor. The 503rd PIR’s lost battalion was ﬁnally landed opposite Namber airstrip on the southwest side of the island at 9:30 A.M. on July 9.41 In the meantime, the 1st and 3rd Battalions had been helping the 158th RCT chase down the Japanese and clean up Noemfoor. On July 4, with the 1st Battalion holding Kamiri airdrome and while the 3rd Battalion was in the midst of its disastrous jump onto Noemfoor, the 158th RCT advanced to the northeast and captured Kornasoren airdrome without opposition.42 On that same day, elements of the 158th RCT moved west and ﬁnally discovered a group of Japanese among some low hills just north of the center of the heavily jungled island. Using mortar and heavy artillery ﬁre, the American soldiers had wiped out most of the opposition by the end of July 5. The next day, part of the 158th RCT boarded landing craft and were transported around the western side of the island to land at Namber airdrome on Noemfoor’s southwest coast. The airﬁeld was taken without ﬁring a single shot.43 On July 6, while the 158th RCT was making its amphibious landing near Namber Field, a detachment from the 2nd Battalion, 503rd PIR, was ferried over from Biak to tiny Manim Island, three miles off the southwest coast of Noemfoor. Once there, the paratroopers provided security while Alamo Force established a forward radar site.44 By July 11, after the 2nd Battalion had arrived on Noemfoor, General Patrick and his staff had concluded that most of the Japanese defenders of Noemfoor were in hiding in the heavy jungle interior. Dividing the island in two, Patrick assigned the 158th RCT the job of patrolling the northern half of Noemfoor while the 503rd PIR would patrol the southern half.45 Over the next six weeks, the 158th RCT managed to root out small numbers of Japanese soldiers in their sector of the island. By the end of August, they could claim 611 enemy soldiers killed, 179 captured, and 209 Javanese slave laborers liberated, all at the cost of 6 Americans killed and 41 wounded.46 As it turned out, the main Japanese force of about 400 men under Colonel Shimizu was hiding in the southern half of Noemfoor. During those same six weeks, the 503rd PIR had numerous contacts with the Japanese but could never manage to totally eliminate them. On July 13, Company C of the 1st Battalion made contact with the enemy near Hill 670, near the left center of the island. After a three and a half hour ﬁreﬁght in which the Japanese used “heavy MGs, LMGs, and knee mortars,” Company C called for reinforcements. Companies A and B moved up in support, expecting to assault the hill the next morning, but when the sun rose on July 14, it was discovered that the enemy had quietly slipped away during the night.47

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On July 23, the 2nd Battalion ran into the Japanese again near the village of Inasi at the bottom of Broe Bay on the east side of the island. Here the Japanese managed to cut off a platoon from Company D, which quickly called for help. The rest of the company hurriedly gathered together and rushed to the assistance of the trapped platoon. As they were moving up a little hill, the Japanese opened up with “machine-gun, riﬂe, and mortar ﬁre.” Second Lt. Arthur C. Vandivort was ordered to take a squad and advance against the enemy position so that the rest of the company could keep moving. Selecting Sgt. Ray E. Eubanks’s squad, Vandivort and the paratroopers managed to maneuver to within thirty yards of the enemy position. When the squad opened ﬁre, Vandivort, armed only with a pistol; Eubanks; and the squad BAR man slipped down a shallow depression until they were less than twenty-ﬁve yards away from the enemy. At this point, Eubanks rose to his feet and charged. “A man who had a BAR charged with him but froze,” recalled David Elwood of Company D. “Eubanks grabbed the BAR out of his hand, and sprayed the top of the mound. He just charged over the top and opened up with the BAR, killing just about everyone up there.” Although spotted by the Japanese, Eubanks managed to wriggle his way forward “over terrain swept by intense ﬁre” until he was within ﬁfteen yards of the enemy. From there, he opened ﬁre with the automatic riﬂe “with telling effect.” Unfortunately, the Japanese instantly concentrated their ﬁre against him. “As he charged, his right foreﬁnger was blown off by a bullet which also hit the BAR, rendering it useless,” Elwood continued. “Eubanks charged several of them with his useless riﬂe and beat four Japanese soldiers to death with the stock of his gun before he got hit [and killed].” Eubanks’s courageous actions won him a posthumous Congressional Medal of Honor. According to the citation, Eubanks “so inspired his men that their advance was successful. They killed 45 of the enemy and drove the remainder from the position, thus effecting the relief of our beleaguered troops.” 2nd Lt. Arthur C. Vandivort, who was also killed, received the Silver Star.48 Up until the end of July, “the 1st Battalion continued patrolling to the south and southeast from Hill 670 attempting to locate the main body of the enemy force again,” recorded the 503rd PIR historian. “The 2nd Battalion . . . was patrolling to the north and northwest with the same mission.” Although numerous contacts were made with Japanese stragglers, only one contact was made with the main body of Shimizu’s force, but the enemy could not be brought to bay before the Americans had to “return to base for supplies.”49 Whenever the paratroopers pursued the elusive Japanese for any length of time, the lack of fresh water on the island became a big problem, forcing the men to return to their base camps after only a few days of patrol. During one patrol, Private Nycum and his fellow squad members from Company G came upon a freshwater spring. “We had been told that this was the only freshwater

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spring on the island,” he wrote. “The water ﬂowed from the ground into a pool roughly 30 feet by 50 feet in size. Lying in the pool was a badly deteriorated Japanese body. There were strings of decay extending toward the surface of the pool from his body, we had to be very careful while ﬁlling our canteens not to stir up the crud and thereby contaminate the water.”50 Perhaps the most horrifying sight that the American patrols ran across on Noemfoor was partially eaten bodies. On the run and starving, the Japanese turned to cannibalism on or about August 1. At ﬁrst, the Americans did not want to believe what they were seeing when dead Japanese soldiers and Formosan laborers were found with the ﬂeshy parts of their bodies systematically removed. However, when a few American dead that could not be reclaimed and had to be left outside of the defensive perimeter over night were discovered in a like condition, the Americans began to suspect cannibalism.51 Nycum was out on patrol one day when the lead man was shot and killed by a burst of machine-gun fire. While the survivors pulled back into a defensive position, the dead paratrooper remained outside the perimeter over night. Daylight came and we put feelers out to see if the Japanese were still there. They had moved out, and the scouts body was gone. We moved up the hill into the evacuated Japanese positions. There, we found his body it had been carved as though he were a piece of beef. All the flesh was gone from his legs, arms, buttocks and chest, and his heart and kidneys were missing. We had no doubt that they were eating our dead. We vowed right then never to take another prisoner! Later, interrogation of Japanese prisoners conﬁrmed the gruesome suspicions.52 From August 8 to 17, the 503rd PIR continued their pursuit of Shimizu’s men, tangling with rear guards and stragglers from time to time. On August 17, the paratroopers ﬁnally managed to corner the remaining Japanese in a pocket near the village of Pakriki on the southern coast of Noemfoor. “Made contact with the main enemy force at Paprika [sic] and in a ﬁre ﬁght which lasted on and off from 1030 hr to 1730 hr. practically annihilated the force with a few enemy escaping to inter part of island,” proclaimed the 1st Battalion’s historian. The Alamo Force operations ofﬁcer added, “Hopelessly outnumbered, half-starved, and critically short of ammunition, the Japanese were almost completely annihilated.”53 Around the end of August, General Krueger declared the Noemfoor operation ended. In a letter to his wife, Colonel Britten expressed the feeling of many of the paratroopers on Noemfoor. “Yesterday headquarters announced ‘Mission Successfully Completed.’ I prefer to eliminate the ‘suc-

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cessful’ and merely say ‘Mission Completed,’ for I do not feel that this Godforsaken mound of coral rearing its ugly head above the Paciﬁc is worth a single life.” He continued: “I must admit we hit a hornets nest ‘unexpectedly’. Heretofore, the Nips we encountered were on-the-run and fought only when forced to do so. However, this time they had no place to run, and they decided to fortify themselves in the coral caves, and made a tough job to go in and dig them out. . . . We expect to be withdrawn in the next few days and we men are looking forward to a return to permanent camp.”54 The 1st Battalion of the 503rd PIR was moved back to a new campsite about ﬁve miles southwest of the Kamiri airstrip on August 22 and began construction of a permanent base camp. Over the next few days, the rest of the regiment was relieved from combat duty and sent over to the new camp. “Here,” mentioned the regimental surgeon, “permanent mess halls, box latrines, showers, and pyramidal tents were used. At this camp the regiment settled down to rest, reﬁtting, and training.”55 The capture of Noemfoor Island had cost the regiment 3 ofﬁcers and 34 enlisted men killed and 11 ofﬁcers and 61 enlisted men wounded. In addition, 128 ofﬁcers and men had been injured in the combat jumps of July 3 and 4, and 414 ofﬁcers and men had become sick, of whom 161 had to be evacuated. A number of awards had been issued to the men of the 503rd, including one Medal of Honor. The paratroopers had killed 1,087 Japanese and captured 82 more. A total of 312 Formosans and 9 Japanese laborers were liberated.56 On July 7, only three days after the disastrous combat parachute jump by both the 1st and 3rd Battalions, an investigatory board headed by Colonel Tolson, the executive ofﬁcer of the 503rd, began looking into the “causes for the high casualties” during the drop. After sifting through all the facts, the board concluded that: (1) Parachute drops on any airstrip will always result in more casualties than drops on average terrain. (2) Parachute drops on any airstrip surrounded with equipment, dumps, guns, airplanes, vehicles, etc and natural obstacles will result in even more casualties. (3) The chief incident that caused unnecessary injuries was the extremely low altitude flown on the first day by some of the planes, particularly by the first two. The failure to move some of the vehicles as far away as possible the first day resulted in a few injuries.57 Although it could not be conﬁrmed, Lieutenant Rambo was “informed that [the lieutenant colonel ﬂying the lead plane] had been reduced to the rank of captain.”58

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Colonel Jones and his headquarters staff also looked into the problems with the parachute drop and concluded that a number of the C-47 pilots had never before dropped parachute troops or had not dropped them in over twelve months. “Lack of practice caused a feeling of uneasiness on the part of the pilots,” the staff wrote. The staff also noted that the 503rd PIR had been allowed very few practice jumps prior to the actual mission, mainly because of the lack of sufﬁcient numbers of C-47 transports. “The majority of jumpers on this mission had made only one jump within the 6 months prior to the mission,” they wrote. “None of these jumps were in connection with a tactical problem due to the small number of planes that were ever available at one time.” Jones and his staff also felt that better reconnaissance should be performed in regard to the type of surface the paratroopers would be landing on. “A study of aerial photographs does not give satisfactory information as to the texture of the terrain or of the obstacles on the ground to be encountered.” If possible, the staff suggested, actual reconnaissance on foot should be conducted. And ﬁnally, the 503rd PIR’s staff agreed that “landing strips are unsatisfactory for jumping areas for parachute troops. The hardness of the ground results in excessive casualties due to the shock of impact of a parachutist under the normal combat load.” Better places to land would include “native gardens, kunai grass or scrub timber.”59 On September 13, 1944, with the paratroopers recuperating nicely in their semipermanent encampment, 138 ofﬁcers and men of Company C of the 161st Airborne Engineer Battalion reach Noemfoor from the United States and were immediately attached to the 503rd PIR. Two days later, 602 ofﬁcers and men from the 462nd Parachute Field Artillery Battalion, which had left Brisbane by ship on August 18, ﬁnally arrived at Noemfoor to rejoin the regiment. With the addition of the artillerists and the engineers, the 503rd ofﬁcially became a parachute regimental combat team (PRCT).60 Rested, relaxed, and beefed up with an artillery and engineer unit, the paratroopers of the 503rd PRCT were now ready for all challenges. Unfortunately, the next one was not too far off.

CHAPTER 15

Leyte Firefight

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n July 30, 1944, while the patrols were still being carried out on Noemfoor, General MacArthur launched his next invasion of the New Guinea coast. On that date, the 6th Infantry Division made an amphibious landing in the Sansapor-Mar area on the far western end of New Guinea’s Vogelkop Peninsula. As the infantrymen stormed ashore, they were supported by ﬁghter and bomber planes ﬂying out of Kamiri aerodrome. In face of the strong American presence, the 18,000 Japanese defenders ﬂed into the interior of the peninsula and offered only token resistance for the remainder of the war. Once again, MacArthur’s daring planning and quick moves had caught the Japanese by surprise.1 With the entire northern New Guinea coast now in Allied hands, MacArthur turned his attention toward his main objective, the Philippines. MacArthur had originally planned to invade the southernmost island of Mindanao in November, but information provided by Adm. William “Bull” Halsey’s navy and marine corps airmen indicated that there was little air opposition over any of the islands in the Philippines. With this new information in hand, the general decided to advance his timetable to October and invade the centrally located island of Leyte, which would effectively split the Philippines in two and provide MacArthur with a deep-water anchorage in Leyte Gulf. Once captured, Leyte would provide MacArthur with “an excellent springboard from which to launch subsequent operations against the Japanese in Formosa or in the rest of the Philippines.”2 On October 20, 1944, four American divisions stormed ashore on the northeast corner of Leyte in the largest amphibious assault ever mounted in the Paciﬁc. MacArthur took advantage of the invasion to wade ashore and make his famous pronouncement: “People of the Philippines: I have returned.” By the end of the day, the attacking Americans had put ashore almost 200,000 men and had carved out a beachhead almost one mile deep.3 Over the next week, the infantry, tanks, engineers, and artillery that had ﬂooded into Leyte began to spread out, mainly northward toward the city of Tacloban and west into the central Leyte Valley. In heading westward, the 7th Infantry Division captured three Japanese airﬁelds around the village of Burauen at the southern end of the valley and then swung north toward Cari-

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gara Bay and the northern end of Leyte Valley. On November 2, elements of the 24th Infantry Division, moving in from the northeast, beat out the 7th Infantry Division and captured the city of Carigara on Carigara Bay, thus closing off the northern end of Leyte Valley. All of northeast Leyte was now in American hands.4 During the ﬁrst two weeks of November, the 24th Infantry Division, aided by the 1st Cavalry Division, fought westward along the coast of Carigara Bay and then headed south into Ormoc Valley, the next valley west of Leyte Valley. With the rapid advance westward, MacArthur decided to call in reserve troops to occupy Leyte Valley and provide relief and reinforcements for his ﬁghting divisions if need be. On November 7, 1944, the 11th Airborne Division began boarding eight Navy APA (transport, attack) and two AKA (cargo ship, attack) vessels at Dobodura in New Guinea. Four days later, the ten ships, along with an escort of nine navy destroyers, left New Guinea and headed northwest toward Leyte.5 The men of the 511th PIR were transported on the navy ship Cavalier and recalled that “We had better food on that Navy ship than we had had since leaving Camp Stoneman [on May 2, 1944].” On November 18, the head of the convoy reached Leyte Gulf, and the 11th Airborne began ofﬂoading on Bito Beach near Abuyog on the eastern side of Leyte’s skinny waist section. Because of the number of ships, the ﬁrst transports began unloading while the last ships were still out in the middle of the gulf. Lt. Eli D. Bernheim Jr. of the 187th GIR was on a transport named Calvert and recalled, “The tail of the convoy, miles back, was welcomed by an attack from three Zeros, one of which was shot down by ack-ack and the others pursued to the westward by our P-38’s. The Navy made no bones about wishing to be rid of us, and our loads, and in a hurry.” The eight troop transport ships were all unloaded by nightfall and the two cargo ships within forty-eight hours.6 When given the choice, General Swing had selected Bito Beach as the campsite for his men. “There was white sand and palm trees, but it was bordered on one side by a small river and in the back by a deep swamp,” recorded the 511th PIR’s historian. On the other hand, Bito Beach was also next to a Sixth Army ammunition dump. “Rough tent camps sprung up,” said Lieutenant Bernheim, “and, during the frequent air alerts, some felt uneasy because Bito Beach was one big ammunition dump, and no one was working more than a few hundred yards from piles of 155mm projectiles, 88mm mortar shells, and other explosives.”7 The 511th PIR’s stay at Bito Beach would be a short one, however. Beginning on November 21, in the midst of a soaking rain, the paratroopers were placed on LCTs and carried to Dulag on the northeastern coast of Leyte. From there, the men transferred to trucks and were taken along a muddy road to Burauen. Once transferred to the Burauen sector, the 511th PIR

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relieved the 7th Infantry Division, which in turn began moving south down Highway 1 and then turned west over the mountainous spine of Leyte. By November 2, the 7th was on the west coast poised to drive north toward the port of Ormoc, a key city on Leyte’s northwest coast. At the same time, the 1st Cavalry Division and the 24th Infantry Division were positioned to the north, ready to strike at Ormoc from that direction.8 The capture of Ormoc was crucial to the capture of Leyte since Gen. Tomoyuki Yamashita, commanding all of the Japanese forces in the Philippines, had decided to make the battle for Leyte the decisive battle of the Philippines. In response to the buildup of American forces on the east coast of Leyte, Yamashita began sending reinforcements into the west coast of Leyte through Ormoc. If the Americans could capture Ormoc, they could shut off the ﬂow of Japanese troops to the island and concentrate on defeating the force already on Leyte.9 By November 24, most of the 11th Airborne Division had been moved to new locations despite the incessant rains and clinging mud. Swing established division headquarters at San Pablo, a small village about two miles east of Burauen and settled the 511th PIR in at Burauen itself. The 187th GIR

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remained at Bito Beach, protecting the rear area, while the 188th GIR was stretched between Bito Beach and through Bugho, a few miles straight west of Bito, up to Burauen to protect the division’s southern ﬂank. The 152nd Airborne Antiaircraft Battalion was at San Pablo, helping to guard a small airstrip, and the 127th Airborne Engineer Battalion was “scattered at every mudhole in the Division sector, sometimes bridging them, sometimes scraping them, and sometimes in the more hopeless holes, just plumbing for depth and sunken trucks.” Finally, all of the division artillery units were centered around the San Pablo airﬁeld and division headquarters.10 In order to split the Japanese defenders in the Ormoc area and drive a wedge between the Japanese, it was decided to push southwest toward Ormoc with the 1st Cavalry Division and the 24th Infantry Division, north along the west coast with the 7th Infantry Division, and westward over the Leyte Mountains with the 96th Infantry Division and the 11th Airborne Division. On November 27, Colonel Haugen began sending the ﬁrst elements of the 511th PIR into the rugged central mountains of Leyte.11 The path taken by the 511th led up between Mount Majunag and Mount Lobi and was described by the 11th Airborne’s historian as winding a “circuitous way through slippery mud and constant rain, over rain swollen gorges, along cliffs, up slimy, rocky, root tangled, slippery slopes, around 180 degree corners, and through thick, dripping wet jungle growth and narrow slits in the rocks along the pass.” On Haugen’s map, the path appeared to wind from Burauen in Leyte Valley to Albuera on the west coast, south of Ormoc. “In reality,” admitted the division historian, “the route was uncharted, unphotographed from the air, and in places nonexistent.”12 Fortunately for General Krueger and the Sixth Army, the paratroopers of the 511th PIR were the right men for the job—“in superb physical condition” and “organized for movement by foot.”13 All of the long marches and runs on which Haugen had taken his men were about to pay off in spades. The ﬁrst group of paratroopers left Burauen in the early-morning hours of November 27 and consisted of Companies A and B and part of the regimental headquarters company led by Lt. Col. Ernie LaFlamme, the 1st Battalion’s commander. Slipping and sliding up the steep mountain path and through the thick, clinging mud, the paratroopers took what was called the North Trail and moved single-ﬁle, passing through the deserted barrio of Anonang. From there, LaFlamme and his men followed their Filipino guide slightly to the southwest to the village of Lubi and then southeast up a streambed to a ﬂat-topped mesa rising about 150 feet high surrounded on three sides by sheer, jungle-covered cliffs and on the fourth by a gentle downward slope. The entire mesa measured about 200 by 70 yards and was “fringed with coconut trees.” According to their Filipino guide, the mesa was called “Manarawat.”14

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Three hours after the ﬁrst group had set out, Haugen, the rest of the regimental headquarters company, and Capt. Thomas Mesereau and his C Company from the 1st Battalion followed. The 2nd Squad of the 1st Platoon, however, was detached to battalion headquarters and would be moved forward on a subsequent move. Taking the same slippery, sliding, muddy path, the men reached Anonang but then stopped when their Filipino guide suggested that it would be better to take a more westerly route to get to Lubi village than that which had been taken by LaFlamme’s men. Trusting in the guide, the men took a slight right turn and began following a river bed on a “short cut to Lubi.”15 “About 9 o’clock, we were in a column of march moving downhill on a jungle trail which ran beside a small brook,” remembered Sgt. Colbert Renfroe, who was in charge of the 60-millimeter mortar squad in the 1st Platoon. “We were going from a rise of 200 to 300 feet towards a small clearing on the banks of a small river.” Once at the clearing, the paratroopers stopped for a rest. After only a few seconds, the 1st Squad’s leader, T/Sgt. Michael G. Olivetti, whose squad was in the lead, showed up and reported seeing two Japanese soldiers around the bend apparently washing clothes in the river. “[1st Lt. James E.] Wylie [in command of the 1st Platoon] immediately, without consulting with anyone, told Olivetti to kill the S.O.B.’s and move the column forward,” Renfroe said. “I was within 6 feet of Wylie and heard the conversation clearly. No effort was made to contact Co. Hqs. or to inform [Captain] Mesereau.” Olivetti did as ordered, and within a few minutes, the entire column heard the sound of two shots from around the bend. Within a few seconds, heavy gunﬁre was heard in the direction of the ﬁrst two shots, and a short time later, 1st Scout Norman B. Honie appeared from the ﬁreﬁght bleeding from a gunshot wound. “As we had no medics,” wrote Renfroe, “he was sent back [to the end of the column] to company ﬁrst aid.” At the same time, Lieutenant Wylie and his 1st Squad rushed forward to help the scouts. After only a short while, the lieutenant sent back an order for the mortar squad to come forward, since his 2nd Squad had not come along on the expedition. “[W]hen the mortar squad moved up,” recalled Renfroe, “we dropped our packs, extra [mortar] ammunition and mortar by the trail and went forward as riﬂemen to support the 1st Squad. We took a couple of bandoleers of ammo per person with us.” The reinforcing mortarmen found the 1st Squad hiding behind logs and tree stumps in a clearing “about an acre in size along the riverbank.” Enemy ﬁre was coming from across the river, and the mortarmen quickly slipped into position beside the 1st Squad. “We joined the ﬁring line but could see nothing to shoot,” Renfroe recalled. “[T]he Japs had smokeless powder and we did not. Firing, at times, was very heavy from incoming riﬂe ﬁre. No effort

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was made to reinforce us or to clear the ground around us.” About this time, Sergeant Olivetti was killed, and about a half hour later, Lieutenant Wylie was hit and killed.16 Unknown to Renfroe and the others, as Wylie led the 1st Platoon up the right bank of the river and into the small clearing, Captain Mesereau had taken the rest of Company C, plus Haugen and the headquarters section, and had crossed the river to come up on the ﬂank of the enemy position. At one point, as Mesereau was leading his group forward, Renfroe and the others caught a glimpse of them. “For a short period about mid-day,” he wrote, “I saw elements of the company on the hillside to our rear, but when I next looked, they were gone.”17 By that time, the 1st Platoon was in “serious trouble.” During the three or four hours that the men had been ﬁghting, the Japanese had managed to swing around to both ﬂanks and had even gotten behind the paratroopers. “By late afternoon,” remembered Renfroe, “after holding the riverbank most of the day, our ammo was almost gone and it was plain we were not to be supported, so we were lost.” By midafternoon, the 1st Platoon had been cut to pieces. “One-half of my squad had been killed and the others had from one to three wounds,” according to Renfroe. “I had been hit twice in the legs and once in the back.” Between 2:00 and 3:00 P.M., an attempt was made to save everybody who was still alive. Platoon Sgt. Eldon W. Henry, who was now in charge, told everyone to cross the river and try to ﬁght their way out on the left or west bank. Renfroe described what happened: Our casualties were still mounting and the other bank offered good concealment. One by one and in small groups, the men slipped into the water and crossed over to an area covered with jungle growth. We crossed to what we found to be an island in the river. Here several more of the men were lost. At this time most of us realized that with no help available, our ammo gone, and our boys being shot one by one, there was no longer a choice as to what to do. The ones who were left began slipping into the water and heading downstream.18 While the 1st Platoon was being decimated, the rest of Company C and the regimental headquarters section were running into trouble of their own. As they tried to advance through the thick jungle along the left bank, they ran into heavy enemy ﬁre that wounded a number of men and killed a few. Taking their dead and wounded with them, Haugen, Mesereau, and the others began slowly backing out, heading back to get their 1st Platoon.19 Back at Burauen, Lt. Col. Norman E. Tipton, the executive ofﬁcer of the 511th PIR, somehow received word that Company C was in trouble. Placing a

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radio call to LaFlamme at Manarawat mesa, he ordered LaFlamme to send a relief column to the beleaguered company. 1st Lt. Merkel Varner of the regimental headquarters set out immediately with a platoon-size relief force. After a few hours, in which they managed to retrace their steps toward Anonang, Varner’s patrol ran into a portion of the Japanese force surrounding and attacking Company C. In the ensuing ﬁght, Varner was killed, and his men were unable to break through to the surrounded paratroopers. With killed and wounded of their own, the relief troops backed out and returned to Manarawat.20 When General Swing at 11th Airborne headquarters at San Pablo learned of the situation with Company C, he immediately ordered both Lt. Col. Norman Shipley’s 2nd Battalion and Lt. Col. Edward H. Lahti’s 3rd Battalion—both of the 511th PIR—to stand by to move to the relief of the survivors. Since Shipley’s men were currently guarding the area around Burauen and San Pablo, they could not move out until relieved by another unit. In quick succession, Swing ordered the 2nd Battalion of the 187th GIR, which was still at Bito Beach, to rush to Burauen and relieve Shipley’s men. With the muddy roads, the lack of transport vehicles, and the crowded conditions en route, it would take all day for the glider-riders to reach Burauen.21 Back at the small island in the middle of the river, individual soldiers from Company C’s 1st Platoon began slipping into the river to ﬂoat away from the maelstrom. “The water was about three or four feet deep, with big rocks around,” Sergeant Renfroe remembered. “We slipped into the river at times moving underwater, and proceeded down the river in ones and twos. . . . As we came out of the cover of an overhanging bank, [Andrew J.] Pappy Gresham climbed up on a rock and was immediately shot.” After going around a protective bend, the individuals got together and discovered that there were only nine survivors, including Sergeant Henry, who was mortally wounded, and Renfroe. The small group continued down the river for about an hour and a half until they came around a bend and saw a campﬁre on a bluff above the river. After waiting ﬁfteen minutes, they suddenly heard mufﬂed voices talking in English and recognized one of the voices belonging to a member of Company C’s 2nd Squad. Calling out, the men were eventually rescued and taken to LaFlamme’s Company’s A and B group encamped near Manarawat.22 The terrible ordeal for nine paratroopers from the 1st Platoon of Company C was ﬁnally over. Unfortunately, the ordeal for the rest of Company C continued. After failing to advance on the left bank, Colonel Haugen, Captain Mesereau, and the members of the 2nd Platoon and headquarters section recrossed the river and tried to advance on the right bank, working their way forward to where they had left the 1st Platoon. Fighting with hand grenades, bayonets, and concentrated rifle fire, Haugen’s group managed to rescue any

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remaining 1st Platoon survivors and then fight their way back up the 200-to300-foot rise before digging in for the night. As they did so, the Japanese moved in and surrounded them.23 During the running ﬁght, the regimental plans and training (S-3) ofﬁcer and about twenty men had become separated from the others. Moving along a blind trail, the bottom suddenly dropped out from beneath them, and they plunged down a cliff. Collecting themselves, they somehow managed to make their way back to the main trail, and by nightfall, they were back at Burauen. Once there, the S-3 ofﬁcer rushed to the division command post and began telling the division G-3 ofﬁcer, Lt. Col. Douglass Quandt, about their ordeal and about the attack on Company C. As Quandt questioned the understandably excited S-3 ofﬁcer and the other men, it appeared as though most of Company C and the section of the regimental headquarters that had been with it had been wiped out. When asked explicitly to locate the site of the attack on a map, no one could do so. Agitated and concerned, Quandt ordered single-engine Piper Cub L-4 and L-5 liaison planes from the different division artillery units into the air at ﬁrst light to see if they could spot any survivors from Company C.24 At the break of dawn on November 28, the artillery liaison planes were in the air, but the jungle canopy and a continuous light rain made it almost impossible to spot anyone from Company C. At almost the same time, Lt. Col. Ed Lahti and his 3rd Battalion paratroopers headed out from Burauen to rescue the trapped company. Moving out along a more southerly trail, Lahti was told to leave one company at the village of Patog, about three miles south of Lubi, to act as a defensive force against any wide ﬂanking move by the Japanese.25 General Swing and the others were still not sure what size force Company C was up against, nor what their ultimate intentions were. Trapped up on their hill, the survivors from the 1st and 2nd Platoons of Company C and from the elements of the regimental headquarters had survived the night in spite of repeated Japanese attempts to break through their perimeter. Food and medical supplies were almost out, and ammunition, which had been ﬁred “recklessly” during the opening hours of the battle, was now running low. Fire discipline became a critical matter, with the paratroopers ﬁring only when they had a clear shot or needed to repulse another Japanese attack.26 Sometime during the day, Colonel Haugen and the trapped men spotted a white ﬂag waving above the green of the jungle foliage. When the ﬁring died down, the Filipino guide that had led Company C down the “short cut to Lubi” stepped forward with a few Japanese soldiers. Speaking for the Japanese, the guide demanded that the Americans surrender. In a heartbeat, the paratroopers killed the guide and everyone with him. The shooting around Company C resumed.27

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Although Haugen and most of the other men believed that the Filipino guide had led them into an ambush, Sergeant Renfroe disagreed, stating: It is my thought that what we ran into were Japs from a large unit washing clothes and bathing in a stream ahead of us, who were evidently encamped across the river in front of us. . . . Had the Japanese planned to ambush us, as some reports indicated and most of the people in the regiment believed, they would have done so as we came down the trail between the two hills toward the clearing when the company was strung out in a column of march. Jungle hills on both sides would have offered ideal concealment for riflemen and machine gunners. If they had any knowledge of our march and direction, they could have annihilated our whole company in a matter of an hour or so. Initially, there was no machine gun fire and as the day progressed, the firing got heavier and began coming from all directions. So, as I say, it was no ambush.28 Despite being surrounded and running out of everything, the Company C and regimental headquarters survivors continued to hold out throughout the day. When night fell once again, Colonel Haugen decided that a few men might be able to slip through the Japanese lines and go for help. Taking eight other paratroopers with him, Haugen led the men through the thick jungle underbrush until he was certain that they were well outside the Japanese perimeter. Then, taking only two men with him, he headed down the mountain toward Burauen while the other six headed southwest toward Manarawat mesa.29 On the morning of November 29, the artillery liaison planes were up in the air once again. This time, one of the pilots, Lt. Donald E Neff of the 675th Glider Field Artillery Battalion, thought he saw a ﬂash of light coming from the jungle below him. Circling around and coming in low, he leaned out of his window and picked up the faint trace of gunﬁre from below. Unable to see where the ﬁre was coming from, Neff ﬁxed the position in his mind by noticing a bare stump in the center of a clearing. With the image etched into his brain, he turned east and headed back to the Burauen airstrip.30 By the time Neff landed and the right map was found on which he could pinpoint the bare tree stump in the clearing, it was already past noon. Company C and the section of regimental headquarters had been hanging on for over forty-eight hours. One thing Swing knew was that if Neff had heard gunﬁre, somebody from Company C was still alive out there. But Swing also knew that they had to be running out of ammunition and food. He had to get supplies and reinforcements to the trapped command as soon as possible.

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After setting out the day before, Colonel Lahti and his 3rd Battalion ﬁnally reached Manarawat mesa on November 29. Having taken the southern route toward Lubi, Lahti left his Company H at Patog village to protect his rear, as ordered, and then took the rest of the men on to Mawala, a short distance across the river from the mesa.31 With the arrival of Lahti’s men in the Manarawat mesa area, the troops assembling there now included Colonel LaFlamme’s Companies A and B, a handful of escapees from Company C, Colonel Lahti’s G and I Companies, and a section of men from regimental headquarters. There were more than enough men in the area now to attempt a rescue of the trapped members of Company C, but nobody on the mesa knew exactly where they were. Back down at the village of Burauen, General Swing knew exactly where the trapped men were located, but lacking radio communications, he could not get the information out to the men on the mesa. Instead, after learning that the location of the besieged company had ﬁnally been identiﬁed, he ordered Colonel Shipley to move his 2nd Battalion out of Burauen and along

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the north trail to Anonang as soon as possible the next day. The 187th GIR troops had ﬁnally arrived in the Burauen area, and Shipley’s paratroopers could now go to the relief of their brethren.32 That night, Lieutenant Colonel Quandt called Tipton and Shipley to division headquarters to show them photos and maps of the area identiﬁed by Neff. In a surprise move, General Swing ordered Tipton to go to Manarawat mesa and take command of all of the troops there. The only way that Tipton could get there was by parachute. Although it had never been done before, Quandt wanted Colonel Tipton to make a parachute jump from a Piper Cub liaison plane. Tipton readily agreed. The drop would be made as soon as possible the next morning.33 By the time the sun came up on November 30, the third day of the siege, a whole army of Piper Cub liaison planes was in the air. Most of them carried food and ammunition and medical supplies, and the pilots began shoving them out of their planes into the clearing with the bare tree stump. Unfortunately, although almost every bundle landed in the clearing, the area was swept by Japanese riﬂe and machine-gun ﬁre, and none of the surviving Company C and regimental headquarters men could get to the much-needed supplies.34 One liaison plane did not carry supplies but instead had Colonel Tipton aboard. Strapped into his parachute and carrying the necessary maps and photographs, he had climbed into the small observation plane for the trip to Manarawat mesa. “There was danger not only in the fact that such a jump had never been made from such a plane before—and it was not certain whether the ’chute would clear the aircraft—but also in the fact that the drop zone was entirely surrounded by the enemy,” noted an 11th Airborne historian. Without hesitation, Tipton jumped from the light Piper Cub and ﬂoated down perfectly onto Manarawat mesa.35 Circling up above in another Piper Cub and watching the whole episode was Quandt. Once Tipton was safely on the ground, he used a radio that he had been carrying and notiﬁed Quandt that he was safe and was now taking charge of the men on Manarawat. After signaling that the message was received, Quandt’s plane ﬂew off to San Pablo to notify General Swing that everything was ﬁnally working as planned.36 While the Piper Cubs were ﬂying their missions, Colonel Lahti was already moving his 3rd Battalion paratroopers from Mawala over to Manarawat. A disaster almost occurred when one part of the moving battalion went down a hill and then around a hairpin turn in a creek bed, putting them back on a trail that ran parallel to the ﬁrst. “As the last of Headquarters Company was leaving the [night] perimeter,” recorded Lt. Richard V. Barnes of HQ Company, 3rd Battalion, “it was brought under intense riﬂe ﬁre from the gorge below. Upon investigation, it was found that the creek bed had made a hairpin turn and that the lead elements of the battalion were ﬁring at

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the top of the hill where they had just left. Luckily, all shots were wild and no one was hurt.” It would take until the late afternoon before Lahti and his men reached the top of Manarawat Mesa.37 In the meantime, Colonel Shipley and his 2nd Battalion were moving west on the north trail from Burauen. Deane E. Marks, a member of a light machine-gun platoon with HQ Company, 2nd Battalion, recalled: Rumors started to come down that our First Battalion, from the 511th PIR, had advanced in[to] a blind draw and was ambushed with heavy casualties. . . . “Then one day we started up a hill into the jungle. . . . We were on our way to relieve the First Battalion, wherever they were. It was still daylight, but raining as we moved along. To keep my old M-1 rifle dry, I slung it upside down with a condom over the muzzle. . . . The trail was heading up a slight grade that was muddy and slippery. . . . [W]e heard that somewhere ahead, part of C-511th was surrounded by the Nips. We didn’t have any idea of what the hell was going on.38 The blind advance of Shipley was about to change because of the arrival of Colonel Haugen and his two stalwart companions at Burauen on the morning of November 30. Having tracked their way through the jungle the day before, the three men ﬁnally reached the 511th PIR’s command post at Burauen and immediately conﬁrmed the location of Company C. After discussing the situation, Haugen and Quandt decided that the quickest way to get a relief column to Company C was to parachute a guide to the front of Shipley’s 2nd Battalion, which was already on the move. Incredibly, one of the men who had just chopped his way through the jungle with Haugen, a trooper named Berg, volunteered for the job. Like Tipton, Berg would have to make his jump from a Piper Cub liaison plane. In agreeing to do so, however, Berg needed to replace his jungle boots, which had deteriorated on the way into and out of the jungle. Switching boots with Quandt, Berg soon had his parachute on his back and was winging his way quickly to the head of Shipley’s column.39 When Colonel Lahti and his 3rd Battalion ﬁnally reached Manarawat mesa late on the afternoon of November 30, he discovered from Tipton that Company C was still surrounded. “He called his staff together and told them of his decision to send G Co. on a search and rescue mission of any surviving C Co. and Regimental Hqs. men,” wrote Pvt. Harry Swan of Company G. “He would return with them to Manarawat. It should be pointed out that the maps we carried were anything but accurate. G Co. was going out on its mission somewhat blind.”40 In spite of the lack of intelligence, somebody was ﬁnally moving forward to rescue any of the remaining Company C paratroopers.

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Colonel Shipley’s 2nd Battalion was still on the northern trail and moving closer to Company C when they suddenly heard the sound of a Piper Cub engine overhead. Peering up through the canopy of jungle trees, they must have thought someone was crazy when they suddenly spotted a lone parachutist leap from the plane and begin ﬂoating down to earth. In an act that could have been taken from a movie script, Berg landed directly at the front of Shipley’s column. Passing his information on to the colonel, Berg then turned on the heels of his borrowed boots and began leading the 2nd Battalion northwest toward his trapped company.41 At about the same time, the men of Company G, led by Colonel Tipton himself, were coming in from the southwest. “After cautiously proceeding over dangerous jungle trails for several hours, we started hearing riﬂe ﬁre from the direction we were heading,” recalled Private Swan. “The terrain was a natural for another ambush situation and it was in every man’s mind, wondering if the Japs weren’t using C Co. for bait, ready to pounce on the rescuers whom they surely knew would be coming.” Late on the afternoon of November 30, after more than three days, Tipton’s Company G rescuers ﬁnally reached the survivors of Company C and the regimental headquarters section.42 Swan observed: There were C Co. and Headquarters men in two groups close enough to maintain contact. The men were in a deplorable condition, both physically and mentally, having survived numerous banzai attacks. A small ‘poncho’ hospital had been set up by Major Chambers, the Regimental Surgeon. He had done a great job in patching up the wounded. We spent the night with C Co. because it was getting too late to move out. It was a miserable night. In the morning another small 511th unit found us and became support for us. We withdrew from the area, taking C Co. and Hqs. Co. to Manarawat.43 The other relief column that came up to rescue the battered survivors and eventually moved on to support the withdrawal of the unit was the lead elements of Colonel Shipley’s 2nd Battalion. Marks of HQ Company remembered: Now, I see my first dead man. I didn’t know who he was. All I heard was that he was a C-511th trooper, just laying along the trail face down in a crawling position. Now, I realize what was going on. It was real, real. Somehow, the mud seemed wetter, the rain colder, and the stomach emptier. . . . Anyway, we kept wiggling up this slope to what was the C-511th perimeter and made contact. There were a few dead

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Nips laying around and several wounded C-511th troopers . . . they looked pale and tired. I don’t know exactly how many casualties they had.44 The 511th PIR had twenty-four men killed and dozens wounded from November 27 to 30. Eventually, the wounded were carried to Manarawat mesa, where Colonel LaFlamme’s 1st Battalion survivors had been constructing a short airstrip. Although too short to handle C-47 transport planes, the runway was more than capable of taking any one of the thirty-nine small Piper Cub airplanes used by the 11th Airborne’s artillery units. A few days after the rescue, the Piper Cub liaison planes, which were proving their value to the division, began ﬂying the most critically wounded off the mesa.46 With the rescue of Company C and the regimental headquarters section, the 511th PIR resumed its role of holding the Japanese in place while the 7th Infantry Division drove northward along Leyte’s west coast. Shipley’s 2nd Battalion remained in the area of the “ambush” just north of Lubi; Lahti’s 3rd Battalion protected the rear and left ﬂank of the regiment, with Company H at Patog and Companies G and I at Manarawat; and LaFlamme’s battered 1st Battalion and regimental headquarters returned to Anonang.47 In spite of the pounding that the 511th PIR had taken north of Lubi, it had come out scarred but intact. Mistakes had been made and lessons had been learned, but the 511th PIR would live to ﬁght again—and soon.

CHAPTER 16

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hortly after the rescue of Company C and the regimental headquarters section, Colonel Haugen parachuted onto the Manarawat mesa from a Piper Cub and took charge once again. On December 1, General Swing ordered Haugen and the 511th PIR to continue their move west and to “proceed to Mahonag, secure the Jap supply trail in that vicinity, with the secondary mission of attacking west on 7 December in a coordinating attack with other elements of the Sixth Army operating on Leyte.” Mahonag, nothing more than a “stump-studded clearing, about 400 by 500 yards, on top of a commanding hill,” was about seven mountainous miles northwest of Manarawat.1 By the night of December 3, the 1st and 3rd Battalions of the 511th PIR had moved off Manarawat mesa and were at Mahonag. The 2nd Battalion, still posted to the north of Lubi, continued to battle the large Japanese force that had trapped Company C and the regimental headquarters section. In order to ensure that Manarawat remained in American hands, Swing decided to send Company C from the 1st Battalion, 187th GIR, to the mesa. Realizing that such a move would take several days over the slippery, muddy mountain trails during the constant rains, Swing asked that one platoon be paradropped onto Manarawat.2 The precaution that Swing had taken to make sure that almost all of his 11th Airborne Division personnel were parachute qualiﬁed was about to pay off. Lt. Chester Kozlowski, a veteran who had transferred in from the 503rd PIR after its drop on Noemfoor, and his platoon were chosen. While the rest of Company C started toward Manarawat on foot, Kozlowski’s men were reﬁtted with the necessary equipment and then trained on how to make a staticline jump from a Piper Cub airplane. “As soon as the platoon was ready,” recalled Kozlowski, “General Swing had the aircraft (a Cub L-4) taxi to us so that we can be briefed on how to get into the plane, sit with our feet out the door, and our static line hooked up into a D ring. Then, when we received the word to go, it will be more of a hand signal and we were to roll out the door.” There were six L-4 and L-5 Piper Cub airplanes available for the lift, so each pilot would have to make four runs to get the entire twenty-four-man platoon onto the mesa. “I was the ﬁrst to get aboard the aircraft and take off,” wrote Kozlowski. “After about ﬁfteen minutes, we were over the DZ at 400 feet altitude when the arm went up to GO. The opening shock [of the para-

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chute] was not there. Actually it was a nice smooth opening and upon landing, we gathered our chutes and set out to establish a perimeter and ﬁelds of ﬁre.” Kozlowski’s platoon continued to hold the perimeter for three days until the rest of Company C ﬁnally arrived to relieve them.3 With the success of the drop of the glider troops, Swing decided to parachute-drop some of his artillery units into the area. The 511th PIR was now too far west to be aided by the Sixth Army’s artillery pieces set up in Leyte Valley, and it would be almost impossible to dismantle and carry the division’s 75-millimeter pack howitzers into the mountains, even on the backs of carabao. On December 3, Lt. Col. Nick Stadtherr, commander of the 457th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion, was told to drop one battery of guns in the Manarawat area. The battery chosen for the job was Battery A, commanded by Lt. Milton R. Holloway, who was nicknamed “Jelly-Belly” because of his large girth. Normally, twelve C-47s were required to carry and drop one entire battery of guns, but Stadtherr soon discovered that he had only one plane, an air-sea rescue C-47 with a pilot and crew who had never dropped parachute troops before. Still, they were eager to help. By late morning, enough personal parachutes, cargo containers, and parapacks had been carted over to the San Pablo airﬁeld from division supply at Bito Beach to make the drop a go. Holloway and his men and guns arrived from Bito Beach via army DUWKs and immediately began disassembling their cannons and readying the plane and their equipment for the drop. On the afternoon of December 4, the single plane took off from the San Pablo runway carrying Colonel Stadtherr, Lieutenant Holloway, and part of Battery A of the 457th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion. Instead of dropping on Manarawat mesa, however, Stadtherr had selected an area about “two rough and mountainous miles” from the mesa. The Manarawat drop zone, which was about 500 feet by 150 feet, sat at the far end of a deep, moonshaped canyon. In order to drop everybody and everything safely, the pilot of the C-47 would have to follow the turning canyon, quickly catch sight of the mesa, make the drop, and then veer sharply upward and to the left to avoid the far end of the canyon. Stadtherr was undoubtedly concerned that his inexperienced pilot could ﬂy such a treacherous route, so he chose the other drop zone instead. With Stadtherr working as jumpmaster, the C-47 came over the new drop zone with perfection at 300 feet, and Holloway and the battery mates and gun parts were dropped right on the mark. As the plane winged its way back to San Pablo for another run, Stadtherr decided that the rest of the drops would be made at Manarawat. He had seen and liked the expertise of the C47 pilot and crew and also realized that it would be better and easier to drop the guns and crews directly onto Manarawat than to have the artillerymen drag their guns to the mesa.4

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Upon returning to the San Pablo airﬁeld, the C-47 was loaded up again. The 11th Airborne’s historian explained: Beautiful flying by the pilot of [the] Rescue [plane] and tremendous proficient jump-mastering by Colonel Stadtherr, who personally jumped each planeload, landed all equipment and men in thirteen plane trips, directly in the center of the field. Because nine loads of equipment had to be dropped each trip (six from the belly and three from the door), personnel sticks were restricted to five men in order not to drop off the far end of the jump field. No injuries were sustained—except to “Jelly-Belly” Holloway’s pride, which had to suffer the march from the original drop zone [two miles away] to the battery position [on Manarawat]—even though the men jumped from three hundred feet. From that day on, A Battery provided 360degree support to all the infantry fighting in the mountains.5 With only a few of the divisional units still at Bito Beach and the bulk of the division now in Leyte’s central mountains, General Swing decided to set up a de facto command post at Manarawat mesa with Colonel Quandt in charge. On December 4, Quandt, a few members of the division staff, and a detachment of the 511th Airborne Signal Company parachuted onto the mesa. As the division advanced and had more contact with the enemy, there were more wounded soldiers. Although a ﬁeld hospital could be set up on Manarawat mesa, the 11th Airborne had only one way of getting a wounded man out of the mountains and over to better facilities—by carrying him. Swing decided to remedy this situation by having a platoon from his 127th Airborne Engineer Battalion parachute onto the mesa and build an airstrip. On the afternoons of December 4 and 5, the platoon and its equipment of chainsaws, shovels, axes, and picks were paradropped from Piper Cub airplanes onto the mesa. Work on the strip began at once. Even while the engineers were working, the Piper Cubs returned and dropped the 221st Airborne Medical Company and all of their medical supplies onto the mesa. Parachuting with them were three surgeons and ten medical technicians from a portable army surgical hospital that had been assigned to the 11th Airborne during its time on Leyte. Whether parachutetrained or not, the surgeons and technicians were paradropped onto the mesa, and with the help of the 221st Airborne Medical Company, they built a “nipa-thatched, silk parachute-lined ‘hospital’” atop Manarawat. On December 5, just as soon as the airstrip was complete, the ﬁrst L-4 Piper Cub arrived. Because the runway was too short for the more powerful L-5 Piper Cubs, the job of removing the more seriously wounded soldiers to better hospital facilities on Leyte and to navy ships anchored offshore would

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fall to the lighter, more versatile L-4s. By placing a piece of plywood and a mattress over the back of the seat, one Cub could carry one wounded man off Manarawat mesa at a time.6 With their forward command post set up, their airstrip built, their “hospital” up and running, the 1st Battalion of the 187th GIR protecting the perimeter, and the 511th PIR slowly pushing outward to cut the Japanese supply trail through the mountains, the 11th Airborne appeared to be ready for any type of action. However, the next battle fought by some of the division personnel occurred in a most unexpected way. Ever since their 1942 combat drops at Manado in Celebes, Palembang in Sumatra, and Koepang in Dutch West Timor, the Japanese had been rebuilding their parachute raiding units. Although the Japanese paratroopers had been silent, they had not been idle. More than two years after the Imperial Japanese Army’s 1st and 2nd Raiding Regiments returned to Japan, those two units and two more parachute regiments were banded together on November 21, 1944, to form the 1st Raiding Group (Dai 1 Teishin Shudan) consisting of the 1st and 2nd Raiding Brigades, the 1st Raiding Flying Brigade, and numerous support raiding units. The 1st and 2nd Raiding Regiments remained in the 1st Raiding Brigade while the 3rd and 4th Raiding Regiments were organized into the 2nd Raiding Brigade. The new table of organization gave each regiment a headquarters, three riﬂe companies, an engineer company, and a new heavy-weapons company. Each heavy-weapons company had a headquarters, an antitank platoon with four 37-millimeter Type 94 antitank guns or 81-millimeter Type 97/99 infantry mortars, an infantry gun platoon with four 70-millimeter Type 92 infantry guns, and a machine-gun platoon with two Nambu 7.7-millimeter Type 92 heavy machine guns.7 Two additional regiments, composed of regular infantrymen who did not receive parachute training, joined the 1st Raiding Group as the 1st and 2nd Glider Infantry Regiments. Similar to the raiding regiments, the glider regiments had a headquarters, three riﬂe companies, and an engineer company. The glider troops also had an antitank gun company with four 47-millimeter Type 1 antitank guns and a mountain gun company with four 75-millimeter Type 94 mountain guns.8 The 1st and 2nd Flying Regiments, which were responsible for transporting the army paratroopers to their drop zone, were banded together into the 1st Raiding Flying Brigade. Both ﬂying regiments now had at least nine Topsy transports to carry the paratroopers and one twin-engine Nakajima Ki-49 Donryu Type 100 (Helen) heavy bomber to carry the cargo containers. In addition to the two ﬂying regiments, the new brigade also included the 1st Glider Flying Regiment, which had eighteen Kokusai Ku-8 Type 4 (Gander)

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gliders capable of carrying twenty-four men each, and nine Helen heavy bombers to tow the gliders. The brigade also contained the 1st Raiding Flying Brigade Signal Unit and the 101st, 102nd, and 103rd Airﬁeld Companies.9 When the 1st Raiding Group was organized, ﬁve specialized smaller units, all intended as gliderborne units, were attached to the group. The 1st Raiding Engineer Unit was made up of a headquarters group, two engineer companies, and an equipment platoon with light engineer equipment and two Type 95 light trucks. The 1st Raiding Signal Unit had a headquarters group, a radio company, and a wire company to string everything together.10 A third specialized unit was the 1st Raiding Machine Cannon Unit. This company-size group was armed with six 20-millimeter Type 98 antiaircraft machine cannons, which could be ﬁred on their wheels or on tripods that could be set up in about three minutes. Capable of ﬁring at both aircraft and infantry, the cannons would give the raiding ﬂying group a little protection against attacking enemy aircraft.11 The fourth specialized unit was the 1st Raiding Maintenance Unit, which had a small headquarters group, an air maintenance company, and a ground maintenance company, all of which were set up to maintain and service the different aircraft.12 Finally, the group also contained the 1st Raiding Tank Unit, which “was intended to provide the group with a degree of mobile ﬁrepower.” This unusual organization would use Type 2 Ke-To light tanks, which carried a 37millimeter cannon and one 7.7-millimeter Nambu machine gun. With an overall length of a little over thirteen feet, six inches, a width of almost seven feet, a height of almost six feet, and a weight of nearly eight tons, the tanks seemed a little odd for a parachute unit. Still, it was envisioned that the fourteen light tanks within the unit—two in a headquarters group and twelve in a tank company—could be brought in by glider. In fact, a large Kokusai Ku-7 glider was designed to carry such a load, but only two were actually built, and they would never carry the tanks into combat.13 The 1st Raiding Tank Unit would be built around a headquarters unit with two Type 2 Ke-To tanks, a tank company with twelve Ke-To tanks; a supporting infantry riﬂe company; an antitank company with four 47-millimeter Type 1 antitank guns and twelve 3.5-ton Type 94 two-man tankettes to pull the guns and their three-quarter-ton Type 94 full-tracked ammunition trailers; a motorcar company with around sixty Type 95 light trucks; and a depot unit for maintenance. All in all, the entire 1st Raiding Group would consist, at least on paper, of about 12,000 men.14 When General MacArthur’s American troops invaded Leyte, the 1st Raiding Group was ordered on October 25 to send the 2nd Raiding Brigade, commanded by Col. Kenji Tokunaga, to Luzon to reinforce the Philippine defenders. Although the brigade was still being formed at the time, Toku-

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naga sent the 3rd Raiding Regiment, the brigade’s ﬁrst regiment, under Maj. Tsuneharu Shirai toward Luzon on October 30 aboard the aircraft carrier Junyo. On November 11, the giant ship steamed into Manila Bay and ofﬂoaded the men onto the docks of the Philippine capital. Tokunaga and brigade headquarters reached Manila by air the same day, but the 4th Raiding Regiment, the brigade’s second regiment, commanded by Maj. Chisaku Saida, took more than two weeks to reach Luzon, arriving aboard the transport ship Akagisan Maru on November 30. The headquarters and parachute elements of the 2nd Raiding Brigade then settled in at Clark Field, sixty-ﬁve miles northwest of Manila, while its two glider elements, the 1st and 2nd Glider Infantry Regiments, remained on Formosa.15 When General Yamashita announced that the decisive battle of the Philippines would be fought on Leyte, he envisioned the use of airborne attacks. In a communication to Lt. Gen. Sosaku Suzuki, commander of the 35th Army on Leyte, Yamashita stressed the need to “occupy Burauen airﬁeld as soon as possible,” “neutralize Tacloban and Dulag airﬁelds,” and “annihilate the enemy’s air power.”16 In order to achieve this, Suzuki envisioned combined air and land attacks against the three Burauen airﬁelds. The attacks would take place in two separate stages. The ﬁrst would be an air attack by specially trained guerrillas on the three airﬁelds. The guerrillas would crash-land their planes onto the runways and then set demolition charges to American supply and ammunition dumps, aviation fuel dumps, and any planes or vehicles in the area. In other words, the guerrillas would cause as much damage and confusion as possible. The second stage called for Japanese paratroopers to land and seize the airﬁelds while ground troops poured out of the central mountains for an eventual link-up. Although these plans were ambitious, Suzuki had no doubt that the attacks would succeed.17 On the night of November 26, four twin-engine Nakajima L2D2 Showa Type 0 (Tabby) transport planes took off from the concrete runway at Lipa airﬁeld, south of Manila, for the 350-mile ﬂight to Leyte. On board each plane were ten specially trained men of the 1st Guerrilla Company. Somehow, one of the planes must have become separated from the others because it ended up landing near Ormoc on the northwest coast of Leyte. The others, however, ﬂew the correct ﬂight path and ended up over the east side of Leyte, the side occupied by the Americans.18 It was 2:45 A.M. on November 27 when the three Japanese transport planes, with lights on, ﬂew north up the Leyte coast at the low altitude of only ﬁfty feet. Since the silhouette of the Tabby resembled the American C-47 transport planes, nobody paid much attention to the formation of low-ﬂying planes. Ten minutes later, one plane suddenly dropped out of the sky and crash-landed into Leyte Gulf twenty-ﬁve yards offshore near Dulag airﬁeld.

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When an American guard from the 728th Amphibious Tractor Battalion who thought the downed plane was a C-47 went out to the transport and climbed onto the wing to offer assistance, someone inside the plane threw a hand grenade at him. In the ensuing action between the Japanese guerrillas and the tractor battalion, two raiders were killed, but the rest managed to swim ashore and scamper away in the darkness.19 A second plane was either shot down by antiaircraft ﬁre over Buri airﬁeld one mile north of Burauen and crashed onto the airstrip or else was purposely crash-landed. Either way, everyone on board was killed. The third plane was intentionally crash-landed near Bito Beach, right in the area of the 11th Airborne Division. In the enclosing darkness, a soldier manning an antiaircraft gun saw the plane come down and skid along the bank of the Bito River. When he shouted, “Need any help?”, someone called back, “No, everything okay.” With that, the gunner went back to watching the nighttime sky for enemy planes. After dawn, when the plane was ﬁnally recognized as a Japanese transport, a search was begun. One guerrilla was killed, but the others had managed to escape into the surrounding jungle.20 When the Americans ﬁnally realized what had occurred, they searched through the wrecked planes and found dozens of demolition charges. They rightly concluded that the Japanese raiders had been on a suicide mission, especially since no other Japanese attacks, either by ground or air, had followed the night raid. However, when Radio Tokyo broadcast the news that the nighttime suicide guerrilla attacks had been “most successful,” the Sixth Army’s commanders began to fear that the Japanese might try to imitate the ﬁrst attacks with more airborne assaults.21 Then, on the evening of December 5, a coded message—titled “Alamo Report”—came in to 11th Airborne’s headquarters at San Pablo. American code breakers had discovered that a force of Japanese paratroopers—actually only their transports—had left Formosa for Luzon. It was believed that these paratroopers would be brought to Leyte for a parachute drop on the three Burauen airﬁelds. According to the report, decoded by General Swing’s intelligence ofﬁcer, Lt. Col. Henry J. “Butch” Muller Jr., the Japanese could be expected to attack with a brigade of paratroopers at around 6:00 P.M. on December 6. When Swing got the report, he immediately declared “that an ‘Alamo Report’ was top secret and reliable.”22 By the evening of December 5, the three Burauen airﬁelds contained only artillery spotter Piper Cub liaison planes. According to an 11th Airborne historian, “These ﬁelds were used only for Cub plane and casual operations, no combat air units being stationed in the area.” Any ﬁghter units or medium bomber units that had used the airstrips had been moved to either the Tacloban or Dulag airﬁelds on the east coast.23

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As Swing studied his maps, he noticed that the only combat troops that he had in the immediate area were Companies A and B of the 187th GIR, which were presently stationed at San Pablo airﬁeld. A few service troops, including the 127th Airborne Engineer Battalion and the 511th Airborne Signal Company, were scattered about the area, as well as the pilots and ground crews of the two dozen or so Piper Cubs. A little farther away, to the southwest of Burauen, was the headquarters of the Fifth Air Force. Although Swing doubted that the Japanese had enough transports in the area to launch a brigade-size attack by their paratroopers, he decided to put his men on alert and shift a few units around—ﬁrst thing in the morning.24

Los Baños.

Planners of the Los Baños raid. Left to right: Glenn McGowan, Roy Stout, Henry Muller, and Douglas Quandt.

LVT-4 alligators as used in the Los Baños raid.

Loading the rescued internees onto LVTs at Los Baños. GEORGE DOHERTY

Raiders at Los Baños. The paratrooper on the left has a foldingstock M1 carbine; the one on the right has an M3 grease gun.

Mr. and Mrs. Michael O’Hara at Los Baños.

Sister Mary Alphonsa.

Internees from Los Baños.

Internees rescued from Los Baños.

U.S. forces heading across Laguna Lake. GEORGE DOHERTY

Rescued internees load onto trucks at Mamatid Beach.

Henry Muller and Glenn McGowan display a captured sword and flag.

John Hoffman (center) and others with captured Japanese flag.

General Kruger with the 511th PIR on the morning of the Aparri jump.

The Aparri drop.

Smoke screen laid down to protect 511th PIR’s drop at Aparri.

Gliders at Aparri.

The 511th PIR dropping on Aparri.

The 511th PIR on ground at Aparri. Note glider in background.

A C-47 towing a glider.

The second lift dropping on Aparri.

Six CG-4A gliders top and left, CG-13 glider at lower right bottom.

The 1st Squad of the 2nd Platoon, Company E, 187th GIR.

Harry D. Clearwater in combat gear.

Maj. Gen. Joseph Swing.

Col. Henry J. Muller.

Marine paratroopers unloading supplies on Guadalcanal.

Marine paratrooper with M1941 Johnson light machine gun.

Marine paratroopers with smocks and M55 Reising gun.

Marine paratrooper Cpl. Lloyd Allen of the 1st Marine Parachute Regiment.

Curtis C-46.

CG-4A glider.

Douglas C-47.

CG-13 glider.

The 11th Airborne after landing.

Piper L-4.

Stinson L-5.

The 503rd lands on Corregidor, 15 February 1945.

Paratroopers of the 503rd PIR, part of MacArthur’s force, land on the bombbattered terrain of historic Corregidor, 16 February 1945. SIGNAL CORPS PHOTO

The 503rd PIR’s command post on Corregidor, 16 February 1945. The field was used as a jump field for the paratroopers, the smallest field ever jumped in by paratroopers. SIGNAL CORPS PHOTO

11th Airborne plane.

Paratroopers of the 503rd PIR land on Corregidor.

Paratroopers hit the ground during the invasion of Corregidor, February 1945.

American paratroopers of the 503rd PIR are shown dropping on Kamiri Strip on Noemfoor, July 1944.

CHAPTER 17

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enerals Yamashita and Suzuki saw the “most successful” airborne guerrilla raid of November 27 as a sign of good things to come and immediately implemented the second phase of their overall plan to seize the Burauen airﬁelds and later—at the insistence of Major Shirai, commander of the 3rd Raiding Regiment—to seize the airﬁelds at Dulag and Tacloban on Leyte’s east coast. According to what had been drawn up, the 16th and 26th Divisions would attack eastward out of Leyte’s central mountains while the 3rd and 4th Raiding Regiments of the 2nd Raiding Brigade dropped from the skies. On the next two consecutive nights, two more groups of paratroopers would be dropped in the Burauen area. Together, all of these paratroopers and infantry would destroy the Americans’ ability to dominate the skies over Leyte, thus allowing Yamashita and Suzuki the chance to rush a convoy of reinforcements onto the island near Ormoc.1 In preparation for the assault, on December 2, the remnants of the 16th Division began to ﬁlter eastward through the mountains and collect in a secluded gorge only 3,600 yards northwest of the Buri airstrip. By December 4, about 500 half-starved, ill-equipped troops had managed to reach the gorge. These were all that remained out of a command of 8,800 Japanese soldiers who had been battered and beaten in the defense of Leyte’s central valley.2 In order to move into position, the 26th Division ﬁrst had to break off from its ﬁght with the U.S. 7th Infantry Division along the western shore of Leyte and pass eastward over the mountains to arrive at a spot southwest of Burauen. Unfortunately for the Japanese, the east-west trails were now being occupied by the 511th PIR. No matter how it tried, the 26th Division could not get its troops over the mountains in time. During a wiretap of a Japanese communication line, the 511th PIR picked up the following message, “The Americans have me circled to the south, I have approximately one regiment east of the mountains. They are using artillery but I don’t know where it comes from.” Of course, the artillery ﬁre was coming from Lt. “Jelly-Belly” Holloway’s Battery A, 457th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion, on Manarawat mesa.3 The initial plan called for the Japanese attack to take place on the night of December 5; however, Suzuki was having trouble getting his 26th Division

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over the mountains and therefore requested permission to delay the strike until the seventh. Although Yamashita originally refused, bad weather on the ﬁfth, which would interfere with the parachute drop, eventually forced him to delay the attack until December 6. When calls went out to the two waiting infantry divisions, Suzuki could not get in touch with the 16th Division, hidden in its secluded gorge. So, as originally scheduled, the 16th, alone and unsupported, began the capture of the Burauen airﬁelds on the night of December 5.4 When darkness fell on the night of December 5–6, between 150 and 250 Japanese soldiers from the 16th Division slipped away from the mountain gorge, passed through a swamp, crossed over the north-south DagamiBurauen road, and headed east toward the Buri airﬁeld. At 6:30 A.M., they charged into an American encampment, bayoneting about forty Americans in their sleep while forcing others to ﬂee in nothing but their underwear. While most of the Americans scattered, small pockets resisted, although they were reportedly “ﬁring at anything that moves and . . . probably inﬂicting casualties among our troops.” Eventually, the small force of attacking Japanese infantry congregated in a stand of woods just north of Buri airﬁeld.5

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When General Swing heard of the early-morning assault and realized that only service personnel were opposing the Japanese raiders, he contacted Lt. Col. George Pearson, commander of the 1st Battalion, 187th GIR, and told him to move his Companies A and B northwest the one mile from San Pablo to Buri as quickly as possible. (Company C was at Manarawat mesa.) Pearson was also directed to use the Piper Cubs at San Pablo to ﬂy one platoon of glidermen to Buri immediately. The rest were to hurry along on foot. When Pearson arrived at the Buri airstrip on one of the ﬁrst liaison planes, he met a “very excited” group of disorganized service personnel. After the entire platoon had been ﬂown in via the shuttling Piper Cubs, Pearson put one squad in charge of protecting the airstrip and sent the rest of the men out on three patrols to determine exactly what they were facing. By 9:00 A.M., when the rest of Companies A and B arrived at the airstrip by foot, two of Pearson’s patrols had already reported back that a large force of Japanese infantry was in the woods to the north and that twenty-six of the enemy soldiers had already been killed. With about 180 glider troops now on hand, Pearson began a methodical attack into the north woods.6 For two hours, Companies A and B pushed slowly northward, battling Japanese infantrymen wherever they found them. Before noon, Pearson ordered a halt to the attack and called in his two company commanders to determine what they had discovered. Reporting in, the commanders reiterated that the woods were full of Japanese, thereby dispelling any belief that the early-morning attack had been nothing more than a “small combat patrol,” and that the two glider companies had killed an additional eighty-ﬁve Japanese while suffering only two wounded men themselves.7 While the morning ﬁreﬁght was taking place, Swing ﬂew into the Buri airstrip on a Piper Cub and was immediately updated on the situation. Having knowledge of the top-secret “Alamo Report” from the night before, Swing sent Colonel Pearson orders to “take up positions along the [north-south] DagamiBurauen road and keep it open and to look to his west, from which he should soon expect a lot of trouble.” In response, Pearson pulled his depleted battalion out of the woods, set up his two companies on line, and established his command post near the western end of the airstrip. Except for sniping action from both sides, the ﬁreﬁght in the woods was over. By 6:00 P.M. on December 6, the Japanese were conﬁned to the woods, Buri airstrip was open, and Pearson’s two glider companies were holding open the Dagami-Burauen road.8 The day before, on December 5, thirty-ﬁve Mitsubishi Topsy transports and four Nakajima Helen heavy bombers left Formosa and arrived at Clark Field on Luzon. These were the planes that had been reported to Swing by nightfall. The Topsies would be used to drop the army paratroopers on the ﬁve Leyte airﬁeld drop zones while the heavy bombers would crash-land at both Dulag and Tacloban airﬁelds, two to each ﬁeld. The occupants of the

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four planes, all armed with demolition charges, would then attack parked American aircraft and supply dumps. Since the November 27 attack had been deemed “most successful” by Radio Tokyo, it was assumed that American aircraft and supply dumps in the Burauen area had already been eliminated. The paratroopers dropping on those airﬁelds would engage American ground troops and attack antiaircraft installations and await their linkup with the 16th or 26th Division soldiers coming over the western mountains.9 Around 3:00 P.M. on December 6, the army paratroopers of the 3rd and 4th Raiding Regiments began climbing into their waiting planes. A total of about 250 men from both regiments would jump onto Buri airﬁeld, about one mile north of Burauen, from seventeen Topsy transports. Another 72 men from the 3rd Raiding Regiment would drop from six Topsies on Bayug airﬁeld, about half a mile east of Burauen. The last group to jump in the Burauen area consisted of about 36 men of the 4th Raiding Regiment who would jump from three Topsies on San Pablo airﬁeld, two miles east of Burauen. All told, about 358 men would jump on the three airﬁelds. Making the attack on Dulag airfield along the central part of Leyte’s east coast would be 84 men from the 4th Raiding Regiment who would parachute onto the airfield from seven Topsies and 20 men from the 3rd Raiding Regiment who would crash-land on the airfield in two Helen bombers. For the attack against Tacloban airfield on the northern part of the east coast, the 4th Raiding Regiment had 44 men divided between the paratroopers in two Topsies and the demolition group in the two Helens that were intended to be crash-landed on the airstrip. Therefore, a total of 104 and 44 Japanese intended to disrupt American activities at Dulag and Tacloban airfields, respectively.10 On December 3, three days before, Lt. Gen. Kyoshi Tominaga, the chief of the Japanese War Department Personnel Bureau, attendant to the War Minister at Imperial General Headquarters, and the chief of the Army Merit Investigation Department, sent a large Japanese ﬂag to Major Shirai, commander of the 3rd Raiding Regiment. On it were inscribed the words “Exert your utmost for your country.” As Shirai climbed aboard his Topsy, somebody had the ﬂag squirreled away among his other gear.11 Quite a few of the other men had stashed small bottles of liquor with labels stating that they should be opened and drunk only in ﬂight.12 Perhaps these, too, like the ﬂag, had been presents from General Tominaga given to help instill courage into anyone who drank the contents. Around 3:40 P.M., the thirty-ﬁve transports and four heavy bombers began taking off from Clark Field, and after assembling over Luzon, they headed slightly southwest for 270 miles toward the Philippine island of Negros. Once over Negros, the transport picked up an escort of six medium bombers and six ﬁghter planes from Bacolod airﬁeld on Negros and then

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headed east for the last 140 miles to Leyte’s Burauen airfields. During the last few minutes of the flight, the planes passed over the mountainous spine of Leyte. Members of the 511th PIR were below the planes and remembered looking skyward. “On the night of the attack, we had watched the planes fly over us at Manarawat, watched the exhausts glow bluishly, and identified them as Japanese by the off-beat engines,” noted a member of the 511th PIR. “How often since then we’ve thought that we could have given at least ten minutes’ warning had we only known.”13 Because of poor communication between the forward command post in the mountains and the actual command post at San Pablo, news of the incoming enemy formation went unreported. After passing over the mountains, the planes headed directly toward the Burauen airstrips, where most of the paratroopers were to jump. Undoubtedly, the ﬁrst paratroopers to jump were the men intended to land on Buri, the ﬁrst ﬁeld to be reached. Unfortunately, instead of having some 250 men jumping from seventeen transport planes, as planned, only 60 paratroopers, jumping from perhaps ﬁve transport planes, followed Major Shirai to the ground. At least 16 men landed just west of the airﬁeld, between the ﬁeld and the Dagami-Burauen road, then discarded their parachutes and ran east to join their comrades. Overhead, the rest of the paratroopers and the rest of the planes continued on to the east.14 It was roughly 6:35 P.M. On the Buri airstrip, two 11th Airborne personnel were just getting out of a couple of L4 Piper Cubs when the Japanese paratroopers started dropping around them. The two men were bringing much-needed radio equipment to Pearson and his Companies A and B of the 187th GIR, which had set up west of the airstrip. One American was instantly killed, but the other managed to get away.15 In their haste to get away from the falling Japanese paratroopers, dozens of other air force and service personnel dropped their equipment and ran. Left behind and scooped up by the Japanese was a collection of “carbines, riﬂes, grenades, small arms ammunition, and machine guns.” Later, it would be reported that the Japanese made “the best use” of this “captured” American equipment. Faced with little opposition and now equipped with American arms and ammunition, Shirai and his small band of paratroopers linked up with the 16th Division soldiers hidden among the trees to the north and seized complete control of the Buri airstrip.16 Thus far, at least at Buri, the parachute drop had been a complete success. Although seventy-two men from the 3rd Raiding Regiment were supposed to drop on Bayug airﬁeld, about one-half mile south of Buri, for some unknown reason none of them did. The only planes that ﬂew over Bayug were a couple of bombers and a few ﬁghter planes. One moment, Michael J. Kalamas, one of the Piper Cub crew members that resupplied the men in the

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mountains by aerial drop, was with a buddy on the north side of the airstrip washing his mess kit, and the next moment, he wrote, “the peaceful, warm evening erupted in complete bedlam. Incendiary bombs were exploding all around us. The noise was deafening, and pieces of white hot magnesium were ﬂying through the air and covering the ground like so many hailstones.” Racing back to their tents, Kalamas and his buddy grabbed their helmets and carbines and raced back to the airstrip. “Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a ﬁghter plane diving in our direction, with guns belching,” he went on. “I dove into a nearby ditch, and my friend landed on top of me.” The Japanese ﬁghter ﬂew off after just one straﬁng run, and Kalamas and his friend got up and looked around. “Two men were near our tent looking at the trees at the far [east] end of the airstrip and they were yelling that they had seen a lot of parachutes coming down in that area. I asked who they were, and he said he thinks they may have been Japanese. And with that, they took off across the runway running as fast as they could.”17 It was about 6:40 P.M., at the San Pablo airstrip, and Swing and his staff were inside their mess tent having dinner when they heard a familiar noise to the west. “[A]t ﬁrst it sounded like a swarm of bees in the distance,” wrote Colonel Muller. “Then it became clear. No paratrooper could mistake the drone of a formation of troop carrier aircraft. Someone outside shouted, ‘Aircraft!!!’—then many ‘Jap transports!!!’—‘Paratroopers!!!’” Swing and his staff ran outside. “By now a dozen parachutes had opened above us and everyone began ﬁring at them,” continued Muller, “I even emptied two clips from my .45 at the nearest parachutists.” Undoubtedly, because of the topsecret Alamo Report, Swing knew in an instant what was happening. The others however were not so sure.18 Another eyewitness at the San Pablo airstrip was William Hayes of the 187th Airborne Engineer Battalion. He wrote: It was just about dusk—they had it timed pretty well—and somebody started yelling, “Those are Jap planes!” They surprised us; we didn’t have any warning. We looked up and saw what looked like C-47s, the same planes we jumped out of. . . . Our squad leader went back and had them issue us a supply of ammunition. He managed to get us each a bandolier. White parachutes were coming down, but we got it [the ammunition] in time to shoot some in the air. I’m not sure if I hit anything, but I squeezed off a few.19 Just prior to the parachute drop, while the few ﬁghter planes stayed high aloft, two bombers dropped at least two bombs on the airstrip and one near a parked liaison plane. Another bomb reportedly hit a gasoline fuel dump which erupted in smoke and ﬂame.20

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The antiaircraft emplacements around San Pablo airstrip and elsewhere in the ﬂight path of the airplanes may have opened ﬁre at this time. Although late to respond, the antiaircraft batteries did a wonderful job once they began. Out of the thirty-ﬁve transports carrying the Japanese paratroopers, only seventeen returned to Clark Field on Luzon, and most of these had some form of ﬂak damage. It is known that three transports were shot down and crashed with no survivors in the Abuyog area east of Burauen and that the 48th Field Artillery shot down one transport south of Burauen. Later, when the artillerymen inspected the plane, they found two dead pilots and twelve dead paratroopers, all “still in harness.”21 Another transport may have suffered unexpected damage from antiaircraft ﬁre. During the parachute drop on San Pablo, it was reported that a large number of Japanese paratroopers suffered from the failure of their quick-release harness and were thought to have slipped out of their parachutes and plunged to their deaths. According to Muller, “One entire planeload jumped to their deaths when the anchor line which pulls the chutes open failed.” By the time the paratroopers realized that the static line had not deployed their parachutes, it was probably too late. The anchor line or cable may have been damaged by incoming antiaircraft ﬁre. In all, eighteen of the ﬁfty-one transports, bombers, and ﬁghter planes were shot out of the sky by American antiaircraft ﬁre.22 The transport planes passed over the San Pablo ﬁeld in two V-of-V formations, with twelve planes in each V at an altitude of 700 feet. “The ﬁrst planeload of paratroopers began leaving their aircraft direct[ly] over Div. Hdqs., some 600 feet short of their objectives,” recalled Colonel Muller. “Others were strung out well beyond the airstrip in an area of tall trees.” A total of about 250 Japanese parachuted around the San Pablo airstrip instead of the 36 called for in the plans. Undoubtedly, most of the men who failed to jump onto the Buri airstrip instead jumped at San Pablo.23 Later, the 11th Airborne would ﬁnd 124 discarded parachutes in the area between the Bayug and San Pablo airﬁelds.24 Upon reaching the ground, most of the Japanese paratroopers headed east toward San Pablo, but a handful ran west toward Bayug. Michael Kalamas and his friend ran into an American ofﬁcer, and all three climbed into a jeep at the Bayug airstrip. As they headed north across the runway, they spotted a group of men coming toward them from the east. “They were singing and shouting and carrying on,” Kalamas recalled, “and we knew all at once that they were not our guys. The ofﬁcer driving the jeep put it into reverse and headed back up to the brush north of the strip. Then the jeep bogged down in a marsh.” Leaving the jeep, the three men edged their way toward the runway and then peered out. “The three of us stood still in silence, watching as we tried to catch our breath,” Kalamas went on. He surveyed the bombed airﬁeld.

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“Everything was on ﬁre. The drums of gasoline were burning. Also the two supply tents, on the other side of the runway. The [Piper Cub] planes farther away from us were also on ﬁre, and a couple of Japanese soldiers were tossing hand grenades into the cockpits, as they were heading in our direction.” Turning and heading west, the three Americans eventually reached friendly lines and breathed a sigh of relief.25 Many of the Japanese paratroopers that landed east of the San Pablo airstrip headed west along the runway, setting ﬁre to about eight Piper Cubs parked off the east end. “All night long they were destroying things on the airstrip . . . planes and equipment,” remembered engineer Hayes. “Shooting, grenades going off. It was chaos all night long.” The Japanese eventually destroyed three or four more Piper Cubs on the north side of the runway, along with “a jeep, several tents, and a gasoline dump.” A Japanese paratrooper also managed to climb up a palm tree and raise Major Shirai’s ﬂag above the San Pablo runway.26 Some of the antiaircraft crews that had ﬁred at the Japanese formation ducked down into their emplacements when the paratroopers began landing. “The antiaircraft crews had constructed high earthworks around their gun positions to protect them from bomb fragments if attacked from the air,” wrote an 11th Airborne historian. “When the paratroopers dropped they withdrew into these earthworks, and this was a fatal decision. One Japanese hand grenade, lofted into the conﬁned space, would account for the entire crew.”27 To protect his division command post, which he felt would surely be one of the objectives of the paratroopers, General Swing ordered Lt. Col. Douglas C. Davis to place his 127th Airborne Engineer Battalion in a defensive arc around his headquarters. “We were told by division headquarters to set up a perimeter,” Hayes recalled. “They ﬁgured that [the Japanese] would try to overrun the headquarters ﬁrst.”28 Closer to his headquarters, Swing posted an ad hoc group of defenders that included about thirty-ﬁve airmen and ground crew personnel from the Fifth Air Force and approximately ﬁfty soldiers from the 11th Airborne’s divisional headquarters unit, the 511th Airborne Signal Company, the headquarters and headquarters battery of the 11th Airborne Division Artillery, the 408th Airborne Quartermaster Company, the 711th Airborne Ordnance Company, and the 152nd Airborne Antiaircraft Battalion. Placed in charge of this conglomerate group was Lt. Col. James Farren, commander of the antiaircraft battalion. “But nobody told the people near division headquarters that we [the airborne engineers] were in front of them,” complained Hayes. “[Headquarters personnel] were taking shots at us, and they killed one of my best buddies that night.”29

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Colonel Muller was a part of the group around the headquarters tents and recalled, “There was considerable riﬂe ﬁre from the vicinity of the airstrip and some from the Hdqs. area, the latter from trigger-happy troops in their ﬁrst combat situation.” To make matters worse for the “trigger-happy” service personnel, the entire headquarters area was pitch black. Muller added, “Someone [had] ordered that the generator be shut down as the lights could attract sniper ﬁre.” According to a report ﬁled after the battle, “There was uncontrollable and disorganized ﬁring and much difﬁculty arose in establishing a co-ordinated command.”30 As the Japanese planes continued over Leyte, they ran into all kinds of trouble. At least two transports ﬂew off course and dropped their sticks almost twenty miles north of Burauen. U.S. Army reports indicated that at 6:45 P.M., about twenty Japanese paratroopers landed three or four miles southwest of the little barrio of Bugho, far north of Dagami. Undoubtedly, most of the men were either killed or escaped into the darkness.31 In the Dulag area, only the two Topsy transports ever reached the airﬁeld; the two Helen bombers were apparently shot down. The two transports managed to ﬂy over the runway through a hail of antiaircraft ﬁre, but only ﬁve men jumped from one plane before it crashed. Nobody dropped from the other, which eventually crashed about a mile northeast of the ﬁeld. The ﬁve men who parachuted to the ground were eventually rounded up and killed.32 At Tacloban, it was just the opposite. The two transport planes never made it to the ﬁeld, but the two Helens showed up and attempted their crash landings. One was shot out of the sky while attempting to land while the other plane crashed too hard, killing all of the men on board. Later, when the bodies were searched, it was reported that the Japanese paratroopers had American uniforms or civilian clothing on under their jump smocks, leading the U.S. Army Infantry School to conclude that “plans for deception were not overlooked.”33 Throughout the night, the Americans at San Pablo could see the Japanese paratroopers dashing past the burning planes and fuel dump and could hear them shouting out threats. “Everything is resistless! Surrender, surrender!” they yelled. “The great Japanese Army is descending. All is useless.” Cpl. Jimmy Smith of the 457th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion shot three of the Japanese paratroopers, easy targets in the light of the burning planes.34 In the middle of the hectic night of December 6–7, General Swing, who knew from the Alamo Report that this was not a simple “suicide demolition mission,” ordered Lt. Col. Lukas E. Hoskas Jr. to bring his 674th Glider Field Artillery Battalion up from Bito Beach to San Pablo. There was such an urgent need for these troops that Swing told them to leave their 75-millimeter howitzers behind, grab their carbines, and come on the run.35

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Earlier in the evening, when General Army Headquarters learned what was going on in the Burauen area, two battalions of soldiers from the 149th Infantry Regiment of the 38th Infantry Division stationed in the sector just north of the 11th Airborne were released from 96th Infantry Division’s command and turned over to Swing. He immediately ordered them to start moving south down the Dagami-Burauen road to link up with Companies A and B of the 187th GIR to help get back Buri airstrip.36 At almost the same time, General Headquarters gave two battalions of the 149th Infantry Regiment of the 38th Infantry Division, which had just landed on the east coast of Leyte as reinforcements, to Swing for use whenever and wherever he needed them. Around 2:00 A.M. on December 7, Swing contacted the two battalions and ordered them to report immediately to the San Pablo strip.37 Swing was preparing for a counterattack at ﬁrst light and needed as many men as possible. Not waiting for reinforcements, 1st Lt. Paul J. Pergamo of the 187th Airborne Engineer Battalion took a platoon of his engineers and attacked the rowdy paratroopers on the San Pablo airﬁeld. Armed with three machine guns, his group managed to scatter the Japanese and grab a position on a small rise on the southwest corner of the ﬁeld. Digging in, the men managed to hold off three separate Japanese charges, one of which came within ﬁfteen feet of the position. Perhaps because of this action, the Japanese at San Pablo were conﬁned mostly to the eastern end of the airﬁeld as things quieted down a bit around 4:00 in the morning.38 At 6:45 A.M., the action heated up again at the San Pablo airstrip. Engineer Hayes recalled: During the night, our platoon leader got orders to attack the Japanese at dawn. There were about two squads. We didn’t have a full platoon—about thirty altogether and some Seabees [Navy Construction Battalion or CB]. We were the only ones attacking in the morning, which was pretty scary. We thought a battalion [about 650 men] jumped, but actually it was a little more than a company [250 men]. Still, there were only thirty of us, and we were completely outnumbered. So we were ordered to attack in the morning and run ’em off the strip if we could.39 In the early light of dawn, the engineers and Seabees attacked. “At that time,” Hayes continued, “General Swing came up, and we were in a ﬁreﬁght with the Japanese. We exchanged ﬁre for about twenty minutes, and we tried to set up two machine guns, and managed to get a mortar set up. We just attacked head on. We lost about half of the men.” Eventually, Swing himself guided one of the machine-gun crews, including Hayes, to a position on the

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left or west side of the runway. “There was a berm on the far side of the airﬁeld, and the Japanese were on the opposite side of it,” Hayes remembered. “Our platoon commander got hit in the legs and severely injured.”40 While the handful of engineers and Seabees were attacking, Colonel Davis was preparing his “multi-branched” force of signalmen, engineers, headquarters personnel, cooks, and clerks for Swing’s all-out assault to retake the airstrip and relieve the line of engineers that had held the outside perimeter all night. “During the night,” remembered Colonel Muller, “the G-3 prepared a plan for a provisional battalion of Ordinance and Quartermaster companies, with odds and ends of service and admin. troops, to counter-attack across the airstrip at ﬁrst light.” Just as the men were lined up and about to advance, however, a long line of army DUKWs arrived from the east ferrying Colonel Hoskas and the ﬁrst elements of his 674th Glider Field Artillery Battalion. After an all-night ride from Bito Beach, the artillerymen climbed down from the DUKWs and took up position to the right of Davis’s line.41 An 11th Airborne historian described what happened next: To anyone who has read of the Civil War battles, the similarity of this morning fight will immediately become apparent. On the left were the engineers, drawn up along the southern edge of the strip. On the right was the artillery[men], similarly drawn up in battle formation on the southern edge. In the center, between the two outfits was the Division Commander [General Swing], shouting as he directed the two commanders in the attack. They in turn bellowed at their units, and the attack moved off.42 Colonel Davis and his ad hoc group on the left met the stiffest resistance, but “by maneuvering his companies,” he managed to outﬂank the enemy and push them back 300 yards. However, by this time, his men were running low on ammunition since so much had been uselessly wasted the night before, and they were low on water. Calling a halt to his forward progress, his men reformed and sent for ammunition and water.43 During the ﬁght, Pvt. Allen W. Osborne and Pvt. Eustis A. Jolly, who were hand-carrying ammunition to the ad hoc unit, suddenly spotted Major Shirai’s Japanese ﬂag ﬂying from a palm tree on the north side of the strip. The two men attempted to climb the tree to tear down the ﬂag, but Japanese riﬂe ﬁre interfered. Deciding that it was suicide to go up and get the ﬂag, they decided to bring the ﬂag down to them. According to the 11th Airborne’s historian, “In a crouching position, with the battle raging around them, they chopped the tree down and procured the ﬂag.”44 To the right of Davis’s command, Hoskas’s artillerymen, armed only with their carbines, continued past the spot where the ad hoc group had stopped

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and eventually took up a position in a coconut grove north of the airﬁeld. Davis then sent a strong patrol to ﬁll in the gap between the two units, and the men all dug in along a defensive perimeter. “Our counterattack had cleared the ﬁeld with little resistance,” noted Muller. “Other than for a few remaining snipers, the Japanese paratroopers had withdrawn into a wooded area north of the strip.” By 2:00 P.M., the Japanese paratroopers had been pushed back about 800 yards. The entire airstrip was back in American hands, and the remaining L-4 Piper Cubs were once again performing their much-needed supply and medical ﬂights to Manarawat mesa.45 Near that same time, the 1st Battalion of the 149th Infantry Regiment, 38th Infantry Division, arrived at San Pablo from Leyte’s east coast. Muddy and footsore, the men were given little time to rest as General Swing approached their commanding ofﬁcer, Maj. Martin C. Grigg. After introducing himself and apprising the major of the situation, Swing turned and pointed toward the Buri airﬁeld, about one mile to the northwest. “Fifteen hundred yards from here on an azimuth of 273 degrees is another airstrip just like this one,” Swing told Grigg. “Between here and there are about twenty-ﬁve Jap troopers. It is now 1400 [2:00 P.M.]. I want that strip by nightfall.” A half hour later, the men of the 1st Battalion, 149th Infantry Regiment, 38th Infantry Division, were on the move. Buri airﬁeld was in trouble and needed help.46

CHAPTER 18

Buri Airfield

C

ompanies A and B of Colonel Pearson’s 1st Battalion, 187th GIR, had rushed to Buri airﬁeld early on December 6 in response to the surprise attack by the 150 to 250 troops of the Japanese 16th Division. After pushing the enemy back from the airstrip, the two companies had settled into a line near the Dagami-Burauen road, where they had established a battalion command post and medical aid station. During the night of December 6–7, when Major Shirai and about 60 paratroopers from the 3rd and 4th Raiding Regiments dropped on the Buri airstrip, Pearson’s men had held their ground while the paratroopers seized the airstrip. With the coming of daylight, the Japanese began to pay attention to the 187th GIR. Three of the enemy were killed in a supply tent near the battalion command post, and Capt. Hans Cohn, a battalion surgeon, had a plasma bottle shot out of his hand during an operation. Steadfast and calm, the captain had his patient lowered into a slit trench and continued doing his job.1 Daylight also brought activity from the 187th GIR. Ordered to try and reclaim the airﬁeld at ﬁrst light, the men from Companies A and B started eastward but immediately began taking heavy machine-gun ﬁre from their left rear from a Japanese platoon on the west side of the Dagami-Burauen road, possibly soldiers of the 16th Division. Ordering a detachment of his men to keep an eye on that pesky force, Pearson angled the rest of his men eastward toward the airstrip. By early morning, they were well engaged with the combined paratrooper-infantry force around Buri.2 Around 9:30 A.M., while the morning’s battle was in progress, the soldiers from Company A of the 1st Battalion of the 382nd Infantry Regiment, 96th Infantry Division, which had been stationed in the next sector north of the 11th Airborne and had been released to General Swing’s command, began appearing on the Dagami-Burauen road. By 9:45 A.M., the entire company was up and fell into line beside Pearson’s men. Together, the one infantry company and two glider companies surged eastward. Lieutenant Pickle and his platoon from Company A, 187th GIR, fought their way to the northwestern edge of the airﬁeld twice, but each time, they were thrown back by heavy enemy ﬁre. On the other ﬂank, Company A from the 382nd Infantry Regiment, 96th Infantry Division, pushed aggressively

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forward until its commander was wounded. Realizing that he was facing a strong force that had been given an entire night to fortify their positions, Pearson halted the whole advance and pulled the combined companies back to the northwest. While the men rested, Pearson made a personal reconnaissance of the area. Crawling on his hands and knees, he got to within ﬁfty yards of the enemy’s perimeter. From there, he spotted a ravine along the western edge of the airﬁeld that led to a clearing on the south side of the airstrip where he could set up his machine guns and mortars. Returning to his battalion, Pearson began leading his men toward the ravine at roughly 2:00 P.M.3 Unfortunately, the ﬁrst men into the ravine discovered that the Japanese had fortiﬁed it with booby traps. Undaunted, Pearson pulled his men out of the ravine and led them in a wide ﬂanking move, approaching the airstrip from behind a low hill south of the ﬁeld. Surprisingly, the Japanese had left the hill undefended, apparently believing that all of the Americans were still to the north. “The biggest help was from the fact that when we ran over the top of the hill about a hundred feet from the edge of the strip . . . Colonel George Pearson was with us,” wrote Lt. Clayton B. Farnsworth, commander of the 1st Battalion’s headquarters company heavy machine-gun platoon. “This put heart in the men and they ﬁgured if a Lt. Col. could be up there, then they could also.”4 Coming over the hill at a run, Pearson and his men spotted the Japanese in an instant. “The Japs were thicker than ﬂies around what planes they had taken from our Air Corps men,” Farnsworth continued. “They did not expect our presence from that point, and most of them seemed to be busy stripping guns and ammunition from our planes. Several Japs were carrying them across the open airstrip to the point where we had been trying to make a break onto the strip all morning.”5 While the others opened fire with their rifles and carbines and Lieutenant Carlson of the mortar platoon began setting up his mortars, Farnsworth’s eleven men began setting up their two .50-caliber machine guns. Farnsworth was standing guard when three Japanese crawled to within thirty feet before standing up. With three quick shots, the lieutenant laid them to rest. Then, a second later, three more determined enemy soldiers jumped to their feet from not far away. These too were shot by Farnsworth. “These six shots were the fastest that I ever fired at anything,” he admitted. His watchful eye and quick sharpshooting skills had given his machinegun crews time to set up, and they immediately raked the far side of the airstrip. “I . . . [caught] the ﬁrst burst out of the corner of my eye and it was directly in line with a bunch of Japs hurrying across the strip,” Lieutenant Farnsworth said. “The tracer bullets showed the ﬁre a little low but the bullets

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ricocheting from that hard air strip ﬂoor should have been more deadly than if it had been directly into the enemy.” Farnsworth’s ﬁght nearly came to an end while he was ﬁring from a nearby foxhole. A Japanese bullet hit the stock of his carbine and shattered a bone in his right arm. Using his belt as a tourniquet, he stopped the ﬂow of blood and continued to stay on the front line. After about ﬁfteen minutes, when his machine guns ran out of ammunition, a few men crawled to the rear to bring up more. Instead, they brought back information that the guns would have to pull back. “After having a clear look across the strip this seemed like a heartbreaking thing to do,” Farnsworth remembered, “but we lifted the guns from their cradles and started to drag them back. That is, the men did it, I had all I could do to drag myself.” During the crawling withdrawal, one of Lieutenant Farnsworth’s men was killed and four more were wounded trying to save the guns. Eventually, as the enemy moved in closer, Farnsworth told his men to strip the guns and “destroy their vital parts to keep them from falling into the hands of the Japs.” Then, taking their dead and wounded with them, the machine-gun crews crawled out of the encircling Japanese pincers.6 Although his heavy machine guns had been forced off of the front line, Colonel Pearson regrouped his forces for another attack on the entire airﬁeld. Putting his own Companies A and B, 187th GIR, next to each other in an attack to the northeast, and facing Company A, 382nd Infantry Regiment, 96th Infantry Division, to attack straight east, he gave the order to move out. Once again, the glidermen and soldiers came under heavy ﬁre, but by 4:00 P.M., they had managed to claw their way back to the foothold on the southwest corner of the ﬁeld.7 Sometime during this attack, while Pearson and his staff were busy inside the battalion command tent, a “very tall” Japanese soldier walked into the tent with his hands raised as if in surrender. After taking a few steps toward the group, however, he suddenly dove into a ditch, whereupon Lt. James A. “Ace” Parker shot him dead. Upon further investigation, it was discovered that the Japanese soldier had three hand grenades attached to the back of his belt.8 Around 4:30 P.M., Major Grigg and his 1st Battalion troops of the 149th Infantry Regiment, 38th Infantry Division, arrived across country from San Pablo airﬁeld. Although the walk was only about half a mile, it had taken them much longer than anyone expected. After being shown the way to Buri airﬁeld by General Swing, Grigg had put his 1st Battalion troops into a battle line with Company A on the right and C on the left. Each company covered approximately a 200-yard front and was equipped with a section of heavy machine guns. A platoon of 81-millimeter mortars remained back at the San Pablo airstrip for support.9

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After leaving San Pablo and heading northwest toward Buri, the soldiers covered about 400 yards before running into a “rain-swollen” swamp, which at some places turned out to be shoulder deep. Thrown out of alignment by the swamp, Company C ran into “a slight skirmish” and had to suppress that ﬁre before continuing on. In the meantime, Company A pressed ahead, ﬁnally linking up with Colonel Pearson and the 187th GIR at the southwest end of the strip. Delayed by their ﬁreﬁght, Company C would arrive at the airﬁeld sometime around 6:00 P.M.10 About that same time, the rest of the 1st Battalion troops from the 382nd Infantry Regiment, 96th Infantry Division, arrived from the north down the Dagami-Burauen road. With the arrival of almost two fresh infantry battalions, Pearson received orders to pull his tired Company A and B glidermen out of line and move southwest to the headquarters of the Fifth Air Force. From documents that had been taken from dead Japanese paratroopers, it was now known that the Japanese paratroopers were to have acted in conjunction with the 16th Division troops attacking the Burauen airﬁelds from the northwest and the 26th Division attacking from the southwest. Worried that the attack from the southwest would still manifest itself, General Swing shifted Companies A and B, 187th GIR, to protect the Fifth Air Force’s headquarters, some 800 yards west of Burauen and close to the Leyte mountain foothills.11 By 8:00 P.M., everything was quiet around Buri airﬁeld. The 1st Battalion of the 382nd Infantry Regiment, was on line in an arc from north to west. Below them, the 1st Battalion of the 149th Infantry Regiment held the line from west to south. And by midnight, Companies A and B of the 187th GIR had moved into a semicircular defensive stand around the Fifth Air Force’s headquarters area, facing west.12 During the night, the Japanese ﬁred “intermittent sniper and automatic weapon ﬁre” at the 149th Infantry Regiment on the south side of the airstrip. Having lost half of the paratroopers who had reached Buri airﬁeld, Major Shirai slipped his men out to the east and headed south to link up with the paratroopers ﬁghting around the Bayug airstrip. Incredibly, he found no paratroopers there. None of the 3rd or 4th Raiding Regiment troopers in the December 6 night attack had been dropped on Bayug, and the second drop of paratroopers that was supposed to have happened that night (December 7) had not appeared. The few Japanese Army paratroopers that had moved east after dropping between Bayug and San Pablo had either moved north to join Shirai or had gone east to join the battle at San Pablo airﬁeld. Finding no reinforcements, Shirai and his men simply slipped away from Bayug and went back to the wooded area north of Buri airstrip.13 Unknown to Shirai and his men, the second ﬂight of paratroopers, composed of nine men from the 3rd Raiding Regiment’s headquarters and a combined seventy-one men from Company B and the Heavy Weapons Com-

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pany had been aborted. Although the eight Topsy transports and two more Helen medium bombers took off from Clark Field on schedule, bad weather over Leyte forced the formation to turn back. Perhaps they could be dropped the next night, along with the scheduled third echelon of paratroopers.14 After returning to the north woods, Major Shirai took stock of his situation and decided that it was time to leave. Gathering together his men, they simply slipped through the porous American lines to the west and entered the Leyte mountains. On December 18, after ten days of travel, Shirai and his handful of paratroopers from the 3rd and 4th Raiding Regiments ﬁnally linked up with soldiers from the 26th Division.15 Although the paratroopers and perhaps some of the 16th Division’s soldiers pulled out during the night, most of the soldiers stayed behind. Under the cloak of darkness, two ofﬁcers and thirty-four enlisted men set up two machine guns in a ditch only 100 yards away from Company A, 382nd Infantry Regiment. At ﬁrst light on December 8, the machine guns opened ﬁre, pinning down the American infantrymen. Mortar ﬁre silenced one of the guns, but the remaining men would not leave. At this point, without hesitation, Pvt. Ova A. Kelley of Company A, 382nd Infantry, charged the ravine. He threw a number of hand grenades, killing ﬁve Japanese, and then shot three and killed three more with his M1 riﬂe. When the empty clip ejected out, he snatched up a carbine and killed three more enemy soldiers. Inspired by the one-man assault, the rest of Company A sprang to their feet and rushed the ravine, killing the entire Japanese force and capturing two heavy and one light machine guns. As the assault continued across the runway, however, Kelley was grievously wounded by sniper ﬁre and died two days later. His solitary charge won him a posthumous Medal of Honor.16 After clearing out the ravine, Company A of the 149th Infantry turned and drove east along the southern side of the airstrip. At the same time, Company C fought its way ﬁrst north across the runway and then turned right and began to advance eastward. Only slight resistance was met in these dual drives. While the 1st Battalion was attacking, the 2nd Battalion of the 149th Infantry arrived from the east coast and joined the ﬁreﬁght to secure the airstrip. By 6:00 P.M., it was reported that “no enemy remained on the strip.”17 The next day, December 9, at 10:45 A.M., the 1st Battalion soldiers from the 149th Infantry moved north across the runway with all three companies on line. Although they made it safely across the airstrip, they came under heavy ﬁre around noon from a Japanese position on a slope of ground about ﬁfty yards north of the ﬁeld. After ﬁghting for two hours, Major Grigg ﬁnally pulled his men back to the south side of the strip and called in artillery ﬁre. Out of an estimated force of about 200 Japanese soldiers, Grigg’s men had killed 50 before returning to the south side of the runway. The 2nd Battalion

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of the 149th Infantry and the 1st Battalion of the 382nd Infantry remained in support all day.18 That night, the 382nd Infantry’s 1st Battalion sent its riﬂe companies out on patrol. The only troops guarding the battalion’s perimeter along the south side of the Buri airﬁeld were a few mortar men and headquarters personnel when suddenly, at midnight, the 150 surviving Japanese of the 16th Division launched a surprise attack against the thinly held line. The Americans halted the offensive, killing ﬁfty Japanese at a price of seven casualties of their own.19 On the morning of the fourth day of the attack, December 10, Major Grigg called in a concentration of artillery ﬁre on the north woods. After a half hour, he moved forward across the airstrip with Companies A and C on line and Company B in reserve. Running into only small pockets of resistance, the men eventually reached a spot 300 yards north of the airﬁeld and into the woods. There Companies A and C turned to the northwest and angled toward the Dagami-Burauen road while Company B angled to the northeast. By 5:00 P.M., the area was declared secure. The Japanese paratroopers and infantrymen had ﬁnally been evicted from the Burauen area, but not for long.20 At 7:30 P.M. on the night of December 10, the soldiers from the Japanese 26th Division ﬁnally came out of the Leyte mountains. Only a little more than a regiment managed to slip through the mountains around the 511th PIR and attack toward the Fifth Air Force’s headquarters area near Burauen, which was still being guarded by Colonel Pearson and Companies A and B of the 187th GIR. The Japanese attacks were weak and uncoordinated, and the imperial soldiers were tired and worn out. By the next morning, any 26th Division survivors had realized that the Japanese paratroopers and 16th Division soldiers around Buri airﬁeld had already been eliminated, so they simply ﬂed back into the mountains.21 Generals Yamashita and Suzuki’s idea for a “most successful” ground and airborne assault to cripple the American air umbrella over Leyte had come to a dismal end. According to the overall plan laid out by Yamashita and Suzuki, a large force of fresh reinforcements was to land at the coastal village of Deposito on the west coast of Leyte, below Ormoc, on December 7 during the ﬁrst full day of the Japanese attack. The assault by the 3rd and 4th Raiding Regiments’ paratroopers and the 16th and 26th Divisions’ infantrymen was supposed to stop any American air attacks on the convoy. As it turned out, even with a successful attack, the Japanese would not have been able to stop the American airplanes from attacking. By December 6, all of the Fifth Air Force’s ﬁghter and bomber planes were based along the east coast of Leyte, not at the Burauen airﬁelds.

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When the Japanese convoy of six transports and seven escort vessels was spotted by American aircraft on the morning of December 7, the land-based planes attacked in “one of the most intense aerial battles of the Leyte Campaign.” Dropping 1,000- and 500-pound bombs, the attacking army and Marine Corps planes sank two transports and two cargo ships. What was left of the convoy turned around. In his report on the engagement, General MacArthur estimated that 4,000 enemy soldiers were killed.22 What made the American air attack so costly—besides the loss of life and the prevention of the reinforcing move by the Japanese—was the fact that at the exact same time, the U.S. 77th Infantry Division was landing at the Deposito beaches. In another end-run move, MacArthur had pulled the Japanese troops south of Ormoc with pressure from his 7th Infantry Division and then slipped the 77th Infantry Division in behind them. When Suzuki heard about the surprise American landing and the loss of his own reinforcing convoy, he ordered all operations against the Burauen airﬁelds cancelled and all of his troops back to Ormoc. The Americans were squeezing him hard. All Japanese offensive operations on Leyte had come to a quick end.23 Although the Japanese parachute attack created some confusion on the ground, it did not have the demoralizing effect that it was intended to have. The U.S Infantry School Quarterly commented, “The Japanese airborne attack failed miserably.”24 Nevertheless, one U.S. Army document stated that the attack “created considerable confusion” while another said that the “attack was completely unexpected.” Because the Japanese Topsy airplanes had been misidentiﬁed as American C-47 transports, the paratroopers had managed to successfully drop on both the Buri and San Pablo airﬁelds before a single antiaircraft shot was ﬁred in response. Although the paratroopers managed to destroy only a dozen or so Piper Cubs and a few gasoline dumps, they did impede the supply drops to the 511th PIR in the mountains. “[F]or a couple of days . . . we got no food,” reported a 511th PIR historian, “and each time we tried to tell our troubles to Division rear they radioed back that they had troubles of their own. Indeed they did.”25 Still, although the Japanese managed to cause some confusion in the rear areas and a few hours of delay in resupplying one of the frontline units, they did little more. Not a single American combat unit was shifted off the front lines to respond to the assault. Not a single ﬁghter or bomber aircraft was diverted from its mission of protecting the U.S. 77th Infantry Division’s convoy or attacking the Japanese reinforcing convoy.26

CHAPTER 19

By Air and by Sea

W

ith the surprise landing of the 77th Infantry Division behind the Japanese lines on December 7, the defenders in Ormoc were suddenly in trouble. General Suzuki still needed reinforcements but knew that he could no longer bring them in by ship. Instead, he looked to the sky. One day after the American landing, 90 paratroopers from the 1st Company of the 4th Raiding Regiment jumped onto Valencia airﬁeld in the Ormoc Valley, eight miles north of Ormoc. On December 10, the commanding ofﬁcer of the 4th Raiding Regiment, Major Saida, and 84 men from the 3rd Company parachuted onto the Valencia ﬁeld. Over the next four days, another 266 army paratroopers jumped onto Leyte and were quickly thrown into the front lines, replacing worn-out, battle-weary troops. On December 14, Capt. Fumio Ohmura of the Heavy Weapons Company of the 4th Raiding Regiment and 39 other army paratroopers were the last men to jump into Leyte.1 Captain Ohmura remembered the ﬁnal moments before the ﬂight: On Dec. 14th, I was called by the brigade commander Tokunaga and told that it would be the last flight to Leyte due to the problem of the transport. When I left him, he passed me sake and cigarette [as an] imperial gift and gave his regards to the regimental commander [Major Saida]. Thirty-five men from the commanding section, Heavy Machine Gun platoon and five Regimental Headquarters staff would ride in three transports. The commander of the transports was [Major] Kaida. After putting on their jump smocks and parachutes, Ohmura and the others moved out to the edge of Clark Field on Luzon. Ohmura continued his account: Waiting until midnight in the forest, we were prepared for riding on the transports. The commander [Colonel] Tokunaga himself came up to give a farewell to us. He said, “There is a tendency to jump earlier in the night drop. Take care.” Now we [loaded] the transports.

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But, it was a hard work to climb the steps. We carried heavy equipments and weighed about 150kg [330 pounds]. We managed to [get into] the transport helped by ground crews. We flew about two hours at the night with the Southern Cross twinkling. We were all silence to prepare for destiny. Around 4 A.M., the sky became bright and the ground could be seen dimly. The buzzer announced to be prepared to drop. I said goodbye to Major Kaida [in charge of the transports] and stood [up]. Then, the buzzer announced to get ready to jump and a door was opened. Ohmura was waiting for the jump buzzer to sound and was looking out into the dim morning light when he saw a couple of men already jumping from the second plane. “They jumped [early], in spite [of] the brigade commander’s advice,” he wrote. “I damned a failure, but it was too late.” Fearing that his paratroopers would be scattered widely if he waited for the correct moment, he decided to jump with the other plane and ordered the men in his stick to follow. “After falling about 300m, I looked around and saw three lines of white parachutes opening in the sky. I was relieved to see them.”2 Despite the early jump, the men all landed on Valencia ﬁeld and were quickly incorporated into the defense of the area. Four days before, on December 10, the city of Ormoc had fallen to the Americans, and by December 20, the Japanese, including the 4th Raiding Regiment, were forced to retreat into the Canquipot Mountains in the northwest corner of Leyte. Of the 481 members of the regiment who had jumped onto Valencia airﬁeld between December 8 and 14, only about 100 were still alive on December 20 to retreat into the mountains. The rest had all given their lives to prevent any further American advance.3 Moving along in the general advance by the Americans was the 511th PIR of the 11th Airborne Division. While the rest of the 11th was ﬁghting for the Burauen airﬁelds, the 511th PIR was slowly working its way west over the mountainous western spine of Leyte. On December 8, the same date that Private Kelley won his Medal of Honor at Buri, Pvt. Elmer E. Fryar of Company E, 511th PIR, won one in the mountains of Leyte. While his battalion was withdrawing from a dangerous position, the Japanese attacked with a banzai charge. By the time the day was over, Fryar had killed twenty-seven enemy soldiers, rescued a badly wounded American, and given his life to protect his platoon leader.4 With the ﬁghting spirit exempliﬁed by Fryar and with the support of Battery A and soon Battery D of the 457th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion on Manarawat, the paratroopers managed to clear the path to the west coast. On December 23, General Swing and the 187th GIR passed behind the 511th PIR and reached Leyte’s western coast the following day. A regimental histo-

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rian noted, “[T]he 511th had all but wiped out the Japanese 26th Division and much of the 16th Division. For all practical purposes, the ﬁght for Leyte was over.”5 According to an 11th Airborne historian, more than 5,700 Japanese had been killed by the division. “During the latter part of December it became apparent that the Japs on Leyte had ceased to become effective as a ﬁghting force. Prisoners were miserable specimens. Lacking food, they were starved and emaciated. Jungle sores covered their bodies. Most of them had no idea where their units were or what had happened to their companions who had survived thus far.” By the end of the month, only small pockets of Japanese resistance still held out around the island.6 MacArthur declared the island of Leyte secure on Christmas Day, but mopping up would continue for weeks to come. In late January 1945, Major Shirai and a handful of surviving Japanese Army paratroopers who had attacked the Burauen airﬁelds reached the survivors in the Canquipot Mountains. Captain Ohmura of the 4th Raiding Regiment remembered: “Late in Jan., Major Shirai, the commander of 3rd Raiding Regiment, and a dozen paratroopers of his regiment came back. We received them. Major Shirai had jaundice and passed away some days after [he] arrived.” Slowly, more paratroopers from scattered ﬁreﬁghts and bypassed units ﬁltered into the mountains until there was ﬁnally about 400 army paratroopers ﬁghting alongside General Suzuki’s men.7 In March, Suzuki and his headquarters staff left Leyte, escorted by seventy-eight army paratroopers of the 2nd Raiding Brigade, the ﬁttest men in his command. At ﬁrst, the small group went to the Philippine island of Cebu, but when the Americans invaded that island on March 26, they headed toward the big island of Mindanao. On June 14, while being escorted by Major Saida and twenty army paratroopers, the native canoes that the Japanese were using were strafed by an American plane. Suzuki and his staff were killed. Only Saida and a few of his paratroopers managed to reach Mindanao.8 On Leyte, the 96th Infantry Division began to relieve the 11th Airborne in the Leyte mountains near the end of December. All of the airborne units were eventually pulled out of the mountains and, between January 1 and January 10, were reassembled at Bito Beach. The battle for Leyte had cost the 11th 168 killed, 352 wounded, and 12 missing. Overall, American losses on Leyte amounted to 3,500 killed and 12,000 wounded. The Japanese suffered 56,263 killed and only 389 captured.9 “Bito Beach became the home of the 11th Airborne for a few weeks,” recorded a division historian. “Pyramidal tents replaced the foxholes and ponchos of the hills.” During their time on the beach, the 11th was transferred from the Sixth Army to the Eighth Army. On January 21, Lt. Gen. Robert Eichelberger, commanding general of the Eighth Army, came down to the ocean shore to present awards for the past campaign.

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During the visit, Eichelberger told General Swing that he was “elated” to have the 11th Airborne with him for the invasion of the big Philippine island of Luzon. MacArthur had already given Eichelberger the green light for the invasion of the Batangas Province area south of the Philippine capital of Manila, and according to an 11th Airborne historian, Eichelberger “also gave Swing two priorities: (1) get to Manila ahead of Sixth Army coming down from the north, and (2) free the prisoners at Los Baños as soon as possible.” Although Swing and his staff had never heard of the Los Baños prison camp, they began gathering information while they got ready for their invasion of Luzon.10 On November 11, 1944, even before the 511th PIR began its trek into the mountains of Leyte, the 503rd Parachute Regimental Combat Team (PRCT) departed Noemfoor, where it had been since the combat drop of early July. Loading aboard several navy LCIs, the paratroopers steamed northward through a terriﬁc storm until November 18, when the men were deposited near Dulag on the middle of Leyte’s busy east coast. “As we leave the ship,” wrote Pvt. Chester Nycum, “each man carries a bunk, and we proceed to the beach. Some of us open our bunks, sit on it or lay down to await our next orders.”11 The men eventually erected a pyramidal tent city near the Dulag airﬁeld and, for the next few weeks, sat around and waited. “[The] only training undergone during this period was for physical training,” the 1st Battalion historian noted. For the next few weeks, the men seemed to have nothing to do but watch the U.S. Navy planes keep the Japanese ﬁghters away from scores of unloading vessels. “We saw a lot of dog ﬁghts on Leyte,” remembered Pvt. Richard Morton Hess, who had joined the 503rd PRCT on Noemfoor as a replacement. “One evening I was on guard duty. A P-38 [ﬁghter plane] was going to engage a Zero and he dropped his [external] fuel tanks. One of the tanks dropped about a hundred feet away and scared the hell out of me. Fortunately it didn’t explode.”12 While the paratroopers of the 503rd PRCT were camped beside the Dulag airstrip, the Japanese 3rd and 4th Raiding Regiments attempted their combat drop of December 6. “The Japanese attempted an airborne assault on our troops and their planes were all destroyed in the air,” Hess wrote after witnessing the heavy antiaircraft ﬁre from the Dulag airstrip. “I remember seeing about a dozen of the Jap paratroopers washed up on the beach.”13 “Life settles down to a routine until we are informed we are to be prepared for another mission,” admitted Nycum. During the second week in December, word reached the men that they should prepare for another mission. “As with other missions those among us who feel the need for God’s blessing gather to attend mass,” Nycum went on, “[and] after the rite is performed, it is time to get ones killing tools together and make ready to board

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the LCI’s.” On December 11, while the 11th Airborne was resuming its push over Leyte’s western mountains and cleaning up the last of the attacks on the Burauen airﬁelds, the 503rd PRCT boarded its LCIs. On December 13, the ships set out for the Philippine island of Mindoro.14 General MacArthur still had his eye on the big Philippine island of Luzon, with its capital city of Manila, when he sent a task force steaming toward Mindoro. Although Leyte had given MacArthur a land base for his ﬁghter planes to protect army invasions and navy ships operating in the southern Philippines, it was not close enough to Luzon to give him the base of operations that he wanted. For this, he picked Mindoro, a large island just south of Luzon with “minimal Japanese defenses.” According to one historian, “From MacArthur’s point of view Mindoro was important only for its potential airﬁelds, which could supplement the unsatisfactory ones recently constructed on Leyte.”15 Originally, the 503rd PRCT was going to be paradropped onto Mindoro, but it was soon determined that there was not enough space on Leyte to accommodate all the C-47s necessary to carry the parachutists. Instead, the 503rd PRCT, along with the 19th RCT of the 24th Infantry Division, was going to make an amphibious landing near San Jose on Mindoro’s southwest corner. “This is the one amphibious operation in which the regimental combat team participated,” wrote a 503rd PRCT historian. Noted another historian, who witnessed some navy destroyers ﬁring rockets toward the landing beaches for twenty minutes, “T’was a gratifying sight to witness the rockets in the air. The sound of them bursting on the beach will be remembered by all of us—Nothing instilled us [with] more conﬁdence than those rockets bursting on the beach.” At 7:30 A.M. on December 15, both the 503rd PRCT and 19th RCT landed unopposed on the enemy beaches.16 By the end of the ﬁrst day, the Americans were seven miles inland from the beach and had grabbed a prewar emergency landing strip near San Jose. Although the airstrip proved to be unusable, army engineers quickly came ashore and began building a new one two miles in from the beachhead. A few days later, the engineers started another airdrome two miles northwest of the ﬁrst. By December 20, the ﬁrst airﬁeld was up and running, and eight days later, the second was operational. Utilizing these ﬁelds, the Fifth Air Force’s ﬁghters and bombers began targeting Japanese kamikaze airﬁelds on Luzon before the enemy planes could be employed against American ships. By mid-December, the Japanese had perfected the art of the kamikaze dive bomber, a desperate defensive measure that had started during the Leyte campaign and had become a big threat for the invasion of Luzon.17 Over the next few weeks, the 24th Infantry Division brought in another regiment, the 21st Infantry, to help the two regimental combat teams hunt down the 1,300 Japanese defenders hiding in the interior of Mindoro. The

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503rd PRCT and the other regiments sent out daily patrols, but only about 170 enemy soldiers were ever killed, while 15 were captured. A 503rd PRCT historian recorded, “Long range reconnaissance patrols [were] employed to maximum, [but] made no contacts.”18 “Mindoro has been pleasant for us,” wrote Private Nycum, “but . . . the Army abhors being known for ‘a pleasant stay.” The 503rd PRCT spent the Christmas and New Year holidays on Mindoro and ﬁnally settled into a camp near San Jose. On February 1, 1945, the 503rd PRCT was placed under the control of the 24th Infantry Division. On January 9, MacArthur had launched his invasion of Luzon. By the beginning of February, he had a use for both of his Paciﬁc parachute units, the 503rd PRCT and the 511th PIR.19

CHAPTER 20

Tagaytay Ridge

O

n January 9, 1945, General MacArthur and the U.S. Army returned to Luzon, landing on the northwest side of the island at Lingayen Gulf. Within a few days, almost 175,000 men had been landed along a beachhead twenty miles wide. While Lt. Gen. Innis P. Swift and his I Corps protected the northern ﬂank of the beachhead, Lt. Gen. Oscar W. Griswald’s XIV Corps, which included Gen. Walter Krueger’s Sixth Army, began striking south toward Clark Field and Manila. Once both objectives were seized, the I Corps would be released from its protective mission and begin moving north into the mountains of northern Luzon.1 Moving southward at a steady pace, the XIV Corps met only scattered resistance until January 23, when it ran into the Japanese Kembu Group— about 30,000 troops under Maj. Gen Rikichi Tsukada—near Clark Field. It took the Americans more than a week to secure the airﬁeld and the mountains surrounding it, but they ﬁnally did. Then, on February 2, U.S. forces turned their attention toward the Philippine capital.2 Although progress was being made, MacArthur deemed it too slow. Critical of the “lack of drive” among his XIV Corps commanders, MacArthur turned to the 1st Cavalry Division, which had just landed on Luzon. On January 30, MacArthur told the cavalrymen, “Go to Manila, go around the Nips, bounce off the Nips, but go to Manila.” In response, the cavalry commander formed two “ﬂying columns,” each composed of a squadron of cavalry, a company of medium tanks, a 105-millimeter howitzer battery, other supporting troops, and enough trucks and half-tracks to carry everyone and everything at a high rate of speed toward Manila. On the night of January 31–February 1, the columns started forward.3 Taking into account that the Japanese in the Manila area, the Shimbu Group under Lt. Gen. Shizuo Yokoyama might shift forces north of the city to prevent a breakthrough from that direction, MacArthur ordered another flanking amphibious landing south of the capital. The troops picked for this operation were the reinforced troops of General Swing’s 11th Airborne Division.4 Originally, the U.S. Army General Headquarters, Southwest Paciﬁc Area, had envisioned dropping the entire 11th Airborne across southern Luzon in

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200-man reinforced companies. Utilizing even the two glider regiments, the 187th and 188th GIRs, which were to be dropped via parachute, the widespread drop was meant to cause mass confusion among the Japanese and draw reinforcements away from the Manila area. According to historian Gordon Rottman, “It was a foolish plan that prevented the division from massing its forces for decisive action and begged for the small scattered units to be cut off from resupply and annihilated.” Fortunately, General Swing remonstrated successfully against the drop, and the General Headquarters drew up another plan for the 11th Airborne.5 The second plan was approved by Swing and called for the 11th, buoyed by the attachment of the 503rd PRCT, to drop into the mountainous area northwest of Clark Field. The attack was to be made by parachute and glider, but unfortunately, it was discovered that most of the needed gliders were still in shipping crates on another island and would need about 250 hours of

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labor to assemble. Additionally, after further review, it was determined that resupply of the troops in the mountainous area surrounding Clark Field would be too difﬁcult. The air force also complained that it did not have enough transport planes or sufﬁcient airﬁelds to undertake the dropping of an entire division. Since the 503rd PRCT was slated for another mission, the entire plan was eventually dropped.6 Finally, General Headquarters came up with the idea of making an amphibious landing behind the Japanese lines on the western coast of Luzon, near the city of Nasugbu, ﬁfty-ﬁve miles south of Manila, with the glider-riders of the 11th Airborne and then have the 511th PIR drop from the skies a few days later to seize a vital ridgeline. If everything went as planned, the surprise landing would cut off Japanese support from the south, cut the main road to Manila from southern Luzon, and give the Americans a second front moving toward the capital.7 Wanting to bolster the strength of the 11th Airborne but unable to use the 503rd PRCT, General Headquarters supplied the following units as reinforcements: Cannon Company from the 21st Infantry Regiment, 24th Infantry Division; Company C of the 532nd Engineer Boat and Shore Regiment, 2nd Engineer Brigade; two antiaircraft automatic-weapons batteries; and various service units. Waiting on call at Mindoro as further reinforcement was the 19th Infantry Regiment, 24th Infantry Division. Although the 11th Airborne numbered about 8,200 men, it could use all the help it could get.8 On January 22, one day after General Eichelberger visited the 11th Airborne on Bito Beach, General Swing received orders for his divisions move to Luzon. According to the order, the 11th would make an amphibious landing with one regimental combat team at Nasugbu, which would “seize and defend the beachhead.” The 511th PIR would then be dropped on Tagaytay Ridge, a 1,880-foot-high strategic ridgeline that ran roughly east-west behind Highway 17, the main artery into Manila. Highway 17 traveled north up the coast from southern Luzon until it reached Nasugbu. There the highway turned almost due east. After traveling through three small mountains, the ﬁrst-class paved road ran in front of the eight-mile-long Tagaytay Ridge before making an abrupt turn north toward Manila, about two miles short of the far eastern end of the ridge. If the 511th PIR could capture and hold Tagaytay Ridge, they could secure Highway 17 and open the road to Manila.9 Since the 11th Airborne had never made an amphibious landing before, the troops to be landed in the ﬁrst three waves—the 187th and 188th GIRs— were taken out into Leyte Gulf on January 26 and practiced an amphibious assault on Bito Beach. The next day, almost the entire division was loaded aboard four APDs (high speed destroyer transports), thirty-two LCIs, eight LSMs (landing ships, medium) and six LSTs. Staying behind were Colonel Lahti, who had been promoted to executive ofﬁcer of the 511th PIR, along

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with the 3rd Battalion of the 511th PIR; the 457th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion; one platoon of the 221st Airborne Medical Company; and elements of the regimental headquarters. These troops would all be ﬂown into Mindoro a few days before the troop ships arrived so that they could prepare the airﬁelds at San Jose for the loading of the paratroopers.10 The convoy of transport ships was a part of Task Group 78.2 commanded by Rear Adm. William M. Fletcher. Including the troop carriers, the task group numbered about 120 ships. On January 27, the convoy set sail, heading south through Leyte Gulf and then turning west through the Bohol Sea. After passing the island of Negros, the ships turned north and headed toward the west side of Mindoro. On January 29, eight LCIs carrying the portion of regimental headquarters that had gone by sea as well as the 1st and 2nd Battalions of the 511th PIR broke away from the others and steamed into San Jose, where they were met by Lahti and the advance troops, who had ﬂown up from Leyte’s Tanuan airstrip.11 The Nasugbu landing was scheduled for January 31, and the paratroopers were scheduled for a point in time when the amphibious force was certain that it could link up with the paratroopers within twenty-four hours, presumably February 2. Since Tagaytay Ridge was so narrow and because there were only a small number of C-47 transports in the Philippines, the paradrop would have to be made in three ﬂights. The ﬁrst ﬂight would be led by Colonel Haugen and consist of the entire 2nd Battalion under Lt. Col. Frank Holcombe, two reinforced companies of the 3rd Battalion led by Maj. John Strong, 2nd and 3rd Battalion headquarters, and the regimental headquarters communications platoon. The 886 paratroopers were scheduled to be dropped on the ridgetop at 8:15 A.M. Holcombe’s 2nd Battalion was told to block Highway 17 and defend the eastern portion of the drop zone and to “send strong patrols to east and north.” The 3rd Battalion troops that would make this ﬁrst drop were supposed to “organize and defend” the assembly area and block a minor roadway leading into Highway 17. The second drop was scheduled to arrive ﬁve hours after the ﬁrst drop and would be led by Colonel Lahti. The second jump would consist of 906 men from the regimental headquarters company, the 1st Battalion commanded by Maj. Henry A. Burgess, the remaining elements of 3rd Battalion, the 511th Medical Detachment, and the 221st Medical Detachment. The objective of the paratroopers from the second drop was to “push vigorously to [the] west along [Highway] 17 and make contact with [the] division [moving east from Nasugbu].” The last group to jump would be the 457th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion (minus D Battery, which was landing with the amphibious force) commanded by Colonel Stadtherr. The 356 parachuting artillerists would bring their twelve 75-millimeter pack howitzers onto the ridge at 8:15 A.M. on Feb-

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ruary 3, one day after everybody else. They were told to “be prepared to ﬁre east, north and west, priority ﬁres to west.”12 While the convoy of ships carrying the bulk of the 11th Airborne continued to steam northward, the 511th RIR paratroopers who had been left behind on Mindoro set up two-man pup tents on “a treeless expanse of pebbly ground near the banks of a wide, shallow stream” near San Jose. Numerous aerial photographs and maps and a sand table mockup of Tagaytay Ridge were studied by everyone. The ridge formed the northern edge of Lake Taal, a freshwater lake in the crater of an extinct volcano. Highway 17 ran across the top of Tagaytay Ridge, which had a gentle northern slope but a steep, precipitous southern slope that led down into Lake Taal. Beside the highway, the ridge itself was covered with tall grass and a few small streams. The selected drop zone was 2,000 yards wide and more than 4,000 yards long. One 11th Airborne historian called it “an excellent drop zone.”13 Task Group 78.2 was opposite the Nasugbu beachhead at 7:15 A.M. on January 31 and began a one-hour shelling of the landing beach by navy destroyers and rocket-ﬁring LCIs. “Off to our left, we could see a Navy rocket launching ship just pound the dickens out of something inland,” recalled Pvt. Carl Memmel of the Weapons Platoon of Company E, 188th GIR. “Both the sight and sound was rather awesome, particularly since I didn’t even know such a vessel existed.” By 8:15, the shelling stopped, and ten minutes later, the 1st Battalion of the 188th GIR rushed ashore.14 For the most part, the amphibious landing met little resistance. When the 188th PIR entered the town of Nasugbu, they were met by jubilant Filipinos and tumultuous cheers. By midafternoon, the Americans were eight miles inland from the beach, following Highway 17 and capturing a key bridge over a deep gorge before the Japanese had a chance to detonate it. By nightfall on January 31, the lead elements of the 188th GIR were at Tumalin, about nine miles from the beachhead, and Swing had some of the 11th Airborne artillery and an advance command post set up at Palico, three miles back.15 Although the 11th had been told to expect about 7,000 Japanese defenders from the Shimbu Group around Nasugbu, they met very light resistance. The Japanese commander in the area had assumed that the Americans would make an amphibious landing to the south and had left his western ﬂank almost wide open. Subsequently, the Nasugbu area was defended by only 2,250 men of the West Sector Unit, with 600 infantry supported by artillery just west of Tagaytay Ridge, 400 infantrymen on the southwestern edge of the ridge itself, and 100 troops near Nasugbu. The other 1,150 men were scattered widely about the area in small, inconsequential groups.16 Instead of stopping for the night, the 11th Airborne kept going until 4:00 A.M. on February 1, when they reached an area of Highway 17 that ran

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between three small mountain peaks, the tallest being 2,700 feet high. Five hours later, when the advance resumed toward the peaks, the Japanese opened ﬁre from well-dug-in cave positions. The 11th immediately called in air strikes, which blasted the caves with aerial rockets. After a day and a half of ﬁghting, the 187th and 188th GIRs, aided by the division artillery, managed to capture one of the peaks and break through the Japanese defenses. By the night of February 2, the lead elements of the advance were nineteen miles inland, close enough to Tagaytay Ridge for Eichelberger to put out a call to Swing to bring in his 511th PIR.17 On the evening of February 2, while Swing sent Colonel Quandt to Mindoro via a Piper Cub to explain the current situation around Nasugbu to Colonel Jones of the 511th PIR, a group of paratroopers was already cutting its way through the jungle to Tagaytay Ridge. Since the Tagaytay jump was to be the ﬁrst large combat parachute drop for the 511th, a platoon of pathﬁnders was being sent ahead to set up radio beacons along the ridgeline to guide the C-47s of the 317th Troop Carrier Group to the right place. Coming ashore with the 188th GIR was a portion of the Demolitions Platoon of HQ Company, 511th PIR, headed by Lt. David L. C. Hover, which had been designated as pathﬁnders for the paratroopers. Attaching themselves to the 11th Airborne’s Reconnaissance Platoon, the pathﬁnders had moved along a trail just north of the main body of advancing glidermen, and by the night of February 2, they were a few miles beyond the three peaks. After dusk, the men followed a few Filipino guerrillas and Sgt. Terry Santos of the Recon Platoon, who spoke ﬂuent Tagalog, and moved west to Tagaytay Ridge. By early morning on February 3, they were in position to “set up Radar equipment to guide planes to DZ.”18 On Mindoro, Colonel Haugen had not been idle while the rest of the 11th Airborne was ﬁghting near Nasugbu. Acting under the belief from General Eichelberger that the drop of the 511th PIR would come on the morning of February 2, Haugen and several of his staff members had taken a reconnaissance ﬂight over Tagaytay Ridge on February 1 to further prepare themselves for the jump. Upon returning to San Jose, they had quickly briefed the battalion commanders and had everyone prepare their equipment and weapons for the February 2 drop. Unfortunately, the 11th became bogged down around the three peaks, and the jump was postponed for twenty-four hours.19 On the night of February 2, Quandt’s Cub ﬂew into the San Jose airstrip, where Quandt briefed Haugen on the situation on Luzon. A few hours later, the men of the 511th were awakened from their slumber, and at 3:00 A.M. on February 3, they began boarding the waiting numbered trucks that would take them to the San Jose airstrip for their ﬁrst full-scale regimental combat jump. An 11th Airborne historian described the scene: “In the marshalling area, unit commanders down to platoon and squads briefed their men and

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issued necessary supplies—ammunition, rations, signal equipment, and parachutes.” At 7:00 A.M., the ﬁrst of forty-eight C-47s began its takeoff run from the Mindoro airﬁeld.20 As the transport planes assembled, a group of P-61 night-ﬁghter airplanes from the Fifth Air Force ﬂew above the area keeping watch. By 7:17, all fortyeight transports had come together and immediately formed into a formation of V of Vs. One Piper Cub, carrying Colonel Quandt, scooted out ahead of the formation to guide the bigger planes to Tagaytay Ridge, and as the planes all started north, a ﬂight of P-38 Lightning ﬁghters showed up to escort them all the way to the drop zone. It took the ﬁghters and transports perhaps forty minutes to traverse the jungles of Mindoro before reaching the northern coast of the island. A few minutes later, the ﬂight reached Batangas Bay on the southwest coast of Luzon. From there, the planes headed straight inland toward the southern shore of Lake Taal and then followed the eastern edge of the lake until they came to the northern shore. Here they made an abrupt left turn, ﬂying slightly southwest, and headed toward the drop zone at Tagaytay Ridge.21 Even before the planes reached Luzon, the rest of the 11th Airborne was driving toward Tagaytay Ridge again. Around 7:30 A.M., the 188th GIR launched an attack against the far western end of the ridge, nicknamed “Shorty Ridge” after Col. Robert H. “Shorty” Soule, commander of the 188th. Coming up against “heavy artillery, machine-gun, and small arms ﬁre” from farther up on the ridge, the glider-riders were stopped cold and became eyewitnesses to the ﬁrst mass parachute drop of the 11th Airborne.22 While the glidermen were attacking Tagaytay Ridge from the west and the 511th PIR was winging its way north toward the drop zone, 240 dummies attached to parachutes were dropped by the Fifth Air Force near Mount Malepunyo, about twenty miles southwest of Tagaytay Ridge. The idea was to surprise the Japanese and draw off any enemy ﬁghter planes that might try to attack the actual drop on Tagaytay.23 Close to 8:15 A.M., inside the small L-4 Piper Cub leading the pack, Colonel Quandt looked down and spotted green smoke suddenly rising from the drop zone on the western edge of Tagaytay Ridge. It was the signal from Lieutenant Hover’s pathﬁnders. A few more green smoke bombs suddenly marked the drop zone, and Quandt had the Piper Cub’s pilot circle the ﬁeld while he leaned out and dropped three or four white phosphorus smoke grenades of his own. Thoroughly convinced that the drop zone was properly marked, Quandt had the pilot get out of the way of the incoming transports.24 The ﬁrst eighteen C-47s carrying Haugen and his regimental command group, 2nd Battalion headquarters and HQ Company, and Companies D and F (minus one platoon from Company F) were about six miles—about three minutes—ahead of the other planes. Haugen was the lead jumper of the ﬁrst

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plane and immediately spotted the green and white smoke as the ﬂight came over Tagaytay Ridge. At 8:15 A.M., Haugen got the green light from the pilot and leapt out the side door. The men in his stick followed close on his heels while the troopers in the other planes jumped on his cue. Within seconds, the air was full of blossoming parachutes.25 Carl Memmel was with Company E of the 188th GIR on the far western end of Tagaytay Ridge and watched the jump from below. “We did have a front row seat watching as the 511th jumped about a mile away on the other side of the road,” he recalled. “[I] couldn’t tell whether they were having a hard time of it or not, although the drop itself was very impressive. Looked like there may have been at least one ‘streamer,’ but we were not able to see if it was an equipment chute or what.”26 All 345 paratroopers in the ﬁrst group landed with exact precision on the intended drop zone and quickly peeled off their parachute harnesses. No Japanese were in the area to contest the landings. The only things that the men had to fear were sudden gusts of wind that might blow them off the ridge and into Lake Taal before they got their harnesses off. Quickly rolling up their chutes, the troopers rushed forward to assemble, leaving the ridgeline open for the thirty transports still to come. By now, however, the green and white marking smoke had dissipated. The exact drop zone on the long ridgeline was suddenly hard to see from above.27 “I will always remember the beautiful sight of Lake Taal as we approached from the south, made a wide circle around the lake and dropped on an eastwest pass,” wrote 2nd Lt. William Miley, leader of the 2nd Platoon in Company G from one of the ﬁrst planes in the formation. Pvt. Bob LeRoy, another trooper from Company G, was in one of the last planes. “As we ﬂew over Lake Taal on the morning of February 3, 1945, I was at the end of the stick (or row) of paratroopers,” he wrote. “The order came from Sgt. [Mills T.] Rowe to stand up and hook up.” At about 8:20, as the jumpmasters searched for the drop zone and waited for the green light, something went wrong. Although there has been much speculation about the problem, the only thing that is certain is that the men began to jump early. Whether it was because the jumpmaster in one plane began dumping the cargo containers early or some other reason, nobody knows for sure. But everybody agrees that the ﬁrst stick of paratroopers jumped too early—when the planes were still 8,000 yards east-northeast of the drop zone. When the ﬁrst stick went, so did most of the others.28 “Whether this was caused primarily by an airborne or troop carrier error was never deﬁnitely determined,” wrote Colonel Holcombe, “but the fact remains that proper jump discipline would have prevented it. This is particularly true in view of the instructions given by the battalion commander that, except in an emergency, no jump master was to allow his troops to jump until

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the commander, himself, jumped.”29 Holcombe was understandably perturbed since most of the men who jumped too early were from his own 2nd Battalion. Their mistake reﬂected badly on him. Lieutenant Miley believed that the men in his plane landed exactly where they were supposed to. “Even though later reports stated we jumped early,” he said, “I don’t believe my stick did since we landed just north of the Manila Hotel Annex, about 200–330 yards from the highway. We landed without incident, assembled, and started moving south to the highway.”30 Although some of the pilots tried to stop the mass exodus, most did not. Many of the pilots saw the men from the planes in front of then going and immediately hit the green “go” light. “We waited for one minute then the green light went on near the open door,” Private LeRoy said. “After Sgt. Lowe yelled ‘Go!’ we silently shufﬂed forward to the door. I was the last one out.” In all, some 570 paratroopers were being dropped along Tagaytay Ridge about ﬁve miles east-northeast of the intended drop zone.31 LeRoy continued his account: During my free-fall of 75 feet, before I even hit the end of the static line and the opening shock took place, I was in a forward-roll and my helmet fell off. Then my chute opened with such force while I was upside-down, it snapped the clips on my army-pack which was under my reserve chute. As I hung in space, I glanced below me and actually saw my pack hurling hundreds of feet below me, headed toward the dense jungle. I whispered good-bye to all my personal toilet articles, Bible and letters from home. This included photos of my mother, girl-friend, and brothers. It was a great loss.32 Hundreds of the paratroopers who jumped early landed on a banana plantation, sustaining about ﬁfty casualties, although only two were serious. Private LeRoy remembered, “I landed in a farmer’s banana plantation near a small village. . . . I landed in a large leafy tree—passed on through without hitting a big branch, and landed standing-up in soft cultivated ground. My chute remained in the top of the tree. I slipped out of the harness, then checked my riﬂe and equipment.” Slowly, the men at the wrong drop zone began to assemble and after checking their compasses and maps realized that they were at the wrong spot. After locating the highway, they began making their way westward toward the real drop zone.33 Unfortunately, perhaps because they were in such a hurry or because so many of the parachutes were stuck in the tops of the banana trees, the 1st and 2nd Battalion paratroopers who had dropped early failed to collect their chutes. Instead, they left them on the ridge, where many of them were quickly claimed by the Filipinos. As LeRoy recalled when he neared a native

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village on the way to assembly, “Then, in the distance, I heard a voice saying: ‘Bictory . . . Mericcano . . . your chute make me dress . . . ok?’ Then a Filipino woman (about 30 [years old]) came running towards me, with a young boy behind her. She made motions with her hands and chattered some words which I did not understand. But I nodded my head o.k.”34 Unwittingly, LeRoy had just committed his parachute canopy to a Filipino dressmaker. During the late morning hours, the wind picked up, and a scattering of clouds began to blow in over Tagaytay Ridge, some as low as 300 feet above the ground. At 12:10 P.M., the second major group of C-47s neared the ridge after flying the exact same route as the first one. Once again, the flight consisted of the same forty-eight transport planes escorted by P-38 Lightnings. When the planes made their sharp left turn over the north end of Lake Taal, the pilots spotted the cloud-covered ridge in front of them. Major Burgess, who had taken over Colonel LaFlamme’s 1st Battalion when the latter transferred to the 187th GIR, was in the lead plane and recalled, “In making the approach to the ridge, the troop carrier planes seemed to string out with greater intervals between them so that the danger of the planes crashing into one another in a tight formation in the clouds would be reduced.”35

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Perhaps because of the strung out formation of the planes or because of all of the discarded parachutes lying atop the wrong drop zone or caught in the tops of the banana trees, the second group of paratroopers also jumped early.36 Major Burgess recalled: Some of the pilots, who had seen through the cloud openings paratroopers jumping far ahead of them had given the green light in their planes, which resulted in a string of paratroopers jumping over an area six and seven miles long. With the planes not slowing up below 125 and 135 miles an hour, most of us experienced the hardest physical opening shock in our lives. The result of the shock was that most of us lost helmets, packs broke free from web belts, suspenders broke, and in the wind, which was 20 to 30 miles an hour . . . many had hard landings.37 Out of the 906 paratroopers in the second group, mostly from the regimental headquarters company and Burgess’s 1st Battalion, only 80 dropped on the correct drop zone. Out of the 1,750 men of the 511th PIR who had been dropped on Tagaytay Ridge on February 3, only about 425 landed in the right drop zone. The other 1,325 had all landed from 4.5 to 6 miles east or northeast of the intended spot.38 With just a little over 400 men on hand to begin with, Haugen moved his men quickly off the drop zone to block Highway 17. As more and more men arrived from the east, they were separated into their battalions and sent west to attack the Japanese on the far western end of the ridge that were holding up the advance of the 188th GIR. Attacking from behind while the glider-riders struck from the front, the paratroopers undoubtedly surprised the Japanese, who eventually gave way. The two units of the 11th Airborne made a tentative connection with each other around 1:00 P.M., less than ﬁve hours after the initial jump.39 Around 1:30 P.M., Generals Eichelberger and Swing arrived at Tagaytay Ridge via jeeps, much to the surprise of the paratroopers, who were not used to seeing such high-ranking ofﬁcers up on the front line. Meeting with Colonel Haugen at the Manila Hotel Annex, on the eastern end of Tagaytay Ridge and a short distance past where Highway 17 turned north toward Manila, the two generals decided to make the annex the headquarters of the 11th. By 3:15, staff personnel were hard at work copying messages and checking requests for supplies.40 By 2:00, the paratroopers who had been dropped over the wrong drop zone had all arrived at the right ﬁeld. Under the watchful eyes of the two generals, Haugen had his men fan out, secure the entire ridgeline and adjacent highway, and then begin patrolling north toward Manila. By evening, his

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patrols had all reported back that they had encountered no Japanese resistance. Although General MacArthur had originally planned for the 11th Airborne to grab Tagaytay Ridge and act as a blocking force, stopping Japanese reinforcements in southern Luzon from rushing to Manila, there was enough latitude in his instructions for General Eichelberger to make a few changes. Able to see the white concrete structures of Manila from the top of Tagaytay Ridge, Eichelberger issued orders to Swing to put his men in motion toward the capital city at ﬁrst light the next day.41 Maybe Eichelberger’s change of objective came because of the actions of the Japanese ﬁfty-ﬁve miles away in Manila. As an 11th Airborne historian described it, From Tagaytay we could see Manila shining whitely in the bright Luzon sun. At first we were jubilant about getting to see Manila, the Pearl of the Orient, the first city we had seen since we left San Francisco almost a year before. But ominously fires began to break out all over the city. Then word came back that the Nips were deliberately, methodically, and cunningly destroying it. By day we watched tall pillars of smoke rise from the once beautiful metropolis; by night the sky was red with the reflections of many fires.42 Unknown to the paratroopers of the 511th PIR or the men of the 11th Airborne, the Japanese were burning the city in response to the arrival of one of MacArthur’s ﬂying columns of tanks and infantry. Around 5:30 P.M., tanks from the 44th Independent Tank Battalion rolled into the northern reaches of Manila and went straight to Santo Tomas Catholic University, which the Japanese had turned into an internment camp in early 1942. Almost 4,000 civilian prisoners were rescued.43 Manila had been reached, and not by Eichelberger’s Eigth Army. During the night of February 3–4, Lt. George E. Skau took his Reconnaissance Platoon up Highway 17 to check for Japanese resistance. At 4:00 A.M., he was back at headquarters reporting to Colonel Haugen that the road ahead was clear all of the way up to Imus, almost twenty-ﬁve miles to the north. However, Skau had both good and bad news. The bad news: the Japanese had blown the bridge over the Imus River just south of town and had set up a defensive line. The good: the recon platoon had located a road around the Japanese defenses that led to a bridge within the town. Although the bridge had been set with demolition charges, Skau and his men had secretly removed the explosives under the cover of darkness. When the information was passed on to General Swing, he immediately ordered Haugen to have his 511th PIR in motion at daylight to bypass Imus and continue on to Manila, leaving a holding force at the undamaged bridge to prevent his men from being trapped once they crossed.44

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Colonel Holcombe, commander of the 511th’s 2nd Battalion, which would lead the advance, was told by Haugen to try to reach Bacoor, about four miles beyond Imus and only about three miles south of Manila. There Holcombe was to have his paratroopers set up a defensive position to cover the road junction between Highway 17 and Highway 1, which came in from the southeast. A roadblock there would stop Japanese reinforcements from coming up on the east ﬂank of the 11th Airborne and also stop reinforcements from rushing to Manila from the town of Cavite, about ﬁve miles to the west.45 At 5:30 A.M. on February 4, already twelve hours after the Sixth Army entered the capital city, the 2nd Battalion of the 511th PIR began the 11th Airborne’s advance on Manila. The afternoon before, nineteen jeeps and nine trailers had arrived at the division command post carrying “medical and communication equipment and defensive weapons”—that is, land mines, heavy machine guns, and other equipment. That same afternoon, seventeen 21⁄2-ton trucks arrived from the Nasugbu beachhead after being scrounged up by the division’s quartermaster. While seven of the jeeps and some of the trailers were used by the 221st Airborne Medical Company to begin evacuating jump casualties back to Nasugbu, twelve of the jeeps and all of the trucks were incorporated into the plans of Generals Eichelberger and Swing. To

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beef up their “motorized patrol,” the two generals added two crews and guns from the 674th Glider Field Artillery Battalion, three engineer bomb-disposal experts, and two M8 self-propelled 75-millimeter guns to Holcombe’s 2nd Battalion.46 Eight men in two jeeps began the cautious advance up the two-lane, concrete-paved Highway 17, followed by ten jeeps with Holcombe and Capt. Steve Cavanaugh and his Company D paratroopers, as well as the two guns and men from the 674th Glider Field Artillery Battalion. Behind them came the rest of the 2nd Battalion in the seventeen trucks. Along the way, they were cheered by Filipinos. Around 11:30 A.M., just shy of Imus, Holcombe and the Company D jeeps were stopped by the men from one of the lead jeeps and told that although the bridge within the town was still intact, it was being hotly defended by about ﬁfty Japanese soldiers holed up on the other side of the river in an old Spanish barracks or church surrounded by a ﬁve-foot-thick stone wall. While Holcombe was sizing up the situation, the seventeen trucks brought up the rest of the 2nd Battalion.47 After unloading the trucks and sending them back to pick up the next battalion, Holcombe had most of his men simply walk across the river on the top of a narrow dam just south of town. Captain Cavanaugh’s Company D and the artillerymen and M8s drew the assignment of eliminating the Japanese defenders in the old Spanish building. While the 75-millimeter pack howitzers and M8 self-propelled guns pounded away at the building, the paratroopers raced across the bridge and assaulted the courtyard. Although they managed to get over the thick wall, the troopers could not get the stubborn Japanese out of the building until T/Sgt. Robert C. Steele climbed onto the roof, chopped a hole in it, poured in some gasoline, and set the building on ﬁre with white phosphorus grenades. As the Japanese came running out, they were met with a fusillade of small-arms ﬁre from Cavanaugh’s waiting paratroopers.48 The ﬁeld artillery pieces that had assisted Company D had been brought ashore at Nasugbu via landing barge, but at 8:15 A.M., the men and guns of the 457th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion began dropping on Tagaytay Ridge, right where they were supposed to. Edward J. Cole was a member of the ﬁeld artillery battalion and recalled the jump: I got a good opening, tore a few sections in my chute, which was not unusual when you were loaded up with equipment, reached up to grab my risers and hit the ground. I didn’t have a chance to release the jump rope. . . . We had jumped at about 450 feet with full equipment and were still alive. I don’t think I oscillated even once on the way down. My landing was hard, with all that extra weight. I got rid of my chute as fast as I could.49

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Once on the ground, Colonel Stadtherr used “some ingenuity and persuasiveness” to help his men get all of the pieces of the twelve disassembled 75-millimeter pack howitzers away from the drop zone and over to a road near the Manila Hotel Annex. Dozens of Filipino citizens had assembled to watch the combat parachute drop and were quickly cajoled by Stadtherr and his artillerists into helping them get the howitzer pieces to the road. Utilizing human strength and carabao and ponies, the guns’ pieces, ammunition crates, and other supplies were soon being assembled near the 11th Airborne’s command post.50 Once again, it appeared as though the parachutes were left behind and quickly disappeared into the hands of the helpful Filipinos. Cole wrote, “As usual, the civilian population stole all of the chutes from the drop zone.” The 511th PIR’s S-4 supply ofﬁcer remembered, “Parachute recovery was nil, the natives got most of them.” In a joking manner, Cole recalled, “In the months to follow silk and nylon shirts and dresses were a common sight in the area. I think we helped the local economy by buying some of these handmade items ourselves.”51 On Highway 17, while the 2nd Battalion had been moving forward in their trucks and jeeps and then battling it out with the Japanese, the rest of the 511th had been making good progress. “The 3rd Battalion, under leadership of Maj. Strong, had started hiking toward Manila and would hike several miles before the trucks would return to take them forward,” reported the 511th’s historian. “The 3rd Battalion was met and picked up by the trucks and taken as far forward as possible to a place near the 2nd Battalion. Meanwhile, the 1st Battalion had hiked all the way from Tagaytay. They moved into line abreast of the 2nd Battalion.”52 By the time the 1st Battalion reached the forward line, the 2nd Battalion had cleared Imus and was ﬁghting a tough battle for a bridge over the Las Pinas River. After leaving Imus, Colonel Holcombe’s 2nd Battalion had moved three miles ahead to the town of Zapote, where Highway 17 ended at a juncture with Route 25. A half mile farther on, Highway 1 came in from the southeast and then continued on to Manila. At the Las Pinas River, one mile beyond the junction, the fast-moving paratroopers surprised the Japanese before the bridge could be demolished but became entangled in a spirited battle. At 4:00 P.M., when Major Burgess’s 1st Battalion troops arrived, Holcombe’s 2nd Battalion paratroopers were still battling for possession of the bridge.53 At both Imus and at the Las Pinas bridge, General Haugen was surprised to see Eichelberger or Swing on the scene directing the men. At other times, one or both generals were up above directing the movement of the troops or the column from a cruising L-4 Piper Cub. Neither general seemed to lead from the rear.54

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While the 2nd Battalion bogged down again, the 1st and 3rd Battalions outﬂanked Las Pinas by crossing through the river on foot to continue the advance toward Manila. As they marched up Route 1, Manila Bay could be seen on their left. At Bacoor, the men of the 511th PIR were met as saviors as nearly 3,000 grateful Filipinos crowded into the streets. When the advancing paratroopers came out of the town and continued north, they came under increasingly heavy Japanese ﬁre. Then, at the town of Paranaque, with darkness beginning to fall, forward progress came to a screeching halt. The fast advancing column of paratroopers had ﬁnally run into a river they could not cross.55 In just two days, the 511th PIR had made its ﬁrst mass combat parachute jump, seized Tagaytay Ridge, assisted the 188th GIR in defeating the Japanese on the west end of the ridge, and made a mad, all-out dash to the outskirts of Manila. During that time, the regiment had lost eight men killed and nineteen wounded and had another ﬁfty men injured in the Tagaytay jump. It was a remarkable accomplishment for any regiment in the Paciﬁc theater, let alone a parachute regiment, which was only three-ﬁfths the size of a regular army regiment. When things settled down somewhat, questions began to emerge concerning the Tagaytay parachute jump. What had gone wrong with the drop that had caused so many paratroopers to drop early? The 11th Airborne blamed the 317th Troop Carrier Group. The division reported, “[The] true reason was the refusal of the Air Force to co-operate in a combined training program for Airborne and Air Force troops.” Division records however, indicated “that the [11th Airborne] had participated in a signiﬁcant amount of combined training in the United States and again in New Guinea.”56 It is fairly certain that one reason for the early jumps in the second group that arrived four hours after the ﬁrst was the fact that most of ﬁrst group jumpers failed to retrieve their parachutes. While those jumpers that landed on the correct drop zone with Haugen collected their chutes, the troopers who missed the drop zone did not, perhaps in their haste to get to the correct zone or because the chutes were stuck in the banana trees. With the correct drop zone clean of chutes and the incorrect drop zone covered with chutes, it is no wonder that the second group of paratroopers jumped onto the wrong jump zone. As Holcombe had said, “[P]roper jump discipline would have prevented it.” By late February 4, the 511th PIR was sitting four miles outside Manila. The fast advance had prevented the Japanese from detonating the charges under the bridges at Imus and Las Pinas and delaying any movement by the 11th Airborne toward Manila.57

CHAPTER 21

The Rock

O

n February 3, 1945, the same day the 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment dropped on Tagaytay Ridge, General MacArthur and the Sixth Army staff began making plans to capture Corregidor Island, “The Rock,” near the mouth of Manila Bay. Shaped like a huge tadpole facing out toward the South China Sea, Corregidor dominated the entrance to Manila Bay and prevented the Americans from bringing in ships to supply or support the ground forces driving upon Manila. Only 3.5 miles long, Corregidor’s large head, called “Topside,” was about 1.5 miles in diameter and rose 500 feet above the waters of the bay. Sheer cliffs on the north, west, and south side of Topside led straight down to the sea. On the east side, however, the land dipped into a plateau known as “Middleside” and then rose up again to Malinta Hill, 400 feet above the bay and laced with the 1,400-foot-long Malinta Tunnel. The 2-mile-long tail, about 25 feet above the water, contained the only airstrip on the island, Kindley Field, near the far eastern end. There was only one small village on the whole of Corregidor: San Jose, on the south side of the middle of the island, where the tail met the head. In use by the Spanish long before the Spanish-American War and by the Americans ever since, Corregidor’s Topside head was dotted with three-story “Mile-Long Barracks” buildings, headquarters buildings, a parade ground, a nine-hole golf course, and almost a dozen gun battery emplacements. Numerous deep ravines and trees, brush, and large boulders dominated the heights. Built on Middleside were ofﬁcer and NCO quarters, a hospital, the dependent’s school, and a service club. The numerous tunnels inside Malinta Hill led to an underground headquarters, hospital, mess area, power generator, living quarters, and quartermaster stores. Handed over to the Americans by the Spanish in 1898, it had remained in American hands until May 5, 1942, when it was ﬁnally surrendered to the Japanese.1 Working with intelligence reports that indicated there were no more than 900 Japanese soldiers on Corregidor, MacArthur chose Gen. Walter Krueger and his Sixth Army to recapture The Rock. MacArthur told Krueger that he could seize Corregidor with a parachute drop, an amphibious landing, or both. Krueger chose both, knowing that a parachute drop by itself would be too risky and an amphibious assault by itself would be too costly.

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The Japanese had staged an amphibious assault in May 1942 against a halfstarved American garrison and had suffered terrible losses. As Krueger reasoned, the way to tackle Corregidor was with a combined air and sea attack.2 Selected to make the parachute drop would be the 503rd PRCT, still sitting on Mindoro Island, while a reinforced battalion from the 34th Infantry Regiment of the 24th Infantry Division would make the amphibious assault from the Bataan Peninsula, which had been wrestled away from the Japanese. In all, four reinforced battalions—over 4,500 men—would attack Corregidor, more than enough to overwhelm 900 Japanese soldiers.3 The 503rd PRCT had been waiting at Mindoro since December 15 while everybody else seemed to be ﬁghting the “big” ﬁght on Luzon. “[M]orale had sunk pretty low in the regiment,” said Capt. Charles H. “Doc” Bradford, the 2nd Battalion’s surgeon. “Only the [day] before we stood dejectedly in our camp watching a junior parachute unit [i.e. the 511th PIR] winging overhead for what we thought should be our mission: the jump on Manila. It seemed again that we would be in reserve, while the big operations in Luzon were carried out by other units.”4 In fact, not only had the 503rd PRCT missed out on the Tagaytay mission, it had also been training for a possible mission to capture Nichols airﬁeld on the south side of Manila. However, with the rapid advance of both the XIV Corps in the north and the 11th Airborne Division in the south, the Nichols mission was deemed unnecessary and called off on the morning of February 5. That same day, Colonel Jones was notiﬁed that the regimental combat team would be making a combat jump after all—on the island of Corregidor.5 When Jones received the information, he immediately began to prepare. The jump was scheduled for February 16, only eleven days away, and Jones had much to do. He ﬁrst wanted to take a good look at The Rock, so on February 6, he took an aerial reconnaissance ﬂight aboard a bomber as a group of planes made a low-ﬂying bomb run over Corregidor. Upon his return to Mindoro, he drew up his plan of attack.6 Jones’s ﬁrst concern was to ﬁnd a decent drop zone or multiple drop zones. After looking at the terrain in person and studying numerous aerial photographs and maps, he settled on the only suitable place he could ﬁnd, Kindley Field. Although unused by the Japanese, short in length, and badly overgrown with brush, the old runway seemed to be the safest spot to land on the entire island. When Jones submitted his proposal to General Krueger, it was instantly shot down. Krueger argued that a landing on Kindley Field would place the paratroopers below dominant Topside and Malinta Hill—a clear disadvantage in warfare. Different drop zones had been found: a parade ground and a golf course on Topside, both of which presented their own difﬁculties.7 They were the best that could be found under the circumstances and would give the paratroopers the advantage of the high ground.

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With the drop zones selected and approved, Jones and his staff next had to study the prevailing winds over Manila Bay and determine the correct speed and direction of approach for the C-47s and the optimal jump altitude. It was discovered that the winds over Topside generally came from the east and blew at 15 to 25 miles per hour, with occasional gusts. Figuring that the C-47s could approach from southwest to northeast at an altitude of 400 feet above Topside, each plane would be over the small drop zones for no more than six seconds. Calculating that it took each paratrooper approximately a half second to get out of the plane and another twenty-ﬁve seconds to reach the ground, it was believed that each man would drift 250 feet to the west during his fall, giving him only 100 feet of safety in case of a sudden wind gust or human error.8 With two separate drop zones, Jones and his staff, along with the staff of Lt. Col. John Lackey, commander of the 317th Troop Carrier Group, which would make the drop, agreed to ﬂy two columns of planes over Corregidor, one for each zone. Since there were only six seconds of drop time before the plane was past either drop zone, each stick would have to be dropped in two or three passes. With six or eight paratroopers jumping at a time, each plane would have to circle around—one column to the left, the other to the right— and get back in line at the end of the column a couple of times until everybody was safely out of the plane. With the airplanes approaching from the southwest and ﬂying over the island at a diagonal, they at least eliminated the chance of a late jumper falling off the cliff and landing in Manila Bay. Instead, a late jumper would land either on the eastern end of Topside or, at worst, on Middleside.9 With the plans laid out, Jones took the remaining few days before the jump to thoroughly brief his people. “First, the regimental staff, along with the battalion commanders, were briefed on all points known, regarding the mission,” wrote 1st Lt. John H. Blair III of the 3rd Battalion. “Each battalion commander briefed his staff and company commanders; and the latter briefed company ofﬁcers. A time schedule was put into effect, whereby each platoon leader could brief his platoon, on all details pertaining to the operation. In this manner, every ofﬁcer and man was thoroughly indoctrinated as to the mission.”10 Undoubtedly, when some of the men heard that they would be jumping onto a drop zone approximately 300 feet by 200 feet on top of a 500 foot high “rock,” they must have thought that the planners were crazy. When Doc Bradford expressed his doubts to Maj. Ernest C. Clark Jr. of regimental headquarters and HQ Company, the major replied, “That’s the beauty of it. . . . The Japs will never expect it because it looks impossible. No army in this war has pulled anything like it. But our intelligence has got it ﬁgured out, and they say it’ll be as easy as opening a kit-bag.”

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Although Doc Bradford could not express the same amount of enthusiasm as Clark, especially after hearing that Jones expected 20 to 50 percent casualties from the jump into a cluttered, wreckage-strewn area, he did manage to look on the bright side. “It . . . didn’t look easy to me,” he wrote, “but I had to agree with [Major Clark] that for adventure, for spectacular dash, and for what seemed like reckless daring, this mission beat anything that had yet been planned for paratroops.”11 As the drop day drew closer, the men were brought into the command tent to look over the sand table. Doc Bradford recalled: At first this was carefully guarded, but as the days grew fewer, squads from every company are brought in and shown through maps, photographs, descriptions and diagrams. In the end every soldier gets a photo map for his own study and to carry with him. Especially among paratroopers, it is essential for each man to understand the whole plan of operations in its entirety, for many of them will be called upon, under adverse circumstances, to act alone or in isolated groups. Capt. Donald A. Crawford of Service Company, 503rd PRCT, added, “This system of brieﬁng afforded the RCT the best they had had for any operation to date.”12 In drawing up his plans for the actual assault, Jones decided that since he only had ﬁfty-six C-47s to work with and since the drop zones were so small, he would have to bring his combat team in via three lifts. Two lifts would come in on the ﬁrst day, February 16, and the third on the seventeenth. All of the planes would be taking off from Elmore and Hill airstrips near San Jose on Mindoro to ﬂy the 140 miles to Corregidor, a ﬂight time of about an hour and ﬁfteen minutes.13 The ﬁrst group would jump at 8:30 A.M., arriving inside ﬁfty-one C-47s. The group would consist of the entire 3rd Battalion under Lt. Col. John R. Erickson; the staff ofﬁcers and radio operators from RCT headquarters; Company C of the 161st Airborne Engineer Battalion; and a section of Headquarters Battery, all of Battery A with their four 75-millimeter pack howitzers, and the 3rd Platoon from Battery D equipped with eight .50-caliber heavy machine guns instead of their pack howitzers, all from the 462nd Parachute Field Artillery Battalion. The ﬁrst group had the objective of securing both drop zones for the following two lifts and provide covering ﬁre from above for the intended amphibious landing.14 The heights above the beaches had to be secured as soon as possible since a reinforced battalion of the 34th Infantry Regiment—1,598 men—was scheduled to make its amphibious landing at 10:30 A.M. at Black Beach near

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the village of San Jose on the southern shore of Corregidor, where the tail met the head. The infantrymen were given the task of quickly seizing Malinta Hill, thereby grabbing all of the high ground for the Americans.15 After the infantrymen were ashore, the second group of paratroopers would arrive at 12:15 P.M. using the same ﬁfty-one C-47s that had dropped the ﬁrst group. Led by Maj. Lawson B. Caskey, commander of the 2nd Battalion, the group would contain the whole 2nd Battalion; another detachment of RCT Headquarters; Service Company, 503rd PRCT; the remaining engineers from Company C, 161st Airborne Engineer Battalion; the 2nd Platoon from D Battery with its .50-caliber machine guns; and Battery B and its 75-millimeter howitzers, both from the 462nd Parachute Field Artillery Battalion. After landing, Caskey’s men were to link up with Erickson’s paratroopers and help eliminate any Japanese on Topside.16 Jumping with the ﬁrst and second lifts were ten individuals who were not parachute-qualiﬁed but had elected to go nonetheless, including a “joint assault signal company, support aircraft party, photographers, and an interpreter.”17 Finally, the third drop would take off from Mindoro at 7:15 A.M. on the seventeenth in forty-three C-47s and make their combat drop at 8:30. This last group would be made up of the entire 1st Battalion led by Maj. Robert Woods; the remaining men of RCT headquarters; and the 1st Platoon of Battery D with its .50-caliber guns and Battery C with its 75-millimeter howitzers from the 462nd Parachute Field Artillery Battalion. Their objective was to assist the other two battalions and begin clearing out the rest of Corregidor.18 Since each drop contained a riﬂe battalion, a headquarters section, an artillery battery, and a heavy machine-gun platoon, each was a miniature army unto itself. Captain Crawford noted, “[E]ach battalion was capable of supporting itself until the entire RCT was on the ground and operating as such.”19 All of the drops would be made from an altitude of 550 feet above Topside with the planes spaced 500 yards apart. All ﬂights would use both drop zones at the same time. The instructions to the C-47 pilots, who had studied the maps, photos, and sand table hand-in-hand with the 503rd PRCT, included the following: d) Planes dropping in A field [the Parade Ground] will fly a left hand pattern turning, after dropping run and making a second pass. They will make a long down wind leg so as to have enough space and time to line up for their second run, also so that they will not interfere with planes flying B pattern. e) Planes dropping in B field [the golf course] will turn right after making dropping run and proceed to make second dropping run in same manner as outlined above.20

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For the ﬁrst time in the Paciﬁc, the parachute drop would use a control plane. Since there were so many variables and risks concerned with this jump, Colonel Jones would not be jumping with the ﬁrst stick of men. Instead, he would be ﬂying “about the drop zones” in a C-47, using a radio link with the other planes, “charged with the missions of correcting the line of ﬂight and/or altering the count of the jump masters based on observations of sticks already dropped.” Once everything was going as planned, Jones would leave the control plane and parachute down to take command.21 From February 5 to 16, Jones and his staff, along with Colonel Lackey and his staff of the 317th Troop Carrier Group, made sure that they had all of their T’s crossed and their I’s dotted. This was a risky drop, with expectations of high casualties, and the two ofﬁcers wanted to make sure that everybody was prepared. On February 10, a rehearsal jump was performed by all of the ofﬁcers and enlisted men who would act as jumpmasters. Two days later, the jumpmasters and C-47 pilots got a close-up, ﬁrsthand look at the drop zones when they were ﬂown over Corregidor in the noses of B-25 bombers attacking and straﬁng the island.22 Nothing was being overlooked. Almost all of the paratroopers were glad that they would be dropped on the tiny drop zones by the veteran pilots of the 317th Troop Carrier Group, who had already dropped the 503rd PRCT on Nadzab and Noemfoor and the 511th PIR on Tagaytay Ridge. “The 317th was an old friend of the 503d,” recalled Capt. Magnus L. Smith, an assistant operations ofﬁcer for the 503rd PRCT.23 Other air units with MacArthur’s command were also supporting the invasion. Ever since January 22, both the Fifth and Thirteenth Air Forces had been pounding Corregidor on a daily basis. By February 16, the date of the attack, both groups had ﬂown a combined 1,012 sorties against The Rock, dropping a total of 3,128 tons of bombs.24 On February 13, with just three days to go, U.S. Navy minesweepers swept the waters around the Bataan Peninsula and Corregidor while cruisers and destroyers from Task Group 77.3 began shelling both areas. The Japanese on Corregidor returned ﬁre from their big guns and managed to damage two destroyers and a minesweeper. In response, the task group was strengthened on February 15 with three heavy cruisers and ﬁve more destroyers.25 As part of the overall plan of invasion, infantry from the 151st RCT of the 38th Infantry Division made an amphibious landing on the southern tip of the Bataan Peninsula on the morning of February 15, seizing the port of Mariveles with little opposition. As the 151st moved inland, the reinforced combat team of the 34th Infantry Regiment was brought ashore in preparation for its assault on Corregidor the next morning.26 By the evening of February 15, everything was set to go in the camps of the 503rd PRCT. “The men seem to like it,” noted Doc Bradford, “but they

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are quiet about it—quiet and serious. They know the risks, and most of them ﬁgure this mission will be really ‘rugged’. . . . Notwithstanding the hazards, the men are all eager to carry this task through. ‘Let’s give it a go,’ as the Aussies used to say.”27 Perhaps some of the eagerness came from the fact that the 503rd PRCT would be recapturing Corregidor after the Japanese had taken it from the Americans in 1942. “There was a sentimental aspect about retaking The Rock,” wrote Captain Smith. “Everyone wanted to get in on the show and do what he could. This spirit ran down the chain of command from General MacArthur to the riﬂemen, sailors, and tail gunners on the aircraft.” To further instill eagerness into their troops, the ofﬁcers of the 503rd PRCT showed captured Japanese movies of the American surrender of Corregidor on the evening of February 15 at their homemade outdoor theater. Depicted in the ﬁlm were scenes of Japanese soldiers mistreating American captives and stomping on an American ﬂag.28 Since only the 3rd Battalion was being dropped on the morning of February 16, they were the only battalion awakened at 5:00 A.M. Having struck their tents and turned in their cots the day before, the 3rd Battalion men had been forced to curl up next to their weapon and equipment to try to get some sleep. Once awake, the men were given an hour to eat, gather their gear, and board their assigned trucks. As before, each truck was numbered, with each waiting C-47 having a corresponding number. After the trucks reached either Elmore or Hill Airﬁeld, the men simply got out of the truck, looked for the their number on one of the C-47s, and then lined up in preparation for the call to emplane.29 Private First Class Nycum of Company G recalled the entire ordeal: “We load on to a convoy of trucks, which are then off to the airstrip where we are directed toward banks of stacked parachutes, each man taking one and strapping it on. We adjust ourselves, and each other, starting to look like a ﬂock of mean, heavily armed penguins as we waddle around fastening our loads.”30 Company H had the pleasure of sleeping in for a half hour longer since their bivouac was already next to the airﬁeld. “There wasn’t a lot of talking at breakfast,” recalled PFC Richard M. Hess of Company H. “It was quiet. We bivouacked on the airﬁeld at Mindoro next to the planes. They got us up at 5:30 A.M. We were all ready to go by 6:00 and we had to stand around waiting for what seemed a long time. We boarded the C-47s at about 6:30.”31 One person who almost missed the ﬂight was Spc. Harry M. Akune, a Nisei (ﬁrst-generation Japanese-American), the lone interpreter, who had been assigned to the 503rd PRCT for their invasion of Mindoro. Just before the Corregidor operation, Akune was preparing to leave the unit when Jones personally asked him to stay, stating that his services would be invaluable in the next mission. Akune replied that since he already felt as if he were a part

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of the 503rd PRCT, he would be honored to stay with them. Since Akune was not jump-trained, he was given a few quick lessons and allowed to make his ﬁrst parachute jump with the jumpmasters on February 10, six days before jumping into combat. On the morning of February 16, he had trouble getting to the waiting C-47s.32 Akune remembered: I was waiting for Captain [Francis X.] Donovan [Reg. HQ and HQ Co.] to go to the airfield. He was the S-2 [intelligence officer] and had a jeep with my equipment in it. So I was waiting around, and I came back, and the jeep was gone. I tried to find him but the only thing I could assume is that he left without me. Trucks with troopers on them were moving to the airfield, so I jumped on one and got to the airfield.33 As the men waited to board the transports, they naturally checked all of their equipment again. Private Nycum described what he had with him: I am carrying three days supply of rations, ten each twenty round clips of .45 ammunition, two fragmentation grenades, and two Phosphorous grenades, my trench knife, and my utility knife. The last item I fasten to my webbing is my weapon case, in which I am carrying a Thompson machine gun hanging diagonally across my body. I am number 3 in my string because they like the Tommy gun men early, in case there is a problem.34 Capt. John J. Powers, a Catholic priest, remembered being bumped because he did not carry a submachine gun. “Usually, I jumped Number 4 in Plane 1,” he said, “but on the Corregidor jump I was way back in Plane 13. I stressed my right to be down with Plane 1, but Jones said, ‘No, there are Japs on the jump ﬁeld, and I am sending in the tommy-gun men ﬁrst.”35 For those without a Thompson submachine gun, the equipment was essentially the same. Doc Bradford checked off the list of the “basic equipment” of each man: Helmet; helmet lining; coveralls; web belts; canteens, 2; canteen cup; medical first aid kit (individual for every man); entrenching tool (optional); weapon (for medics—a carbine); 2 plasma units (for medics); Medical Corps bag and aid equipment (for medics); ammo clips; trench knife (optional); jump knife (a pocket jack-knife); poncho; 2 hand grenades (most men carry 4, however); K rations (2 day

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supply—total 6 units). The average man’s equipment weighs up to sixty pounds, more or less, but there are heavier loads for specialized troops such as machine gunners, mortar men, and ammo bearers.36 Hoping to “minimize the effects of a dispersed landing,” very few cargo containers were being used on the Corregidor drop. 1st Lt. Edward T. Flash of Company F wrote, “To further eliminate the vulnerability that is always present immediately after the jump, mortars, Browning automatic riﬂes [BARs], and light machine guns were jumped on the individual person.” Each man in a 60-millimeter mortar crew carried either the base plate and sight, the bipod with elevating and traversing mechanism, or the gun tube. “Parachute pack containers were modiﬁed with web straps to permit attachment to chute harness,” wrote a 503rd PRCT crewman “Each man jumped with four rounds of [mortar] ammunition strapped to each leg.”37 For the light machine gun crews, “we used a modiﬁed container, aerial delivery, for M-1 riﬂes. The gunner carried the barrel, its jacket and receiver; the assistant gunner carried the traversing mechanism, tripod, and extra barrel. The ammunition carrier jumped with two canvas containers, each rolled around a 500-round belt and strapped to a leg; also a spare parts kit.” Added the 503rd PRCT crewman, “All of the equipment described [in the above two paragraphs] was carried across the chest under the reserve chute except as otherwise noted.”38 For the ﬁrst time in the Paciﬁc theater, the men were given a yellow B-3 “Mae West” life preserver to wear under their parachute harness since there was the distinct possibility that some of the men might be blown off Topside and land in Manila Bay. In case of an overshoot, the navy assigned a number of PT boats to race in and rescue any of the hard luck paratroopers from under the guns of the Japanese.39 Around 6:30 A.M., the men began boarding the planes, the last man out being the ﬁrst man in. By 7:00, they were in the planes and ready to go. At 7:15, the ﬁrst twelve planes began taking off from Elmore airstrip, scheduled to drop the ﬁrst group of paratroopers onto the parade ground, Drop Zone A. The ﬁrst C-47 into the air was piloted by Colonel Lackey, commander of the 317th Troop Carrier Group, and carried Colonel Jones, the commander of the 503rd PRCT. At the same time, the next twelve planes began lifting off from Hill airstrip, carrying the ﬁrst men bound for the golf course, Drop Zone B. Fifteen minutes later, the next dozen followed the ﬁrst group up from Hill strip, heading for the golf course while, at Elmore Airstrip, the last ﬁfteen planes began taking off with the second group of paratroopers bound for the parade ground. Within minutes, all ﬁfty-one planes were in the air over San Jose and lining up in a formation of V of Vs for the ﬂight toward Corregidor.40

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Private Nycum recounted the ﬂight to Corregidor: Our plane is air borne and we try to settle back to get as comfortable as possible, to wear our 60–80 lbs of equipment as if it was but a rosette in a tuxedo. Time passes. Our altitude must not be high, for the tropic heat remains with us. . . . Our Jumpmaster speaks. . . . ‘We have been picked by MacArthur to retake Fortress Corregidor from the Japanese! This is our special honor!’ His words take my thoughts back to the fall of Bataan, the Death March, and the siege and surrender of this island to the Japanese, and my hate and anger are renewed. We are hallowed to be taking back the Fortress Corregidor.41 The planes followed the Mindoro coastline northward, protected all of the time by an umbrella of ﬁghter planes. “On the ﬂight over I was a bit tense,” remembered PFC Reynaldo Rodriguez of Company G. “I was concerned that the men seated on the other side of the plane and facing me might note my apprehension. I nonchalantly rose and walked to the plane’s door, which was removed, to look around. What I saw raise my spirits. There was an impressive array of U.S. power all around us. Above the C-47s were protective ﬂights of P-38s and ﬂying below were ﬂights of P-47s.”42 While the transports and their “little friends” were en route, the pre-invasion bombardment of Corregidor was taking place. Twenty-four B-24 Liberator heavy bombers ﬂew in ﬁrst, bombing all known and suspected gun positions. The heavy bombers were followed by eleven B-25s dropping bombs and straﬁng antiaircraft gun emplacements and the entire south coast where the amphibious landing would take place. Flying along with the B-25s were thirty-one A-20 attack ﬁghters which paid particular attention to the areas around the drop zones. Finally, as the C-47s came into view, seventy A-20s bombed and strafed Corregidor’s eastern tail.43 Not to be outdone by the air force, the navy cruisers and destroyers added their shelling to the cacophony of noise over Corregidor. Particular attention was paid to the southern beaches around San Jose. When they were done ﬁring, they remained on station, waiting to ﬁre at any target called in by radio from forward observers on The Rock.44 When the transports and ﬁghters were approximately six miles away from the drop zones, the C-47s began to fall into two columns, with the prescribed 500 yards between each plane, twenty-ﬁve or twenty-six planes per column. The right column would drop the men of the regimental headquarters, the artillerymen, and Company H on the parade ground, while the left column would drop Companies G and I and the airborne engineers on the golf course. In every plane except the control plane, every jumpmaster instructed his stick to stand up, hook up, and make their equipment checks.45

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Nycum remembered: Our flight does not seem long, as none of the flights into combat seem long, for time goes so quickly when one is not eager to get to the drop zone. I am sitting here quietly, as if wanting a longer flight can somehow make it so. Too soon I hear the order ‘Stand up and hook up!’ Each of my brothers rises up from his thoughts, and with snap fastener in hand, allows the static line to pass over the top of his wrist and snaps it on to the cable running the length of the aircraft. ‘Check equipment!’ I checked my gear, and check my static line again. I would check it a hundred times if it would assure me absolutely, but I must check the gear of my brother in front of me, the Number 2 man in our stick, Sgt. [John M.] Guthrie. Number 4, [Staff] Sgt. [Gilbert] Ham, checks me. I am ready, I stand steadily, anticipating the count off. ‘Count off’ . . . ‘4 OK!’ . . . ‘3 OK!’ . . . ‘2 OK!’ . . . ‘1 OK!’ . . . I notice my breaths are short, and my heartbeat is racing. What was that about into the valley of the shadow of death? That is not for me today, I am entirely committed. The silence when the entire string has given the OK startles me.46 In the ﬁrst plane behind the control plane, Colonel Erickson stood in the door waiting for the green “go” light. Twenty-three other troopers stood behind him, waiting for their turn to jump on the parade ground. As the C47 ﬂew over Battery Wheeler, a large gun emplacement on the southwest tip of Topside, the pilot ﬂipped on the green light. Erickson jumped. The time was 8:33 A.M., three minutes behind schedule.47

CHAPTER 22

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s planned, only seven other men followed Colonel Erickson out of the ﬁrst plane before the C-47 passed the safe drop area. Even then, the men realized that there had been a miscalculation. The wind was blowing in excess of 25 miles per hour out of the east, and the high jump altitude of 550 feet meant that the men were being blown toward the west—that is, toward the steep 500-foot-high cliffs that led down to Manila Bay. Being the ﬁrst out of the plane, Erickson landed safely on Topside in the area of the bomb-blasted parade ground. As he recalled, “Considering the location of my landing, the terrain, and the fact that the area was covered with the jagged stumps of bomb-blasted trees, I was lucky. I had only minor bruises and scratches and was able to get on with my job.” The last man of the eight-man stick managed to barely make the very edge of the parade ground.1 Watching from the control C-47, Colonel Jones immediately realized that he had to make adjustments—quickly. The next plane was only 500 yards behind the ﬁrst and coming in at a speed of 100 miles per hour. Instantly, Jones was on the radio, telling all of the pilots to drop to an altitude of only 400 feet and to shorten the number of men in a stick from eight to ﬁve or six. “This did the trick pretty well,” Jones said, “and contrary to some reports we had no people who landed in the water.”2 Unfortunately, the three-week aerial bombardment and the pre-invasion bombing and shelling had turned Topside into a jumble of deadly obstacles, especially in the area of the parade ground, which was surrounded by buildings. American bombs and shells had demolished all of the buildings on top of the head of Corregidor and had left the area strewn, according to Lieutenant Flash of Company F, with “bomb craters, sharp cement boulders, tin, glass, steel bloom from the nearby buildings, and sharp tree limbs sticking skyward.”3 It was almost no wonder that the Japanese had not prepared Topside against an airborne invasion; the Americans had done it for them. Doc Bradford recalled the action in his plane as it neared the parade ground.

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Having crossed the point of the Battery, the jumpmaster started counting, in deliberate tones: ‘one thousand . . . two thousand . . . three thousand. . . . The first jumper’s hands were gripped backward on the outside door. His head was projected slightly into the windy blast. His legs were slightly crouched, for a spring. The other seven men pressed closely, in single file, behind him. ‘Four thousand . . . five thousand . . . six thousand.’ The jumpmaster had added two seconds to the expected count in order to compensate for the estimated force of the wind. . . . ‘Go.’4 In Bradford’s plane, Maj. Thomas Stevens of the regimental headquarters and HQ Company was the jumpmaster and watched the ﬁrst stick ﬂoat down as the plane started its left turn to get back in line for a second pass. “The wind must be stronger than they ﬁgured, for they landed short of the parade ground,” Bradford remembered Stevens yelling to the next group of jumpers. “I’m going to hold you to a count of eight; then we’ll pitch out the bundle, and you follow it.”5 One of the planes near the tail end of the ﬂight that had not yet made an initial pass suddenly pulled out of line. “This plane,” wrote a regimental historian, “contained the Demolition Section of the Third Battalion Combat Team, developed engine trouble and the plane load was forced to jump in the vicinity of Castillejos, Luzon. No casualties were sustained.” The situation could have been much worse.6 One engine on the C-47 carrying the demolition squad of 1st Lt. William E. Blake of the regimental headquarters and HQ Company began smoking and throwing oil when the plane was still seven minutes from the drop zone. Although Blake begged the pilot to at least make one pass over Corregidor, stating that he would try to jump all of his men at one time, the pilot refused. Instead, he headed out over Luzon, looking for someplace ﬂat if he needed to make a crash landing. The plane began to lose altitude even after the paratroopers and crew discarded everything that was not nailed down, including their helmets, weapons, and other gear. Eventually, Blake and his men had to jump out in the vicinity of Castillejos, just north of the Bataan Peninsula. Once the twenty-four paratroopers were out of the plane, it must have gained some altitude because the pilot and crew ultimately turned south and brought the plane in for a safe landing at Nichols Field, just below Manila.7 Even as Blake’s plane pulled out of formation, other planes were coming over Corregidor. Private First Class Hess, carrying his squad’s BAR, jumped out of a plane ﬂying over the parade ground. “I was the ﬁrst one out the door of our plane,” he said. “When I left the plane, I could see right ahead of me, close to the ground, the B-25 and A-20 planes straﬁng with their .50-caliber

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cannons. . . . I only oscillated one and a half times. We had a lot of wind there. Wind steals the air from your chute and you come down faster. . . . I landed pretty hard, solid rock. I hit so hard it paralyzed me. I couldn’t move for 2–3 minutes.”8 While the parade ground area—where the regimental headquarters, artillerymen, and men from Company H were being dropped—was littered with huge chunks of concrete and jagged tree limbs, the small nine-hole golf course, where Company G and I and the airborne engineers were being dropped, turned out to be a better place to land. Private First Class Rodriguez of Company G recalled: We jumped at about 400 feet. I believe this was one of the lowest-level combat jumps made by U.S. parachute troops in World War II. The purpose was to minimize descent time, during which we would be a floating target. . . . I was just a little over the treetops that lined the golf course when my parachute blossomed. I came crashing down on the edge of the course. I quickly slipped out of the harness, ran to the assembly area and we established a perimeter around the golf course.9 One of the men preparing to jump over the golf course had trouble with his parachute even before he left the plane. Machine gunner PFC Jesse S. Castillo of Company C, 161st Airborne Engineers, discovered that his leg straps were unbuckled when he stood up to jump. If he jumped now, the shock of the opening parachute would squirt him out of the harness and into space. Encumbered as he was, he frantically tried to buckle the straps as his jumpmaster, 2nd Lt. Robert E. Burt, asked if everyone was ready. “Noooooo!” shouted Castillo. Luckily, the plane ﬂew wide over the golf course and the pilot had to get back in line for a better pass. In the meantime, assistant machine gunner PFC Thomas R. Gambrell helped Castillo rebuckle the leg straps. When the plane passed over Corregidor the second time, Burt, Castillo, Gambrell, and two or three others made their jump. Castillo’s parachute opened properly, and the leg buckles held, but as he ﬂoated down, he saw that one paratrooper from his stick had a streamer and watched as the man plunged to his death. After touching down, Castillo discarded his chute and harness and raced over to where he had seen the trooper come down. The dead paratrooper turned out to be Private Gambrell. Another man from the same planeload, S/Sgt. Charles A. Lindsay Jr., also fell to his death because of a chute malfunction.10 One of the first men to jump onto the golf course was Capt. Logan W. Hovis, the surgeon of the 3rd Battalion, who was in the first stick of the second plane. Although a captain, he was not the jumpmaster of his plane but had been placed in the center of his stick, mainly because Colonel Erickson

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wanted to make sure that his surgeons had the best chance of landing on the middle of the course, not in the debris on either end. Erickson expected numerous jump casualties and tried to keep his surgeons as safe from harm as he could. Although Hovis landed safely in the center of the golf course, the strong winds caught hold of his parachute canopy before he could collapse it and dragged his slight 120-pound body across the course. Although he could have tried to grab onto something or cut himself free of the harness, he “did not want to risk injuring his hands.” In time, his canopy snagged on a shattered tree, but Hovis had become so entangled in his parachute lines that he could not move. Eventually, 1st Lt. William D. Ziler found him and cut him out of his cocoon.11 As it turned out, Hovis’s expert hands would ﬁnd more than enough work throughout the next few days. The other 3rd Battalion surgeon, Capt. Robert R. McKnight, had severely fractured an ankle upon landing and had

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then been pinned down by enemy ﬁre for some time behind a fallen tree. After rescue, the injured McKnight was evacuated from Corregidor.12 In the planes above, men were still waiting for their turn to jump. In some planes, some of the men wondered why the jumpmaster was suddenly waiting a few seconds longer after the green “go” light went on. “The green light is on, and for a few eternal seconds, we are not moving,” Private First Class Nycum wrote. “Then, almost as one, we quickly move forward, my right hand never leaving the back of Number 2 in front of me. In but the time it takes to blink, I let go of him as he falls away into the blast of the airsteam, and I am falling behind him.” Nycum and his stick jumped out over the golf course. “There is just enough time to stop my oscillation. The wind is blowing me backwards, and I see a bomb crater in front of my feet. I drop into the crater, sliding part way down its side, landing full and fair on my back in a cloud of dust. It is as good a landing as I can hope for.”13 The strong winds blew twenty-ﬁve paratroopers from Company I past the golf course and about 300 yards to the southeast, off Topside and 200 feet down the cliff face near a small promontory named Breakwater Point. Scrambling out of their parachute harnesses, the men gathered together and started following a narrow trail back up to the top. At a turn in the trail, they suddenly saw eight or nine Japanese soldiers apparently watching the maneuvers of the landing craft of the 3rd Battalion of the 34th Infantry Regiment coming around the west end of Corregidor to attack the south shore. Springing into action, the Company I paratroopers ﬁred and threw hand grenades at the Japanese assemblage. Although a few soldiers from the group returned ﬁre and escaped, the majority were killed, including the Japanese commander on Corregidor, Capt. Akira Itagaki, who had failed to fortify Topside against airborne assault in the belief that such an attack was impossible.14 After the ﬁrst few dozen transports made their ﬁrst pass over both the parade ground and the golf course, they began taking ground ﬁre from the Japanese. Although taken completely by surprise by the airborne assault, the Japanese were quick to respond. Captain Powers, the Catholic priest, had been praying, “whether for my sake or for the men’s, I have never been sure,” as he watched what was happening below. When it ﬁnally came his time to jump, he unhesitatingly followed the others in his stick out of the door. “I was lucky—leaving the plane, an enemy (I hope it was enemy!) .50 caliber kissed my left upper and outer leg, and I crashed into one of the big artillery guns [75-millimeter pack howitzer]—not an enemy one—receiving a sweet concussion and cracked ribs; except for the gun I’d have been over the cliff and maybe in Heaven.”15 The artillery piece into which Powers collided likely belonged to Battery A, 462nd Parachute Field Artillery Battalion. It may have been the gun

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crewed by PFC James Wilcox, PFC Duane Larson, and Pvt. Lawrence S. Brayton. “We were most fortunate in our jump,” Wilcox recalled. “Our equipment landed in the exact center of the drop zone. . . . The net result was that our section had its gun assembled and at our rendezvous point hours before the next section arrived. The other two sections had been jumped off the top of the island, some even into the sea, and didn’t get there at all.”16 Colonel Jones recalled the story of the missing artillery sections: “One artillery battery [sic] . . . landed on the hillside near the water. They found it [more] convenient to walk to the water’s edge and get picked up by a PT boat which was standing by to take care of any water landing emergencies and actually came in over the beach in good style.”17 The commanding ofﬁcer of the 462nd Parachute Field Artillery Battalion, Maj. Arlis E. Kline, had a descent worse than his guns and crews. I was dropping towards Landing Zone A [the parade ground] when I was hit by an unidentified piece of flying steel. My arm was so badly wounded I could not control my chute as I passed towards the last few houses along Officers Row. Barely missing becoming impaled on a jagged tree trunk, and with serious leg injuries. I ended up hanging in a tree, with my feet touching the ground, unable to stand and release my chute harness. For an indefinable time, I lapsed in and out of consciousness. PFC Joe Vela, my orderly, who had followed me out of the aircraft, cut me down.18 Another member of the 462nd Parachute Field Artillery Battalion was Capt. Emmet R. Spicer, a doctor. The award for his posthumous Silver Star read in part: Upon landing by parachute, Captain Spicer immediately organized his aid station and then proceeded under heavy enemy machine gun, sniper and mortar fire towards Wheeler Battery, attempting to evacuate the many wounded personnel to the aid station. He was fully aware of the personal risk involved and was repeatedly advised against going into this dangerous area. Stating that it was his duty to minister aid to the wounded despite the attendant danger, he proceeded at once toward the enemy infested area. He paused several times en route to aid injured and wounded soldiers, ministering to them while still under a hail of enemy bullets. His performance of duty in complete disregard to his own safety was far above that normally required or expected and in the execution of them he gave his own life.19

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When Spicer’s body was recovered, it was noticed that he had ﬁlled out his own emergency medical tag and attached it to his uniform.20 On the side of Corregidor’s bulbous head, Specialist Akune, the JapaneseAmerican interpreter, had fallen down one of the cliffs during his descent and was trying to make his way back up to Topside. I started going up. I was on a really steep hill. On the jump, I hurt my foot. As I’m limping up the hill, I see maybe a dozen rifles lined up at me. I thought to myself, ‘How much more trouble am I going to get into?’ So I raised my hands and walked up to them. One of the guys recognized me—he remembered me limping around after my first jump. He was the sergeant and a demolition man. He cussed me out. He said, ‘You son of a bitch, don’t do that again!’ Colonel Erickson, the ﬁrst man to jump onto Corregidor, left his plane at 8:33 A.M. About an hour later, the men were still jumping in sticks of three, four, ﬁve, or six, but by now, the Japanese were fully aware of the airborne assault and were contesting the landings as best they could. Lieutenant Flash was one of the last men out of his plane and remembered that he “hit like a brick right next to the swimming pool,” which was right beside the golf course. “As I unbuckled my parachute harness,” he said, “individual Japanese riﬂemen started at us. We actually had to return ﬁre and ﬁght our way to our assembly area.”21 Another paratrooper who was attacked while struggling to get out of his harness was Pvt. Earl Williams. Attacked by two Japanese soldiers and unable to get to his riﬂe, he quickly pulled out his .45-caliber semiautomatic pistol and shot them both dead. Elsewhere, PFC Donald E Rich of Company I, although stuck in a tree, managed to shoot and kill two snipers.22 Although the enemy ﬁre was increasing, most of the men stuck to their jobs. When Sgt. John A. Hanson of headquarters and HQ Company, 3rd Battalion, landed safely on Topside, he immediately realized that three bundles containing 81-millimeter mortar rounds were missing. “Realizing the urgency for their need,” his citation for a Silver Star recorded, “he immediately began a search for them.” Finding that they had drifted over the cliff and landed in a ravine near the entrance of several enemy occupied caves, Hanson, “although fully aware of the enemy situation and the danger involved,” did not hesitate to climb down the ravine to recover the ammunition. Although he immediately came under ﬁre, he reached the bundles and carried the ammunition “piece by piece up the torturous incline to the top. Although near exhaustion and still under enemy ﬁre, he did not stop until the mortars were put in action.” The mortar rounds that Hanson retrieved were later used to silence a Japanese antiaircraft gun “which threatened personnel jumping in later echelons.”23

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First Lt. Donald E. Abbott, executive ofﬁcer of Company E, jumped on the last pass of his plane. Although Abbott was a member of the 2nd Battalion, which was scheduled to be dropped at 12:30, Colonel Jones had wanted all the executive ofﬁcers of his 1st and 2nd Battalion riﬂe companies and batteries to jump with the 3rd Battalion. In this way, Jones felt, the executive ofﬁcers would already be familiar with the situation into which their men were jumping and would be able to reconnoiter the locations assigned to their units.24 Abbott was on one of the six planes that carried the regimental headquarters staff over the parade ground and was selected to lead the third stick out of the plane. Since Abbott had noticed that the ﬁrst two sticks had drifted well south of the drop zone, he decided to take an extra few seconds before leading his men out. When the green light went on and he did not jump, the C-47’s crew chief began pounding his leg. Abbott stood his ground, however, and when the plane was three-quarters of the way across the parade ground, he ﬁnally jumped.25 “I hit in a jumble of rubble that had been thrown around by earlier bombing,” he remembered, “and then bounced several times before I managed to stop my chute with the help of a couple of men who had already landed. A few feet more and I would have been pulled over the side of Battery Wheeler.” The strong winds, blowing out of the east and into the face of the paratroopers, had blown Abbott back across the parade ground. “Had I jumped only an instant earlier, I would have landed over the edge and probably taken part of the stick with me.”26 Out of all the 2nd Battalion executive ofﬁcers who jumped with the 3rd Battalion, only one, 1st Lt. William E. LaVanchure, sustained any injuries. LaVanchure landed hard and was taken out of action with two badly sprained ankles.27 At 9:40 A.M., with most of the C-47s now empty and beginning the return trip to Mindoro to load up again for the second lift, Jones decided to leave his own C-47 and join his men on The Rock. In quick succession, both he and his orderly jumped from the control plane. “We landed in a sheared-off tree area short of the parade ground, which was our target for landing. A four- or ﬁve-inch tree stump took the ﬂesh off the inside of my thighs on each leg, which was somewhat painful, but did not require any attention from the medics. . . . At any rate, my orderly sustained a broken ankle, but we moved to Topside.” By 9:50 A.M., all of the men were down, and the C-47s and escort planes were winging their way back to Mindoro. The island of Corregidor was still taking a pounding from the navy and air force as the landing barges carrying the 3rd Battalion of the 34th Infantry Regiment neared the landing beach at San Jose. By 10:00, in spite of his injury and the steady rain of incoming ﬁre, Colonel Jones had his regimental combat team set up in the devastated “Mile-

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Long Barracks” building on the north side of the parade ground. With Jones landing on Corregidor, the attacking forces, both paratroopers and infantry, now became part of “Rock Force” under the overall command of Jones. He now had sole control over every American combatant on Corregidor.28 By the time the command post was set up, the 3rd Battalion of the 503rd PRCT had begun to have “some opposition developing along the slopes from pillboxes.” The Japanese—members of the Manila Bay Entrance Force—who had sought shelter from the pre-invasion bombardment were now fully aware of the assault from above and were ﬁltering through the caves and ravines cut inside Topside and Malinta Hill to ﬁght back at the invaders. Instead of only 900 Japanese soldiers, as intelligence had indicated, there were actually close to 6,000. An operations report printed in May 1945 noted, “Of this number, 3,000 were disposed on the defense perimeter of The Rock in prepared positions intended to meet amphibious assault. These positions, located in the deeply serrated ravines leading from the shore to Topside were like the ﬁngers of a hand. . . . The balance of the enemy force of approximately 3,000 men was concentrated in the Malinta Hill and Tunnel area.” Since most of the Japanese forces were set up to repel an amphibious invasion, it took awhile for them to respond to the attack from above.29 Fortunately for the Americans, the Japanese communications center was located on Topside, far from the suspected invasion beaches, and was quickly captured by the 503rd PRCT within the ﬁrst hour of battle.30 That coup, along with the quick killing of Captain Itagaki, left the Corregidor defenders without a head or nerve system to control the rest of the body. By 10:00 A.M., most of the paratroopers of Companies G, H, and I, as well as the artillery pieces of Battery A and heavy machine guns of Battery D of the 462nd Parachute Field Artillery Battalion, had assembled and secured the two landing zones on Topside. Squads of men were beginning to spread out from the drop zones, trying to clear out the demolished structures that had suddenly become havens for Japanese snipers. Company G, under the command of Capt. Jean P. Doerr, attacked, captured, and secured the area around Ramsey Ravine, south of and overlooking the left ﬂank of the American amphibious assault. Quickly emplacing two .50-caliber machine guns from Battery D atop the ravine, they provided heavy covering ﬁre for the waterborne invasion of the 3rd Battalion, 34th Infantry Regiment.31 While the three rifle companies fanned out to expand the perimeter around the jump zones, the men from HQ Company, 503rd PRCT, and from the 161st Airborne Engineer Battalion worked within the perimeter, clearing out the northern portion and the barracks buildings. The southern portion of the interior perimeter was left to the personnel of HQ Company, 3rd Battalion.32

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At 10:28 A.M., the ﬁrst landing craft carrying the 34th Infantry touched shore at Black Beach near San Jose, on the south side of the tadpole’s neck. Surprisingly, opposition was light against the ﬁrst four waves, and the foot soldiers pushed quickly inland, reaching the top of Malinta Hill by 11:00. After that, the infantry and vehicles along the beach began to take a pounding as the Japanese were ﬁnally shaking off their pre-invasion pounding. Still, the biggest problem faced by the infantrymen arose when the landed vehicles attempted to spread out and detonated long buried land mines.33 Around 10:30, at the time the 34th Infantry was landing, the wind began to increase on Topside. After discovering this fact, assessing his casualties, and determining that he had 161 jump casualties, including 9 people from his medical staff and 13 from the ﬁeld artillery, Colonel Jones actually had “some doubt about 2d and HQ jumping at 1230.” Although he could have had the 2nd Battalion, 503rd PRCT, ﬂown to Mariveles and brought in by landing craft, that action would have left the 3rd Battalion on top of The Rock all by itself, already with about 16 percent casualties. Then, when communication with Mindoro could not be established, the decision was made to let the 2nd Battalion jump.34

CHAPTER 23

Seizing the Rock

T

he men of the 2nd Battalion, 503rd PIR, on Mindoro had been allowed a few more comforts than the men of the 3rd Battalion had been given. Although the big pyramid tents had been taken down the day before, like the 3rd Battalion, the 2nd Battalion had been allowed to keep their cots. “Sleeping on canvas cots in the open, we woke up soon after the sun rose, for there was work to be done,” wrote Lieutenant Calhoun. “Also rising was the temperature, and with it the wind and the dust.”1 The 2nd Battalion was awakened at 7:30 A.M. and given a leisurely breakfast. After gathering up their gear, including their weapons and Mae West life vests, they loaded onto the trucks, and beginning around 9:30, they were taken to Hill and Elmore airstrips. “We got to the strip about 1030 as the planes were coming in from delivering the 3rd Bn,” recalled Calhoun. “We could see bullet holes in some of them, so we knew that they had drawn ﬁre. Our plane #23 came in, and we started getting our equipment ready. The pilot told me a lot of jumpers were blown over the cliffs.”2 As the big C-47s were being refueled, the paratroopers began unloading from the trucks and immediately began climbing into their correspondingly numbered planes. “The heavily loaded men had to have assistance in climbing up the steps into the plane,” said Calhoun, who was waiting to put on his own parachute once he was in the plane. “The crew chief and I stood on the ground and pushed them. I clambered up sans equipment.”3 Following the same procedures as used in the early morning, the C-47s began taking off from the two different ﬁelds at the same time. The ﬁrst two groups—planes one through twelve (Elmore) and thirteen through twentyfour (Hill)—took off at 11:00 A.M. The Elmore planes would drop their sticks onto the parade ground, the Hill group onto the golf course. Fifteen minutes later, planes twenty-ﬁve through thirty-six lifted off from Elmore, bound for the parade ground, while thirty-seven through ﬁfty-one took off from Hill and headed for the golf course.4 The men from Company E, along with six planeloads of men from 2nd Battalion’s headquarters and HQ Company, and the guns and men of Battery B and machine guns and men from Battery D were slated to be dropped on

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the parade ground. The men from Companies D and F, along with three planeloads of men from headquarters and HQ Company, were scheduled to be dropped on the golf course.5 When all of the C-47 transports were airborne and assembled, they began winging their way northeast along the coast of Mindoro, once again accompanied by friendly ﬁghter planes. “As we were ﬂying over the sea we could see the P-38’s above our ﬂight,” Calhoun recalled. “Up at a much higher altitude were P-47s.” After an hour of ﬂight time, the transport pilots started to line up in column. “The planes began to jockey around for new positions maneuvering into two columns of single ﬁles, or trail formations. The left trail would jump on A Field [parade ground], the right trail on B Field [golf course]. It seems to me that time passed rather quickly.”6 At 12:30 P.M., the pilots and jumpmasters spotted Corregidor. “Suddenly [T/Sgt. Philip] Todd [Co. F] said, ‘There it is!’” Calhoun continued. “I saw bare, white cliffs rising out of the sea, coming out from under our left wing. Then I could see Topside and chutes strung all the way from the sea, up the cliffs and on ‘A’ and ‘B’ Fields. We could hear small arms ﬁre, both riﬂes and machine guns. I ﬁrst thought it was all ﬁghts on the ground then a bullet crashed through the plane and I said ‘Oh! Oh!’”7 Major Caskey, the 2nd Battalion’s commander, was the ﬁrst man from the second lift to jump, leaving his C-47 over the parade ground at 12:40 P.M., twenty-ﬁve minutes behind schedule. By now, all of the C-47 pilots knew that they had to stay at about 400 feet altitude, and the jumpmasters knew that there was a twenty-ﬁve-mile-per-hour wind blowing straight out to the east. At the same time, the Japanese were more alert when the second lift arrived, opening ﬁre with antiaircraft guns, especially from Battery Wheeler, directly in the ﬂight path of the parade-ground planes, and from Battery Cheney, a little farther north along the west coast.8 The commander of Company E, Capt. Hudson C. Hill, was the ﬁrst man out of his plane at 12:44 P.M. After the plane passed over the parade ground, he waited the recommended seven seconds and then jumped. He described his landing: I landed in the ruins of a concrete building. The building was three floors high. Upon hitting the top of the building my parachute collapsed and I tumbled through the ruins to the ground floor. The only serious result of the fall was to have seven teeth knocked out or broken off. The loss of the seven teeth was a fair exchange for possible death had I landed outside the building. The ground outside the building was being swept with intense enemy machine gun fire from pillboxes.

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With blood streaming from his mouth, Hill discarded his parachute and harness and surveyed the situation. Eventually, about ﬁfty men from Company E landed in or around the ruined building and were trapped by machine-gun crossﬁre coming from Batteries Wheeler and Cheney. At both batteries, the Japanese had managed to retrieve a couple of .50-caliber American machine guns and ammunition that had been misdropped by the ﬁrst lift and were now ﬁring at the invading paratroopers of the second lift.9 While ﬂoating down into the area south and west of the parade ground, S/Sgt. Edward Gulsvick, the platoon sergeant for Company E’s 60-millimeter mortar platoon, was hit and severely wounded by Japanese ﬁre. Upon landing, he saw that several Japanese were attempting to “spear the jumpers on their bayonets as they landed.” Although already wounded and in an exposed position, Gulsvich opened up with his Thompson submachine gun and killed fourteen Japanese soldiers singlehandedly. Ignoring his severe wounds, Gulsvick attempted to drag a fellow paratrooper to safety but was hit and killed by simultaneous bursts from Japanese machine guns near Batteries Wheeler and Cheney. For his unselﬁsh act of heroism, Gulsvick received a posthumous Distinguished Service Cross.10 Another paratrooper from Company E who came down in the vicinity of the parade ground was PFC Fitzhugh R. Millican. “After I landed I saw a trooper hit a cement wall about four feet tall and ten feet wide. I thought the crash killed him,” Millican remembered. “When I got to him and cut him loose, I saw it was Sgt. [Norman F.] Petzelt, who’d led the second stick out. He came to, jumped up and ran across the parade ground under sniper ﬁre to the assembly area.”11 Halfway back along the column of planes ﬂying over the parade ground, Captain Gibson of Battery B was planning to wait until his plane was over a small building on the south side of the drop zone before he let his men go. “As we approached the go-point,” he said, “I could see the bulk of the parachutes were south of the DZ and, as we passed over the shack, I counted about ﬁve seconds before I yelled ‘Go’ and released the [paracrate] bundles. As we circled, I could see that the stick was dropping in the DZ. . . . We dropped about eight men on each pass.”12 The men from Company F jumped out over the golf course and caught as much enemy ﬁre as the men jumping onto the parade ground. The ﬁrst man from Company F to drop onto Corregidor was 1st Lt. William T. Bailey, the company commander, from Plane No. 22. Although the company commanders had been told to stay in their planes and jumpmaster each stick (the 2nd Battalion’s executive ofﬁcers were already on the ground and could take temporary control), Bailey felt it was his duty to be on the ground with his men.13

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Right behind Bailey, in Plane No. 23, was jumpmaster Lieutenant Calhoun and Tech Sergeant Todd. According to Calhoun, “I waited six seconds after we passed the ‘go’ point, delayed about two more seconds, shoved out the ﬁrst bundle, delayed another second, slapped Todd on the thigh and yelled ‘Go!’ The stick hit perfectly. We were ﬂying into a twenty-ﬁve-mile-anhour wind which really blew the chutes back along our line of ﬂight.”14 Less than ﬁve minutes after hitting the ground, twenty-year-old Pvt. Lloyd G. McCarter caught sight of a Japanese machine-gun nest that was spraying his comrades in Company F as they touched down on the parade ground. Disregarding his own safety, he raced across “30 yards of open ground under intense enemy ﬁre,” ﬁring his Thompson submachine gun and tossing hand grenades toward the nest. When only a few yards away, a well-thrown grenade landed in the midst of the Japanese position and silenced the gun permanently.15 It took about ﬁfteen minutes for the planes to complete the full circle and come in for another pass. Although the second stick of jumpers managed to get out of Plane No. 22 successfully, the C-47 took an antiaircraft shell through the left engine shortly thereafter and had to pull out of line. The last stick of jumpers was unable to join their comrades on Topside.16 In the next plane back, Lieutenant Calhoun was still acting as jumpmaster. “Our plane circled and in about fifteen minutes came in on the next run,” the lieutenant recorded. “This time I shoved the second bundle out and jumped S/Sgt Chris Johnson and his stick. I jumped them a second early, but they all made it okay. Johnson went over the edge [of the cliff] not far and got back okay.”17 By the time Calhoun’s Plane No. 23 made its third and ﬁnal pass, he was ready to go. “I was tired of passing over this island and getting shot at. . . . I jumped trying to turn left and must have gone out head ﬁrst, because I saw silk ﬂashing my feet, but the chute opened without delay. I looked down and WOW! Passing by me rapidly were bomb craters, tree snags, and boulders.” He had jumped out over the golf course—and into the strong wind. “I went down into a large crater, slammed into its rocky side with my right side, splintering the stock of my M1 riﬂe. It knocked the breath out of me and I thought broke some ribs. I did not breath easy for days.”18 Around 1:20 P.M., while some of the 2nd Battalion’s paratroopers were still landing, there was a steady increase in sniper and heavy machine-gun ﬁre from the east. West of the golf course, Captain Hill and the ﬁfty men from Company F still trapped inside one of the One-Mile Barracks buildings ﬁnally managed to contact their executive ofﬁcer, Lieutenant Abbott, and call in an artillery strike on the enemy gun emplacements that had them pinned down since landing.19

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By 1:30, about an hour after the 2nd Battalion began its drop, everybody was on the ground. Although numerous medical bundles had been lost or remained unclaimed, the battalion and regimental aid stations had been set up and the uninjured doctors were doing all that they could for the injured and wounded. At 2:00, Colonel Erickson directed naval gunfire against some pesky Japanese pillboxes that were holding up the outward advance of his 3rd Battalion.20 By 3:00 P.M., the Americans were in ﬁrm possession of the high ground of Topside. Both the 2nd Battalion and the regimental combat team headquarters had their command centers set up in the barracks buildings just north of the parade ground, while the 3rd Battalion’s headquarters was established in a lighthouse just north of the golf course. The 2nd Battalion had relieved 3rd of the job of holding the drop zones and had created a perimeter with Company E to the north and northeast, including the hospital and more barracks buildings. Company D held a position along the east and southeast ﬂank while Company F established a line to the west. The 1st Platoon of Company I, although part of the 3rd Battalion, was kept in place on the southwest side of the perimeter, facing the dangerous Battery Wheeler and a steep ravine, where twenty-four Japanese soldiers had already been killed.21 Once relieved, the 3rd Battalion had headed northeast on Topside, hoping to grab positions to aid the infantrymen of the 3rd Battalion, 34th Infantry Regiment, 24th Infantry Division, and make contact with the men on Malinta Hill. Company G traveled the farthest east and held a spot overlooking San Jose and the landing beaches; it controlled the route leading down to Bottomside. Company H went northeast and established a perimeter behind an antiaircraft emplacement known as Battery Chicago, which they had captured from behind. The last two platoons of Company I held the high ground overlooking Ramsey Ravine, just southwest of San Jose.22 At 3:10 P.M., as if to punctuate the fact that the 503rd PRCT was there to stay, T/5 Frank Guy Arrigo and PFC Clyde I. Bates, both of regimental headquarters and HQ Company, shinnied up the tall ﬂagpole at the parade ground and, under sniper ﬁre, raised the American ﬂag over The Rock for the ﬁrst time in almost three years. The singular sight of that ﬂag—like the ﬂag raising to be done on Iwo Jima months later—helped boost the morale of everyone who saw it.23 Near nightfall, Companies G, H, and I were pulled back from their outside positions and into a tighter perimeter. Although sporadic ﬁre continued throughout the night, most of the ﬁghting for February 16 was over. When stock was taken, a regimental staff ofﬁcer recorded the following in the 503rd’s journal: “Casualties pretty heavy, but exact status not known. Barracks being used for a hospital, but few medical supplies available. Only 1 medical bundle has been located. Conditions extremely poor for maintaining

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records: attention to casualties ﬁrst. Tight perimeter being formed; we control the high ground.”24 The second jump onto Topside had been less destructive than that of the ﬁrst group of paratroopers, mainly because the pilots and jumpmasters had learned from the mistakes of the ﬁrst drop. According to a report ﬁled on March 7, 1945, the total jump injuries sustained by the second drop were 41. Combined with the 161 injuries reported on the ﬁrst drop and another 7 listed as “later reported,” the total for both jumps was 209 men. In a report ﬁled on May 16, 1945, with the adjutant general in Washington by Capt. James A. Callender, an assistant adjutant general, it was stated that the 503rd PRCT suffered a total of 222 jump injuries. Since 2,050 men jumped on Corregidor on February 16, jump casualties amounted to a loss of 10.8 percent, much less than the 20 to 50 percent that had been feared.25 In addition to the 222 jump casualties, the 503rd PRCT also had 50 men wounded in their parachutes while descending or shot on the ground while still in their chutes. However, the entire regimental combat team suffered only 21 deaths. Three men had parachute malfunctions, with one man landing in the bottom of the empty Topside swimming pool. Another two were killed when they slammed into concrete buildings as they landed. Fifteen were killed by Japanese ﬁre after becoming entangled in their chutes. The cause of death for the last man is not mentioned. In all, by the end of February 16, the 503rd PRCT had been deprived of the services of 293 men from all branches, a total loss of 14.2 percent.26 Right at 8:30 A.M. on February 17, the forty-four C-47 transport planes carrying Maj. Robert H. Woods’s 1st Battalion from the Mindoro airstrips passed over Corregidor. Lieutenant Calhoun was already on Topside and wrote, “Expecting to welcome the arrival of the 1st Battalion, many of the 2d and 3d Battalion men on the ground were surprised when the only parachutes to fall from the aircraft were those of the equipment bundles. Word had not ﬁltered down to all ranks that it had been decided that Topside was sufﬁciently secure that there was no need to suffer unnecessary jump casualties on the dangerous and undersized landing zones.”27 In other words, few people on Corregidor knew that the jump had been cancelled. During the night, after studying the available information and still working under the assumption that Corregidor was inhabited by no more than 900 Japanese soldiers, Colonel Jones had made the decision to bring the 1st Battalion in by landing craft. All he needed from the air was more supplies and ammunition, especially water. However, since the men had gotten up early, dressed in their parachutes, and were already in the planes when Woods got the news of the change in plans, he and Colonel Lackey, who commanded the transports, decided to carry everybody over the island while the supply and ammunition bundles were dropped out.28

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While the planes were passing over the island and the air crews were shoving out the bundles, the Japanese opened up with a heavy barrage of antiaircraft ﬁre. Lieutenant Calhoun concluded that “it is just as well [that the third jump was not made], for whilst Topside may have been considered by Rock Force HQ to be secure, the ravines surrounding it were most deﬁnitely not. . . . Sixteen of the aircraft received fresh holes from hits. Several men, principally airmen, were wounded by this ground ﬁre.”29 Flown to San Marcelino airﬁeld above the Bataan Peninsula, the 1st Battalion was eventually placed aboard LCMs and brought to Corregidor’s Black Beach at 4:35 P.M. Jones personally went down to the beachhead to talk with Woods and advise him on what was expected. On the way back to Topside, he had a difﬁcult time getting back to his command post thanks to “Terriﬁc enemy ﬁre. HMG ﬁre pinning and killing.”30 By the night of February 17, Colonel Jones and the others were probably suspecting that there were many more than 900 Japanese soldiers on The Rock. According to historian Robert Ross Smith, “Once Rock Force was ashore, operations on Corregidor evolved into a large scale mop-up.” Working together with the Air Force and the Navy, Rock Force developed a pattern to eliminate the Japanese. In an after-action report, Colonel Jones noted, “During the period from 16 February to 23 February our systematic destruction of the enemy fell into a familiar and an extremely effective pattern; direct ﬁre of artillery used as assault weapons on enemy emplacements, naval and/or air bombardment followed by immediate ground attack. The entire western end of the Island was divided into three Bn sectors of responsibility. In proportion, enemy casualties far exceeded ours.”31 Beginning on the afternoon of February 17 and continuing every day thereafter as needed, twelve C-47s made twice-daily resupply drops on Corregidor from just 100 feet above the ground. Within days, the combat engineers had a small, crude runway cut into the top of Topside, thereby allowing L-5 Piper Cubs to land and begin the evacuation of severely wounded paratroopers.32 A Japanese counterattack during the predawn hours of February 19 turned into a suicide charge that cost them more than 400 men. Instrumental in throwing back this suicide attack was Private McCarter, who had singlehandedly attacked a Japanese machine-gun position ﬁve minutes after landing on The Rock. On the afternoon of February 18, McCarter had killed six Japanese snipers who had been ﬁring at his Company F. In order to ﬁgure out where the deadly ﬁre from each of the snipers was originating, McCarter stood up to draw their ﬁre and then calmly shot down each man. During the nighttime hours of February 18–19, his daring and nerve paid off.

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Beginning on the evening of February 18, McCarter spotted Japanese troops trying to outﬂank Company F’s perimeter and voluntarily moved into an exposed position so that he could better see the enemy and pick them off with his Thompson submachine gun. Throughout the night, the Japanese continued to attack his position but McCarter never wavered, shooting dead each man that came close to his spot. By 2:00 A.M. on the nineteenth, all of the other paratroopers close to McCarter had been wounded, but the plucky private carried on. “[S]houting encouragement to his comrades and deﬁance at the enemy, he continued to bear the brunt of the attack, fearlessly exposing himself to locate enemy soldiers and then pouring heavy ﬁre on them.” When McCarter ran out of ammunition, he crawled back to the perimeter, loaded himself up, and went out again. When his Thompson submachine gun grew so hot that it would no longer ﬁre, he discarded the useless weapon and grabbed a BAR from the hands of a dead paratrooper. When the BAR also overheated from overuse, he threw it aside and snatched up an M1 riﬂe from another dead airman. At 6:00 A.M., when the Japanese staged their banzai charge, the pile of dead Japanese bodies was so high in front of McCarter’s forward position that he had to stand up to see the enemy and get off clean shots. While standing erect behind this mountain of dead Japanese, McCarter was shot squarely in the chest, which ﬁnally knocked him to the ground but did not put him out of action. When a medic crawled forward to pull McCarter to safety, the young private refused, insisting that he had to stay put to warn his companions of the approaching enemy. After a few minutes, however, he collapsed from loss of blood, and the medic pulled him inside Company F’s perimeter. Although seriously wounded, Pvt. Lloyd G. McCarter did not die. By himself, McCarter had killed more than thirty Japanese soldiers and had helped his company in killing dozens more. Eventually taken off Corregidor and brought to Letterman Army Hospital, he was still recovering from his chest wound several months later when he received a letter from President Harry S Truman. McCarter was being asked to come to the White House, where the president would personally present him with the Medal of Honor. It was the only Medal of Honor given to any American ﬁghting man on Corregidor.33 Within the next few days after the banzai charge, the Japanese committed destructive suicide by blowing up underground ammunition and fuel dumps, usually after being cornered by American troops, who were also injured by the explosions. On the night of February 21–22, the Japanese exploded the vast amount of ammunition and explosives stored inside Malinta Tunnel. By 6:00 P.M. on February 23, Colonel Jones was able to declare that Topside was secure. Rock Force then concentrated against Malinta Hill and the long tail of Corregidor.34

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On February 24, the 1st and 3rd Battalions of the 503rd PRCT began attacking eastward along the tail of Corregidor while the 2nd Battalion stayed atop Topside and the 3rd Battalion of the 34th Infantry Regiment dug out the last Japanese defenders on Malinta Hill. Although the paratroopers faced a few banzai charges, they kept advancing, and by February 26, they were near Monkey Point, only 2,000 yards from the very tip of Corregidor’s pointed tail. Shortly after 11:00 A.M. on the twenty-sixth, the Japanese exploded an underground arsenal near Monkey Point in what Robert Ross Smith called a “suicidal tour de force,” which caused 196 American casualties, including 52 dead. Debris hit a destroyer 2,000 yards offshore and a man standing on Topside, almost one mile away. Many of the men killed and injured in the explosion were paratroopers belonging to the 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR.35 By 4:00 P.M. on February 26, the paratroopers of the 503rd PRCT reached the far eastern tip of Corregidor. Except for a little mopping up, the battle for Corregidor was over. On March 2, General MacArthur returned to The Rock and replaced the battle-torn flag of the 503rd with a brand-new American flag. During the flag-raising ceremony, Colonel Jones stepped forward, saluted MacArthur, and announced, “Sir, I present to you Fortress Corregidor.”36 The 503rd PRCT had 17 ofﬁcers and 148 enlisted men killed on Corregidor. They also had 17 ofﬁcers and 267 enlisted men wounded, 64 sick paratroopers evacuated, and 331 troopers listed as injured—a total of 844 casualties. Out of a total force of 2,962 paratroopers, engineers, artillerists, and all other personnel, the 503rd PRCT suffered casualties of 28.5 percent. The reinforced 3rd Battalion of the 34th Infantry Regiment, 24th Infantry Division, had 264 casualties out of 1,598 men. Overall, Rock Force suffered 1,105 casualties out of 4,560 men, a loss of 24.3 percent. The Japanese, who fought to the bitter end, had almost 100 percent casualties. Only 20 Japanese soldiers were taken prisoner. Among the men killed were 200 soldiers who tried to swim away to the Bataan Peninsula but were intercepted by the surrounding Navy ships.37 When summing up the combat parachute jump of the 503rd PRCT, the adjutant for the regimental headquarters and HQ Company said, “I believe it was the worst jump ﬁeld ever used for an airborne operation.”38 In 1942, it had taken the Japanese ﬁve months to conquer the 1,300 American defenders on Corregidor. In 1945, it had taken Rock Force just ﬁfteen days against 6,000 defenders to take it back. The 503rd PRCT had pulled off the unthinkable. Not to be outdone, the 11th Airborne Division was about to undertake an unbelievable combat parachute jump of its own.

CHAPTER 24

Los Baños

O

n February 4, the 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment’s forward movement was stopped by the Japanese at the Paranaque River Bridge, three miles south of Manila. The defenders were well dug in on the north side of the river along a defensive perimeter called the Genko Line, which consisted of a series of strong concrete pillbox fortiﬁcations stretching from Manila Bay east to Laguna de Bay, a large inland lake southeast of Manila. The entire line stretched back toward Manila to a depth of almost 6,000 yards and was defended by the 3rd Naval Battalion and a company of the 1st Naval Battalion of the Southern Force, Manila Defense Force. On the morning of February 5, the different elements of the 11th Airborne Division began cracking the line.1 Over the next few days, the 511th PIR and the 188th GIR, reinforced with the 1st Battalion from the 187th GIR, fought their way across the Parañaque River and then northward toward Manila, while the other two battalions of the 187th GIR protected the vital supply line that ran sixty-ﬁve miles south to the Nasugbu beachhead. As the paratroopers pushed straight ahead, aiming for the Manila Polo Club, about two and a half miles north along the shore of Manila Bay, the glidermen aimed to the northeast, toward Nichols Airﬁeld, only one mile away. By the night of February 10, the 511th PIR had pushed ahead one mile and had also come around to help secure the western end of Nichols Field with the 188th GIR.2 On the afternoon of the tenth, the 11th Airborne Division was passed from Eighth Army control back to Sixth Army control. Before any of MacArthur’s attacks on Manila had begun, General Headquarters, Southwest Paciﬁc Area, had established an objective line separating the two armies. As early as February 6, the 11th had crossed that line and had been operating deep within the Sixth Army’s territory. In a move that would provide the 11th with ﬁrepower from the Sixth Army’s artillery pieces north and east of Manila, it was deemed prudent to shift the entire airborne division to the Sixth Army even though a large portion of its men were still strung out all the way to Nasugbu.3 The next day, the 511th PIR reached Libertad Avenue, just one mile short of the city limits, and made contact with the forward element of the 1st Cavalry Division, which was coming in from the northeast. The encirclement of Manila was complete. At the same time, the rest of the 187th GIR was

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brought forward for a full-scale assault against Nichols Field, scheduled for February 12. On the night of the eleventh, while Colonel Haugen and his staff were studying their maps, a Japanese antiaircraft shell, ﬁred on a ﬂat trajectory, crashed into the room where they were standing. Everyone within the room was dazed, but Haugen was mortally wounded in the chest. Evacuated immediately, he died before reaching a permanent hospital.4 With Colonel Lahti now in charge of the 511th PIR, some of the paratroopers attacked eastward toward the northern half of Nichols Field, while another segment headed northeast toward Fort McKinley, an old fortress two and a half miles northeast of the airﬁeld. All day long, the 187th and 188th GIRs fought tooth and nail for possession of the airﬁeld, aided in their battle by U.S. Marine Corps ﬁghter planes ﬂying air strikes from the Lingayen Gulf airﬁelds. By the time the sun went down, the glidermen and paratroopers had the entire airﬁeld in their possession. Mopping up continued the next day.5 With the capture of Nichols Field, General Swing’s 11th Airborne Division continued northeast toward Fort McKinley and a Japanese strongpoint at Mabato Point, a high spot of ground about 2,000 yards south of the fort. Throughout the next several days, the 11th and the 1st Cavalry Division, along with a task force that included parts of the 187th GIR, surrounded the two strongpoints and eventually overran them. On February 13, PFC Manuel Perez Jr. (Company A, 511th PIR) staged a one-man assault on a pillbox that was holding up the advance of his company. By the time he was through, he had single-handedly killed eighteen enemy soldiers and won himself the Medal of Honor, the second one for the division. By February 23, both Fort McKinley and Maboto Point were ﬁrmly in Americans hands.6 The 1st Battalion of the 511th PIR under Major Burgess had been missing during these ﬁnal attacks against the Japanese 3rd Naval Battalion. On February 18, as Burgess and his men were pushing forward against Fort McKinley, Colonel Lahti had ordered Burgess to pull his men out of line, turn his battalion over to his executive ofﬁcer, and report personally to General Swing. Finding the general in his command post in a mansion along Manila Bay, Burgess was informed that his battalion had been selected for a special mission—the rescue of more than 2,000 civilian prisoners at Los Baños Internment Camp.7 The civilian internment camp near the village of Los Baños, on the southern shore of Laguna de Bay, had been established by the Japanese in December 1942 at the Agricultural College of the University of the Philippines, located about two and a half miles southeast of the town. Held within the large, fenced-in compound were 2,147 internees of various nationalities, including 1,575 Americans. The thirty large buildings and several small buildings within the compound included an inﬁrmary, kitchen, Protestant church, and Catholic church. Guard shacks were spaced all around the compound,

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and a guard barracks and commandant headquarters building were located inside the tall, barbed-wire fence.8 The housing facilities for the internees included preexisting university buildings and two dormitories, as well as several poorly constructed barracks buildings thrown up by the Japanese in 1944. These newly built shelters had sawali walls (split bamboo woven into mats) and nipa-thatched roofs (nipa is a leaf similar to a coconut frond). Each new barracks building was about 40 feet wide by 150 feet long and could hold between 75 and 100 prisoners.9 In January 1945, when the Americans invaded Luzon, one of MacArthur’s priorities was to rescue the men, women, and children being held at four prison camps around the island. The ﬁrst one, the prison camp near Cabanatuan, was liberated on January 28 in a daring behind-the-lines raid by the 6th Ranger Battalion; some 500 prisoners of war were rescued. The next involved the 44th Tank Battalion and its rescue of almost 4,000 civilian internees from Santo Tomas University on February 3. The next day, the 8th Cavalry Regiment of the 1st Cavalry Division freed approximately 500 civilian internees and 800 American and Allied prisoners of war from Bilibad Prison in Manila. The only internment camp still in existence in the middle of February was the one near Los Baños.10 Back on January 21, when General Eichelberger visited the 11th Airborne at Bito Beach on Leyte, he told General Swing to get to Manila before the Sixth Army—which they had failed to do—and rescue the prisoners at Los Baños. Since that date, Swing and his division had been too busy doing the ﬁrst to worry about the second, but now that Manila was surrounded, they could begin to concentrate on making the move toward Los Baños. On February 3, shortly after the 11th had landed on Luzon, Eichelberger had contacted Swing regarding Los Baños. Although the division was already driving toward Manila, trying unsuccessfully to beat the Sixth Army, Eichelberger wanted Swing to send a “ﬂying column” toward Los Baños to rescue the internees. According to the ofﬁcial headquarters narrative on the operation, “The Commanding General [Swing] pointed out that, at the time, his troops were heavily engaged with the enemy in South Manila and that, of the 8000 troops of the division, no ﬂying column of sufﬁcient strength could be made immediately available, Los Baños being 50 miles from the place where the troops were engaged, with ﬁve bridges blown between the division and the objective.” Instead, Swing recommended that the mission be suspended until he could “disengage a force of the necessary size from contact with the Japs.” Eichelberger approved the recommendation.11 On February 5, General Swing assembled his staff and told his intelligence ofﬁcer, Lt. Col. Henry Muller, and his planning ofﬁcer, Colonel Quandt, to learn all that they could about the internment camp, the lay of the land, and the Japanese garrison. He intended to use both an airborne

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and amphibious attack and needed his people to ﬁnd a correct drop zone and landing beach. He intended to have the paratroopers “destroy the Japanese garrison” while the amphibious force would be “equipped with vehicles for transporting the internees to safety.” Swing also felt that a diversionary attack was crucial to draw the Japanese troops in the area away from the camp, and he believed that it was essential that they set up a camp “well within friendly territory for the housing, hospitalization, and medication of the rescued internees.” Following those guidelines, Muller and Quandt went to work.12 Using everything at their disposal, including aerial photographs, interviews with previous escapees and guerrilla forces, maps, and even Lieutenant Skau and his 511th PIR Reconnaissance Platoon, the two ofﬁcers soon had most of the material that Swing needed. Muller and Quandt formulated a plan of attack to swoop in quickly and quietly forty miles behind Japanese lines, defeat the enemy garrison, rescue the internees, and get them safely back to the American perimeter. On February 12, only a week after getting the assignment, the two men submitted their plans to General Swing.13 It was not going to be easy, but it could be done. The Los Baños Internment Camp was two and a half miles southeast of the village of Los Baños. There was a good beach at Mayondon Point, near the village, and good roads from the point to the prison camp. The San Juan River, a wide river located about ﬁve miles west of Los Baños, would pose a problem for overland movement if all of the bridges were destroyed. Guerrilla forces in the area estimated that the Japanese garrison at the camp had 150 to 250 men but that there were 8,000 to 10,000 more Japanese in the immediate area. Also of great concern was the health of the internees. It was feared that as many as 50 percent of them might be bedridden or unable to walk. Special care had to be taken to ensure rapid movement of the sick and disabled once the camp was overrun.14 According to the plan established by Swing’s staff, especially Colonels Muller and Quandt, the raid would unfold in a four-prong attack. The 511th PIR Recon Platoon, aided by local guerrillas, would move into an area opposite the camp prior to the strike. Then, simultaneous with the parachute drop of a company of troopers and an amphibious landing by a battalion of paratroopers (minus the airdropped company but reinforced with an engineer company and two howitzers), the recon platoon and guerrillas would eliminate the sentries along the wire. While the amphibious force, landing in LVT4 amphibious tractors or amtracs or alligators capable of movement on land and water, rolled up onto the beach from out of Laguna de Bay and continued toward the camp, the company of paratroopers would link up with the recon platoon and guerrillas and wipe out the rest of the garrison. When the amphibious force reached the camp, they would deploy to the south and west to block any reactionary move by the Japanese.

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The fourth force—the main force—would form a ﬂying column composed of an infantry battalion, two battalions of artillery, and a company of tank destroyers. It would move by road around the end of Laguna de Bay up to the gates of the camp. This fourth force would bring enough trucks with it to carry out all of the internees. If something prevented the fourth group from reaching the camp, the internees could be ferried out in the amtracs across Laguna de Bay.15 The units selected to carry out the raid were Major Burgess’s 1st Battalion, 511th PIR; Colonel LaFlamme’s 1st Battalion, 188th GIR; the 675th Glider Field Artillery Battalion; a platoon from C Company, 127th Airborne Engineer Battalion; the 472nd Glider Field Artillery Battalion; two guns from Battery D, 457th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion; the Provisional Division Reconnaissance Platoon under Lieutenant Skau; Company B of the 637th Tank Destroyer Battalion; and the 672nd Amphibious Tractor Battalion. The entire operation was under the command of Lt. Col. Robert H. Soule and designated Los Baños Force. As an 11th Airborne historian commented, “Those troops with the least casualties, and most fresh, were selected for the operation, and resulted in the composite force.” The raid was scheduled for dawn on February 23, a moonless night.16 On February 18, after learning from General Swing what was in store for his battalion, Burgess had asked, “Why us?” He later recalled: “I was shocked to learn that only our battalion of about 412 men and ofﬁcers (a very small battalion even by parachute infantry standards) was expected to make the raid.” The reply he received was that “the 1st Battalion, 511th Parachute Infantry, was numerically the strongest one in the division.” The hard ﬁghting below Manila had left all of the battalions of the 11th well below their allotted number of around 650 men. The 412 men that Burgess had were more than any of the other six battalions had.17 After studying all of the gathered intelligence, Major Burgess pulled the 1st Battalion’s troops out of line on February 21 and took them over to Parañaque. To keep the highly delicate mission a secret, Burgess told only a few key personnel what was going on. As far as his troops knew, they were being rotated out of the front line for a little rest and relaxation.18 Only one company was going to make the parachute drop outside of the internment camp, and both Colonel Lahti, the commander of the 511th PIR, and Burgess chose Company B, commanded by 1st Lt. John M. Ringler. “We were pulled off the front line on 21 February for the Los Baños mission on February 23,” recalled Ringler. “Prior to this operation it was the battalion commander [Burgess] who assigned the day’s operation or mission to his company commanders. For this operation Lt. Col. Edward H. Lahti, the Regimental Commander, arrived at my company CP as we were ﬁghting for Fort McKinley. He stated, ‘You will report to the Division Commanding General

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[Swing] and I will take you there.’ A thousand things can race through your mind as to what I or the company did since our 3 February 511th RCT jump on Tagaytay Ridge that the Div. CG [Commanding General] is directing my presence. At this time I had not heard anything about Los Baños.” At division headquarters, Lahti and Ringler met with Swing and his staff. “It was at this time that [Swing] informed me that B Company would jump on Los Baños to rescue the internees from the Jap prison camp,” Ringler went on. “He commented that we could take heavy losses in troops and internees if we were not successful.” Swing and his staff then told Ringler what roles the other units would assume in this mission. “They also provided a very detailed and complete intelligence summary on the enemy gun positions, diagrams of the camp facilities, and a daily routine of activities of the Jap guards,” Ringler said. “This information, which was very vital, was provided by Peter Miles, an American internee who had escaped from the prison camp a few days earlier.”19 Prentice Melvin “Pete” Miles was an American engineer who had been caught in the Philippines in 1941. He had been imprisoned in Los Baños for the past eighteen months and, as a trained engineer, gave a more accurate description of the layout of the camp than any other escaped internee. He identiﬁed the ten guard posts and the camouﬂaged machine-gun positions that were hard to see in aerial photographs. He pinpointed the ﬁelds of ﬁre for the guards’ weapons, and most importantly, he knew the routine of the guards. According to Miles, the guards participated in calisthenics every morning from 6:45 to 7:15. While they were out in their loin cloths on the calisthenics ﬁeld about ﬁfty yards from the guards’ barracks, their riﬂes were stacked and locked in a connecting room between two barracks buildings in front of the latrines. The best time to hit the camp, then, was at 7:00 A.M. in order to prevent the Japanese guards from getting to their weapons. During the brieﬁng, Lieutenant Ringler was allowed to choose his own drop zone. He selected a grass ﬁeld about 900 yards east of the compound that measured approximately 1,500 feet by 3,200 feet. It was bounded on the north and east by a railroad track, on the west by the high barbed wire fence of the compound, and on the south by high-voltage lines. Ringler felt that as the C47s came in from the north, the pilots could use the railroad tracks on the northern edge of the ﬁeld as the “go” point. “My plan was to drop from a low altitude [400 feet] and as close as possible outside the camp to surprise the Jap garrison and to avoid a concentration of enemy ground ﬁre,” Ringler said.20 When Ringler returned to his battalion and talked with Major Burgess, the commander attached twenty-eight men from HQ Company’s light machine-gun platoon to Company B for added strength and ﬁrepower. “The company only had a strength of 80 plus personnel prior to the reinforcement,” Ringler admitted. In all, there would now be between 125 and 140 men making the parachute combat drop near Los Baños.21

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While the reinforced Company B would make the drop, Companies A and C—along with the battalion headquarters and HQ Company (minus the twenty-eight-man light machine-gun platoon); a platoon from C Company, 127th Airborne Engineer Battalion; and two 75-millimeter pack howitzers from D Battery, 457th Parachute Field Battalion—would arrive via the amtracs. Upon arrival at the beachhead, two platoons from Company A would dismount along with the two ﬁeld pieces and secure the beachhead. The other Company A platoon, all of Company C, and the engineers would continue on to the camp in the amtracs and dismount there. The Company A platoon would help secure the camp and assist with the loading of the internees, while Company C and the engineers threw a roadblock across the road to the south, where trouble was most likely to appear from the Japanese 80th Division. At a given signal, the amtracs and paratroopers would return to the beach, along with the recon platoon and Filipino guerrillas.22 While the airborne and seaborne raids were in progress, the rest of the task force artillery, the tank destroyers, the 1st Battalion of the 188th GIR, and the regimental headquarters and HQ Company of the 188th would advance as far as they could along Highway 1 from the San Juan River. After the 511th PIR and the others were sure that the internees were safely away, the men would move west and link up with Colonel Soule’s ﬂying column. Once together, the whole force would move back to where they began—the north bank of the San Juan River.23 To keep a lid of secrecy on the entire mission, the 1st Battalion’s paratroopers were moved to New Bilibad Prison at Muntinlupa on the western shore of Laguna de Bay. “[S]omething big was brewing for B Company,” remembered Jim Holzem of Company B. “We could feel it in the air. And the rumors! Something big, something important, was coming up. What was it all about? We were loaded onto trucks and driven about twenty miles south of Manila. The trucks drove up to the gates of a large penitentiary called New Bilibad Prison, and we were driven in. Some thanks for all the ﬁghting we had been doing! We were being put in prison. We were assigned cells and that night slept on cots with boards for mattresses.”24 Three Filipinos were accompanying Company B on this jump: Rosendo Castillo, nicknamed “Oscar” by Holzem after his grandfather; Carlos Palvaros, nicknamed “Charlie” by 2nd Platoon commander Lt. Roger Miller; and Bob Fletcher, the son of an American-born father and Filipino mother. Young Oscar, about ﬁfteen years old, had been “assigned” to Holzem after the paratrooper helped the young man’s starving family by giving them food and other items. Although Holzem had protested at ﬁrst, he eventually grew fond of the young man, and everyone informally adopted him into the company. Charlie was a young adult who had reported to Lieutenant Miller when the regiment ﬁrst landed on Luzon and had claimed to have been a corporal

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with the Philippine Scouts on Bataan in 1941–42. Finally, Bob Fletcher had been working with the Filipino guerrillas since the fall of the Philippines in 1942. While Lieutenant Miller received ofﬁcial permission to take Charlie on the mission, he believed the other two made the jump as well.25 During the last few days before the raid, a major change was forced on the planners. Although it was originally designed for the internees to be brought out on trucks that would come in with the ground force advancing from just north of the San Juan River, combat engineers soon reported that the bridges between the river and Los Baños Internment Camp had all been demolished by the Japanese and that the roads might be too bad for the quick movement of the trucks. Although the engineers were conﬁdent that they could rebuild the blown bridges, they admitted that such jobs would take time—too much time. An alternative plan had to be found. With just a few days to go, the plan was changed so that the internees would now be carried out in the amtracs. The amphibious tractors, which could each carry thirty-ﬁve fully loaded infantrymen, would go to the camp, load up the internees, and carry them to safety across Laguna de Bay. With more than 2,000 internees, Swing’s staff knew that it would take two trips to carry everyone to safety. The 511th PIR would have to hold the beachhead until everyone was away. Colonel Soule’s ground force, coming from San Juan, was now relegated to a diversionary, rather than a rescue, role. One last change had the 511th PIR walking out of the Los Baños area on foot. Immediately after the last internee was embarked on the last amtrac, the paratroopers were to begin their trek to the west, hoping for a quick link-up with Soule’s mobile task force.26 On the morning of February 21, Maj. Donald G. Anderson, a squadron commander with the 65th Troop Carrier Squadron, 433rd Troop Carrier Group, flew into the recently captured Nichols Airfield in one of his C-47s. Even as he landed, the airstrip was being repaired by the men of the 11th Airborne’s Company C, 127th Airborne Engineer Battalion. Summoned to 11th’s headquarters, Anderson was briefed on the rescue mission and then proceeded back to his plane to make a high-level flight over the Los Baños camp to see what he and his men would have to do for a perfect parachute drop. Capt. Herbert J. Parker, the copilot on Anderson’s plane, remembered: “Don was quite concerned that, as the 65th approached the drop zone at a low altitude with the paratroopers, we might be ‘sitting ducks’ for an enemy machine gun that might be located on a hill over which we would have to fly. We were subsequently assured that 11th Airborne personnel had recently reconnoitered that particular hill and no enemy forces were present.” Satisfied, Johnson and Parker flew back to Mindoro to get the other eight planes of his squadron. They would all fly in to Nichols the next day.27

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While Anderson was being briefed, Lieutenant Skau of the Recon Platoon arrived back at headquarters. He had been to the Los Baños area with some of the Philippine guerillas to scout the area, check on the setup of the compound, and brief the guerrillas on their part in the plan. Around 3:00 P.M., he returned to his twenty-two-man platoon, briefed them on the mission, showed them the maps that had been updated with the information provided by Pete Miles, and then, shortly after dark, boarded the whole lot into trucks for a quick trip to Wulilyos on the western shore of Laguna de Bay. At 8:00 P.M., Skau and seven other men set out in a small native ﬁshing boat, or banca, handled by a Filipino crew. Fifteen minutes later, another group of six men followed. Then, just as the third and largest group was about to set sail in the largest boat with the reconnaissance platoon’s weapons, ammunition, rations, and extra weapons and ammunition for the guerrillas, the Filipino captain informed the reconnaissance troopers that he had a broken rudder. Two hours later, the third banca ﬁnally pushed into the bay, but by now, the favorable winds had died down. The crew would have to tack back and forth across Laguna de Bay.28 On the morning of February 22, one day before the raid, the 511th PIR was joined at New Bilibad Prison by two crews and their 75-millimeter pack howitzers from Battery D, 457th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion. Showing up later was a platoon of engineers from Company C, 127th Airborne Engineer Battalion, fresh from Nichols Airﬁeld. Missing from the engineer platoon was their leader, Lt. Alan H. Chenevert, and eight other men who had stayed behind to wait for a shipment of C-3 plastic explosives. They hoped to catch up with the others as soon as it arrived.29 While Chenevert and his men were waiting, the nine C-47s of the 65th Troop Carrier Squadron arrived at Nichols. Once on the ground, Major Anderson thoroughly briefed each pilot and crew on the upcoming mission and had the men prepare their planes for the arrival of the paratroopers.30 That afternoon, everything went into motion. Colonel Soule, along with his regimental headquarters group and the 1st Battalion of the 188th GIR, boarded trucks at Parañaque and began heading south along Highway 1. Just outside of the city, the convoy was joined by a smaller convoy hauling the men and guns of the 472nd and 675th Glider Field Artillery Battalions. Together, the whole group continued southward, eventually paralleling the western shore of Laguna de Bay and ﬁnally stopping on the north bank of the San Juan River just before dark.31 A second group that moved out that afternoon included Companies A and C of the 511th PIR; the engineer platoon from Company C, 127th Airborne Engineer (minus Chenevert and his eight men who were still at Nichols Field); and the two guns and crews from Battery D, 457th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion. The group headed south down Highway 1 and even-

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tually turned off at Mamatid, along the western shore of Laguna de Bay about ﬁve miles above the San Juan River. Here, the entire convoy went into bivouac under a canopy of trees, and Major Burgess ﬁnally informed all of the men about the upcoming mission, specifying the role of each company, the engineers, and the two gun crews.32 Another group moving out that afternoon was the convoy of ﬁfty-four amphibious tractors of the 672nd Amphibious Tractor Battalion, commanded by Lt. Col. Joseph W. Gibbs. The amtracs had been sitting at the Manila race track for a couple of weeks and, on February 22, began a trek southward through the streets of Manila. After traveling along Highway 1 to Muntinlupa, the convoy of odd-looking craft turned east and headed for the waters of Laguna de Bay. Rolling off the shore and into the bay, the craft proceeded southward until, just after dusk, they reached Mamatid, where Burgess’s paratroopers, engineers, and artillerymen waited. After Gibbs led his amtracs ashore, the crews and drivers were briefed on the operation, and each member of the waiting attack force was assigned to one of the vehicles.33 Finally, in the late afternoon, the reinforced Company B paratroopers moved out of New Bilibad Prison. Before the men left, however, the plans for the mission were revealed to them at least. Trooper Holzem remembered that “word had come in from Filipino guerrillas that the Japanese were going to execute all the prisoners on the morning of February 23rd, shortly after 7 a.m., right after the guards’ morning calisthenics.” Lieutenant Ringler recalled his men’s reaction: The men of B Company accepted the initial news of the jump in good spirits. I don’t believe that they initially understood the full danger of the mission until after our briefings were completed. At that time they became apprehensive of what could happen; however, with the amount of intelligence that we had we were very confident of success. We realized that we might be dropping into a hornet’s nest, which could result in considerable casualties. Regardless of our feelings, we knew that the mission was ours to accomplish. This was truly an ideal airborne mission, and this is what we were trained for.34 According to Holzem, We in B Company had mixed emotions about the operation. We were very proud that we had been selected for the most exciting part [of the plan]. In all of World War II, I believe, we were the only parachute company to make a rescue jump like this. However, the rumors were rampant. This was to be a “suicide jump!” Or “few of us would return.” So, you can see why we had mixed emotions. But for no

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amount of money could you have bought a seat on that plane from a Company B trooper. We had the feeling that this is why we had been training so hard and long, that this was to be the ultimate battle, the highlight of our combat careers.35 Taken from the prison to Nichols, the troopers, engineers, and artillerymen who were to drop alongside the internment camp were given one last brieﬁng and their own personal map of the compound. Then they drew their parachutes, ammunition, and rations. After assignment to one of the nine C47s, the men curled up under the wings of the planes and tried to get some sleep, perhaps worrying a little bit about Japanese soldiers who might still be near the captured airﬁeld.36 As the men were bedding down, Lieutenant Chenevert and his eight engineers from Company C, 127th Airborne Engineer Battalion, notiﬁed their commanding ofﬁcer that the shipment of C-3 plastic explosives had never arrived. Since it was too late to catch up with the rest of the platoon that was with Soule’s task force, Chenevert requested permission to jump with Company B, since—thanks to the training programs instituted by Swing—all of the men were jump-qualiﬁed. Given approval, Chenevert ﬁnally told his men about the mission, had them draw their parachutes, weapons, demolition charges, and other gear, and told them to bed down under any airplane where they could still ﬁnd room.37 At this late hour, a few more people decided to join the paratroopers. Frank Smith, a newspaperman with the Chicago Times, decided to jump with Lieutenant Ringler’s company. Another correspondent, Francis McCarthy of United Press, would be riding in on the amtracs and had a personal reason to come along: his sister and brother were internees at the camp. Two last-minute additions to the amtracs were Maj. Gen. Courtney Whitney, a staff ofﬁcer with MacArthur who was charged with overseeing the entire guerrilla organization on Luzon, and a mysterious man dressed in civilian clothing. Although Whitney greatly outranked Burgess, he came along solely as an observer.38 Along the southern shore of Laguna de Bay in the vicinity of the small barrio of Nanhaya, Lieutenant Skau and his recon platoon sat and sweated it out for a whole day in the ﬁrst two boats, hindered by a lack of wind on the bay. Nevertheless, both boats had gotten ashore well before daylight on February 22. But the big banca, carrying most of the men and all the extra equipment, was nowhere to be seen. Skau and his men waited throughout the day, meeting with different guerrilla leaders while keeping a weary eye toward the bay. When nightfall came and the boat had still not arrived, Skau made alternate plans for the men at hand. Then, just when it seemed all was lost, the big banca loomed into view. Although the recon men and crew had had a harrowing day ﬁlled with excitement and fear, they had ﬁnally managed to reach shore.39

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Although a little behind schedule now, Skau, his platoon, and about eighty Philippine guerrillas got into the boats and crossed over the bay from Nanhaya to San Antonio, a small shoreline barrio located about one mile east of the village of Los Baños. Leaving a few recon men behind to mark the beach with white-phosphorous grenades, the rest of the band headed inland to surround the Los Baños compound and kill the sentries after the ﬁrst paratrooper jumped.40 One of the men of the recon platoon was Terry Santos, who recalled: Traveling overland through rice paddies, taking circuitous routes in order to skirt by the various enemy listening posts and outposts, it took us 10 hours to arrive at our objective [the internment camp]. Let me state, without equivocation, that, were it not for the Filipino guides, with their intrinsic knowledge of the terrain, the Recon Platoon would have never found our objectives; the drop zone, and the landing beach zone, since we were traveling at night.41 Around midnight, while the recon platoon and the guerrillas were getting into position and most of the other men were asleep, two curious incidents occurred. At the 511th PIR’s perimeter at Mamatid, sentries discovered a Filipino wandering down the road. When stopped and questioned, he asked Major Burgess when they were going to make their raid on the internment camp. Although the man claimed to be a simple ﬁsherman, Burgess could not take the chance that the man might be spying for the Japanese. With only two options available—killing the man or taking him along—Burgess had the man put under heavy guard and assigned him a spot in one of the amtracs.42 The other incident occurred at the 11th Airborne’s headquarters. Around midnight, Colonel Muller brought word to General Swing that they had just received a radio message from an American scout that the Japanese were moving large forces into the Los Baños area and that a P-61 nightfighter pilot had confirmed it, having seen numerous truck headlights on the highways. Had secrecy been breached? Did the Japanese know that the raid was on? It was too late to do anything at this late hour. With the 511th PIR’s recon platoon and the guerrillas already in motion and everyone else in place, Swing decided to continue with the raid but notified the 2nd Battalion of the 511th to be on standby for special movement south. He was hoping that the movement of the Japanese trucks through the Los Baños area was just a coincidence.43 In reality, the movement of the Japanese was in response to the movement of the American amtracs from Manila to Muntinlupa. Lt. Gen.

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Masatoshi Fujishige, the Japanese commander in the area, had been informed of the movement of the amtracs but had been incorrectly told that they were American tanks. Assuming that the Americans were getting ready for a major drive down Highway 1, he shifted his forces accordingly, moving them west, away from the Los Baños prison area.44 Everything was set and in motion. It was too late to turn back now. At 7:00 A.M. on February 23, 1945, one of the most daring raids of World War II would occur. The outcome remained uncertain.

CHAPTER 25

The Raid

T

he ﬁrst group to rise on the morning of February 23 was the amphibious group under Major Burgess. At 4:00 A.M., the men started rolling up their blankets and had a quick bite to eat. An hour later, the ramps to the LVT-4 amtracs were lowered, and the men climbed into their assigned vehicles. Then, at 5:15 A.M., Colonel Gibbs led the group into the waters of Laguna de Bay. With the sun not yet up, the drivers and crew would have to navigate the entire 7.4 miles to the San Antonio beachhead by compass, something that had never been done before. Moving at only ﬁve miles per hour in water and ﬁfteen on land, the trip would take just under one and a half hours if everything worked out.1 At Nichols Airﬁeld, Lieutenant Ringler began waking his Company B paratroopers, the attached machine-gun platoon, and the handful of engineers at 5:30 A.M. “There was no moon,” Ringler wrote. “The sky was clear in the pre-dawn as we put on full combat equipment, then our parachutes, and loaded with our crew, several weapon bundles into the nine C-47’s, under the command of Major Don Anderson, 65th Troop Carrier Squadron.” Captain Parker, Major Anderson’s co-pilot remembered, “[A]t about 6:00 A.M., the paratroopers put on their parachutes and combat equipment and loaded into the C-47s. Lt. Ringler took the customary position of an Airborne Commanding Ofﬁcer of a jump, the ﬁrst position in the lead plane. He stood in the rear of our C-47, with the equipment bundle at his feet.”2 As the paratroopers climbed into their planes, they must have noticed the huge yellow letters painted on the side of one of the planes: RESCUE.3 Perhaps one of the C-47 crews wanted to let the internees know exactly what was happening when the paratroopers hit the silk and the gunﬁre started. There were roughly ﬁfteen men in each plane and perhaps a few more in the planes carrying one or two of the nine engineer stowaways. Around 6:15 A.M., the C-47’s began lifting off. By 6:30, they were all in the air. Parker described what happened: After takeoff, we flew to the vicinity of Los Baños in flights of three planes, each flight consisting of a lead plane and another on either wing. [Major Anderson] gave the signal for assuming of the drop for-

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mation by a rapid lowering and raising of our right wing. Drop formation involved the plane on our right retaining its position; but, for the plane on our left side to cross over and above and behind, then move in tight on number two, who was tight on number one. The following second and third flights each followed this same procedure. We planned to drop the troopers at very low altitude to minimize the time the troopers would be in the air and helpless to enemy small arms fire. As we dropped altitude and lined up with the drop zone, I flipped the cockpit switch to turn on the red light over the open rear door of the plane. At that signal, Lt. Ringler ordered his men to “stand up and hook up.” They formed a row facing the rear of the plane, and each paratrooper checked the static line of the trooper in front of him, making sure that the chute was in order and the static line hook was attached to the metal anchor cable that ran overhead of the cabin.4 Down below, on Laguna de Bay, the ﬁfty-four amphibious tractors from the 672nd Amphibious Tractor Battalion carrying Companies A and C of the 511th PIR, the platoon from Company C of the 127th Airborne Engineer Battalion, and the crews and two 75-millimeter pack howitzers of Battery D, 457th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion were nearing their destination. Guided only by their compasses, the drivers and crews had headed almost due east through the surrounding darkness of the lake for about forty minutes. Then the LVT-4s made a sharp righthand turn to the south. One more slight turn came thirty minutes later as the sun was beginning to rise. They were right on target.5 “We were told paratroopers would jump at dawn,” recalled Art Coleman, a machine gunner on one of the amtracs. “At ﬁrst light we had eyes glued straight up as we neared the lake shore. Suddenly, at treetop height, nine C47s rounded a hill.” Inside one of the planes was S/Sgt. Charles Sass of Company B. He described the scene: “As we approached the drop zone, I could see daylight beautifully from the edge of the big mountain which was just to the east. And it was pitch black below. That’s kind of an odd thing. . . . It’s just at dusk when everything at the bottom is dark and everything above is bright. It took on a certain unreality. I knew one thing: I wasn’t too sure I wanted to go down there. I almost wanted to keep heading into the daylight.”6 On the ground below, the recon platoon, slowed by the late arrival of the large banca, was just approaching the compound. “Just as we crested the bank of Boot Creek [on the south side of the prison pen],” wrote Terry Santos, “enemy ﬁre erupted at 3 minutes before 0700. This alerted the Japanese gunners in the pillboxes.” Charging the position, two of the four recon men in Santos’s squad were wounded, and one of the twelve Philippine guerrillas

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with them was hit. “Nevertheless, we knocked out the pillboxes. Then suddenly a third, unreported machine gun opened ﬁre on us. We spotted this machine gun on a knoll near a large tree overlooking our exposed position. We kept it under ﬁre until ‘B’ Company troopers reinforced us.”7 From the lead plane, Captain Parker saw the drop zone, which Skau’s recon platoon was marking with smoke grenades. Ringler then “kicked out his equipment bundle and jumped. His troopers were right behind him.” According to Ringler, “We jumped and all landed on the DZ without casualties. . . . If there was any ﬁring, it was very light or the enemy was off target.”8 Sergeant Sass was in one of the following C-47s and jumped when everyone else did. He remembered: The drop zone was terribly small, and only one guy got hurt as far as I know. He hit a railroad track and knocked himself out. We were told to be careful of a ring of rifle pits that were dug specifically for antiairborne or anti-something. . . . And there it was, son of a gun, and I’m going to land right in the middle. Nobody was in it, but I remember reaching in my pocket for a grenade to destroy this thing. I remember hitting the ground with my hands in my pockets. That’s unheard of!

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The crews of the amtracs watched in amazement as the paratroopers dropped out of the sky from an altitude of only 400 feet. “We could not believe it, dropping from planes so low,” gunner Coleman said. Meanwhile, according to an 11th Airborne historian, the amtracs were approaching the beach “in column of 3’s. As the column came parallel to the landing beach, 9 boats at a time performed a right ﬂank movement, which permitted the landing to be made in 6 waves of 9 boats each. . . . At 0658, at gray dawn, two columns of white phosphorous smoke ascended on the landing beach [the work of Skau’s reconnaissance platoon members].”9 The Japanese at Mayondon Point, a point of land just west of San Antonio, ﬁred upon the noisy, incoming horde of amtracs but scored no hits. As soon as the ﬁrst wave of LVT-4s hit shore, one of Burgess’s paratrooper platoons scrambled out of the vehicles and set up a defensive perimeter around the beach. At the same time, the two 75-millimeter pack howitzers were offloaded and went into immediate action, ﬁring at a Japanese position on a hill to the west. The empty amtracs and those in the succeeding waves then started down the road to Los Baños, two and a half miles away.10 Lieutenant Miller was still in the air and had been seated next to his Filipino companion, Charlie, during the entire ﬂight. During the plane ride to the drop zone I explained to Charlie what would happen before I left the plane and that when I closed the troopers up to the door that the next time I turned around it would be to say, ‘Let’s go,’ and that I would leave the plane and he was to follow. We placed him directly behind me and in front of [Sgt.] Ed Siemer. He was to see that there was no delay in Charlie’s exit as the drop zone was short. A delay could not happen. When I hit the ground and was getting out of my chute, Charlie was already there shouting with glee and forgetting about everything but the fun he had just had.11 Inside the compound of the Los Baños internment camp, all was suddenly noise and confusion. Robert A. Wheeler, a twelve-year-old internee, remembered: That morning, as I walked out of the barracks with my family to line up for 7:00 A.M. roll call, I looked up into the sky and over a field near our camp saw several C-47 transport planes. Suddenly, the sky filled with the “Angels”; the men of “B” Company of the 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, floating down as if from heaven in their white parachutes. At that same moment, the Recon Platoon . . . hit the guard posts and began the race to the guard room where the offduty guards had their rifles stored. Those guards were outside doing

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their regular 7:00 A.M. morning exercise. . . . We all ran back into the barracks. With bullets flying just over my head through the grass mat walls, I lay on the floor under my bunk, eating my breakfast.12 Twelve prisoners of war—army nurses who had been captured during the fall of the Philippines—were being held at Los Baños along with the civilian internees. Lt. Dorothy Still Danner of the U.S. Navy recalled working through the night taking care of a newborn baby: “It was just about 7 in the morning. I had the baby in my arms when I noticed smoke signals going up. Nobody paid any attention to them. Then, all of a sudden we saw a formation of aircraft coming over. As the paratroopers started jumping out, the guerrillas and soldiers around the guard houses began killing the Japanese there.13 The paratroopers took approximately ﬁfteen minutes to assemble and move the 900 yards to the barrier around the compound. “After a rapid assembly,” Lieutenant Ringler said, “there was only minor enemy resistance, which was eliminated.” Some of the men used a dry riverbed on the edge of the drop zone, which angled toward the camp, to provide cover as they rushed forward. Sergeant Sass recalled, “I landed, and six or eight guys said, ‘Follow me. It was that sort of thing. One platoon had the north end of Los Baños and one went through the middle, and we went, a dozen of us, through a ravine. It seems like it took a while, but I was told it was only a few minutes to hit the south end.”14 As a 60-millimeter mortar team from Company B neared the compound, a recon squad and some guerrillas informed them that there were some Japanese holdouts in a pillbox near the front gate. After the mortar crew lobbed four or ﬁve rounds around the structure, two recon team members rushed forward and tossed grenades into the pillbox, killing any remaining enemy soldiers.15 Lieutenant Chenevert, the engineer, landed safely and took about ten minutes to assemble his men since they had been scattered among several different planes. Fred Brooks, one of the demolition experts, remembered, “Our mission was to booby-trap the main road, 200 yards from the gate leading in and out of the prison.” While the 511th PIR set up a machine-gun emplacement on either side of the road to provide covering ﬁre if needed, the engineers set their charges. “We . . . ran primer cord along the road and up to the 511th machine-gun placements,” Brooks said. “We then connected the charges to our hand detonators. Looking from my position on the right ﬂank, I had an excellent view of the main gate and prison.”16 Within twenty minutes of the ﬁrst shots, the ﬁring seemed to die down. Most of the Japanese guards were either killed or else ﬂed to the south and west, away from the incoming paratroopers. All of the guards doing their morn-

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ing calisthenics were either killed or scared off as the recon men and guerrillas beat them to their cache of stored weapons. Although most of the sentries and pillboxes had been silenced by the recon troops and guerrillas, some had to be eliminated by the Company B paratroopers. For the next few minutes, there was only sporadic shooting as the paratroopers, guerrillas, and recon men completed a building-by-building search, looking for any Japanese holding out.17 While the ﬁghting was going on at Los Baños, the ﬁfty-four amtracs were rushing to the scene over a small dirt road. “We followed the track or trail to the camp,” noted gunner Coleman. “No resistance was encountered.” As the amtracs burst from the jungle to the north of the compound, Major Burgess got his ﬁrst view of the internment camp: There was a high barbed-wire fence enclosing the camp, with a gate ajar about two feet. A stone pillbox at the gate was staring at us with guns in firing slots. . . . As we continued to drive toward the pillbox, two Filipinos . . . told us that the Japs were still alive. They were wrong, for the guards had been grenaded at daylight by two men of the reconnaissance platoon. . . . Our driver simply drove through the gate, knocking it to the ground, and into a large area on the edge of the camp inside the barbed-wire fence.18 Lieutenant Danner, the U.S. Navy nurse, was still helping the mother with the newborn baby. “Then the amtracs came in, crashing through the swalicovered fence near the front gate,” she recalled. As soon as the amtracs were inside the prison compound, the men from Companies A and C dismounted and took up their positions. While C moved south to set up a defensive perimeter against any sudden attacks by the Japanese 80th Division, A, with fewer than ﬁfty men, deployed around the amtracs to help with the internees.19 Young internee Bill Rivers also remembered the arrival of the amtracs. “[A] whole herd of the damnedest vehicles I’d ever seen, roared into the camp,” he remembered. “When I saw the white star with the two bars on each side, I feared that the Russians had somehow rescued us, as I’d never seen that insignia before. But when I heard one soldier profanely order [another soldier nicknamed] ‘Red’ to give him the ﬁeld phone, I believe I heaved a sigh of relief.”20 Lieutenant Ringler was inside the camp, busy with gathering the internees, when the amtracs showed up. “[S]omeone yelled, ‘Enemy tanks.’ We had to react to the alert to defend against possible attack.”21 Sergeant Sass arrived at the compound at almost the same time as the amtracs, which had been mistaken for enemy tanks. He and Ringler called for their bazooka men, who “came running up and said, ‘Those are our people!’ We took off right into the south end of the camp [to search for hidden Japanese soldiers]. Each of us took one of the barracks.”22

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Lieutenant Danner remembered how the Americans began their search for both the enemy and the internees. “I was holding the baby and covering her ears so that the noise wouldn’t affect her,” she wrote. “An amtrac pulled up in front of the hospital and the American troops jumped out. Oh, we never saw anything so handsome in our lives. These fellows were in camouﬂage uniforms wearing a new kind of helmet, not those little tin pan [World War I–style] things we were used to seeing. And they looked so healthy and so lively.”23

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Two of the ﬁrst men to jump out of the amtracs when they reached the compound were General Whitney, the commanding force behind all of Luzon’s guerrillas, and his mysterious civilian companion. As Major Burgess recalled, the two men went into the camp, and after a short time, Whitney came out carrying “several boxes well tied together containing documents which he deemed to be of considerable military signiﬁcance. I didn’t believe it at ﬁrst, but he was really sincere about keeping those boxes together and was with them all of the time.”24 Although the contents of those boxes were never made public, it is believed that the information was used against the Japanese by the War Crimes Commission. Although the reinforced 511th PIR was in control of the camp, there were still a number of Japanese in the area. “[F]or some time after we secured the area,” reported Burgess, “our troops continued to ﬁnd Japs hiding in the area for several hundred yards around the camp, which resulted in isolated sharp clashes and bullets passing over everyone.” Sergeant Sass recalled chasing a Japanese soldier into one of the crowded civilian barracks buildings and seeing some of the internees for the ﬁrst time. “I swear it choked me up. . . . [I]t was frightening to me to have these people almost crawling off their bunks into the corridor. . . . Forgive the term, worms, but that’s what struck me.”25 Although most of the paratroopers were shocked by the emaciated conditions of the internees, the civilians in turn thought that the soldiers looked enormous. Sister Louise Kroeger, a Catholic nun in the camp, recalled her ﬁrst look at the American paratroopers. “We thought each soldier an angel, and a giant one at that. They were massive compared to our malnourished men in camp.”26 After an initial bit of confusion over where to park the amtracs so that there would be enough room to get everybody together and load them up, Burgess hit upon the idea of having the amtracs gather on the old university baseball diamond at the northern corner of the compound outside the barbed-wire fence. Of the ﬁfty-four amtracs that had climbed up onto the beach near San Antonio, a few had broken down during their trek to the prison compound since they were not designed for extended overland travel. While the crews tried to get them repaired, the rest of the amtracs gathered in the open ﬁeld.27 Around 7:45 A.M., Lieutenant Ringler found Burgess and reported that none of his paratroopers had been injured during the jump or in combat, although two may have received slight ankle sprains. Lieutenant Skau reported next, claiming that two of his reconnaissance platoon men had been slightly wounded and two of the Filipino guerrillas had been killed and two wounded.28 It appeared that so far, the raid had been a success, but there was still a long way to go.

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Before the raid could be termed completely successful however, Burgess realized that he had to get the internees and his men back to friendly lines. However, “many of the internees did not want to leave their huts or were returning to retrieve items left behind.” According to nurse Danner, “The internees were not military-minded and they just went in all directions. They didn’t want to leave anything. The ﬁring was mostly over in about 15 minutes but it took awhile to evacuate the internees.”29 While the paratroopers were trying to corral the joyful internees, Lieutenant Colonel Gibbs, in command of the amtracs, began to worry about how much time was being wasted. Perhaps still working under the impression that the internees would be evacuated by trucks brought in by Colonel Soule’s task force, Gibbs approached Burgess, seeking permission to return to Mamitid because of concern about the broken-down amtracs. “It bothered both of us,” Burgess said, “but we ‘unilaterally agreed’ he would stay.”30 Major Burgess was still having a hard time getting the internees to bring only one or two small suitcases of belongings and gather at the baseball diamond until Ringler reported that the guard barracks at the southern end of the compound was on ﬁre and that the people there were moving quickly to keep ahead of the ﬂames. Second Lt. Walter Hettlinger, in charge of the attached light machine-gun platoon, had started the initial ﬁre. He was having trouble getting the internees to move and decided “that we had to burn the internees out of their ‘beloved homes.’”31 Without hesitation, Burgess ordered Ringler to begin setting ﬁre to all of the buildings, starting upwind, on the south side of the camp. “The results were spectacular,” Burgess stated. “Internees poured out and into the loading area. Troops started clearing the barracks in advance of the ﬁre and carried out to the loading area over 130 people who were too weak or too sick to walk.”32 Burgess and Gibbs had their men load as many internees—and their suitcases, bags, and boxes—as they could into the amtracs. All the while, the faint rumble of artillery ﬁre could be heard far off in the distance where Colonel Soule’s task force was trying to break through to the internment camp.33 The men and machines of the task force had been in position along the north bank of the San Juan River long before sunrise on February 23. On schedule, at 7:00 A.M., Soule launched his 1st Battalion of the 188th GIR southeast across the river toward two Japanese-occupied hills known as the Lecherria Hills. At the same time, a large guerrilla force launched an attack against Calamba, a Japanese-held barrio near the western shore of Laguna de Bay just south of the San Juan River.34 By midmorning, the glidermen and their attached artillery had formed a bridgehead across the river and managed to wrestle the hills away from the Japanese with only light casualties. After setting up a blocking force to stop any movement by the Japanese 80th Division up Highway 1 from the south,

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most of the task force began moving toward Los Baños, hoping to link up with the reinforced 511th PIR and escort the paratroopers out of the area.35 About 9:30 A.M., two and a half hours after the raid had begun, Colonel Gibbs and his fully loaded amtracs ﬁnally began the slow crawl back to San Antonio and Laguna de Bay. Those who could not ﬁt in the amtracs began walking the two and a half miles back to the beach. According to nurse Danner, “the troops were able to get about 1,500 people on the amtracs and the rest overland.”36 After making sure that all of the buildings were empty, the reinforced 1st Battalion of the 511th PIR, Lieutenant Chenevert and his men from Company C of the 127th Airborne Engineer Battalion, and Lieutenant Skau and his provisional reconnaissance platoon began heading back to Laguna de Bay, some even acting as escorts for the column of amtracs. Left behind were a few guerrillas to keep an eye on the road to the south, although most of the guerrillas had slipped away from the camp shortly after its fall. By 11:30 A.M., the Los Baños internment camp was in ﬂames and completely deserted of any living beings.37 The 2nd Platoon of Company B, 511th PIR, formed the extreme rear guard of the column while the other paratroopers either walked alongside the shufﬂing internees or marched near the rear of the column, scooping up any straggling internees who fell behind. As the column moved north, hundreds of Filipino villagers came to the trail and cheered them on, waving palm fronds and tossing bananas to the starving internees. Fortunately, all of the LVT-4 amtracs that had broken down along the trail had been repaired and were able to pick up many of the internees.38 The ﬁrst amtrac reached the beach near San Antonio around 10:00 A.M. After all of the amtracs had assembled, Gibbs turned his alligators northward, and they crawled into the water for the one-and-a-half- to two-hour trip back to Mamatid, where a horde of army ambulances and trucks were now waiting to whisk the internees to New Bilibad prison for help and medical aid. According to amtrac gunner Coleman, “The 1st Platoon, wanting more action, went close in with all those people on board and promptly the enemy opened up. They turned away and the bullets struck the tailgates which could withstand the ﬁre better. No one was injured. On reaching the safe shore, the freed people boarded trucks and ambulances. We immediately returned to Los Baños.”39 Although the Japanese at Mayondon Point had ﬁred at the retreating amtracs, their ﬁre had been inaccurate, and the only casualty was one of the LVT-4s. One pontoon on the side of the vehicle was punctured by the enemy gunﬁre and began to ﬁll with water. After a short while, the amtrac settled low in the water. Fearing that the craft might sink, the crew simply radioed for help, and another amtrac came alongside and took off all of the worried

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evacuees. Then another alligator came along and towed the water-logged amtrac all the way back to Mamitid.40 After seeing the ﬁrst group of about 1,500 internees and some of his paratroopers move away in the amtracs, Major Burgess and his remaining 420 paratroopers strengthened the perimeter around the San Antonio beachhead and waited. Off in the distance, far to the west, they could still hear the slight rumble of artillery ﬁre coming from Soule’s task force. As intended, Burgess was still working under the belief that he was suppose to evacuate the remaining 720 internees in the amtracs once they returned and then march his men out on foot. However, having seen how many people the amtracs could carry out, he suddenly decided to have his own troopers ride out with the second wave of internees.41 Although Burgess could not establish radio contact with Soule’s task force, he was able to reach a Piper Cub artillery liaison plane ﬂying overhead. Instead of carrying an artillery observer, however, the plane carried General Swing. Perhaps worried about the success of the raid after receiving the midnight information about Japanese troop movements, Swing had taken to the air to see for himself what was going on at Los Baños. When Burgess ﬁnally got in contact with Swing, he informed the general of the success so far and requested permission to evacuate his reinforced battalion along with the last group of internees by amtrac.42 While Swing passed on his congratulations to Burgess, he did not give him explicit instructions to change the plan and take his men out by water. Neither did he tell Burgess to carry on with the plan and try an overland linkup with Soule’s troops. Instead, Swing asked Burgess if he could hang onto his beachhead deep within enemy territory and wait for Soule’s task force to come to him. At that point, the radio suddenly went “dead.” After weighing all of his options, Burgess decided to not even respond to Swing. “I decided against the ‘suggestion’ and ordered the artillery radio to remain silent. . . . [W]e continued the evacuation of the beach by the amtracs.”43 Gibbs and his noisy herd of amtracs returned to the San Antonio beach around 1:00 P.M. Immediately upon crawling ashore, the back ramps on the alligators were dropped open, and the internees and their belongings were brought inside. The two 75-millimeter pack howitzers of Battery D, 457th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion, which had been ﬁring into the high ground to the west of the beachhead all day, were picked up and placed atop the clutter of suitcases and packages in the center of a couple of amtracs. When all of the remaining civilian passengers were safely on board, Burgess and his paratroopers climbed in. As the LVT-4s returned to the water, they drew ﬁre from Japanese soldiers who were ﬁnally closing in on the American beachhead.44 “As we entered the water,” remembered amtrac gunner Coleman, “mortar and artillery ﬁre descended on us but not a round found its

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target. The commander of the task force, Maj. Henry Burgess, later told me he could hear the Jap ofﬁcers giving commands as we withdrew.”45 By 3:00 P.M., eight hours after the raid had started, the beachhead at San Antonio was completely clear of internees and American soldiers. One of the last men to leave the beach was Burgess.46 The raid had indeed been a complete success. The ﬁrst group of internees, which included all of the sick and most of the women and children, had reached Mamatid about noon. Once there, the civilians were overwhelmed by American soldiers and Filipinos wanting to lend a hand wherever they could. A few hours later, the second group of internees was brought ashore and met the same helpful reception. The last amtrac to land with the second group—carrying Lieutenant Ringler, war correspondent Frank Smith, trooper Holzem, the Filipino Oscar, and a few other paratroopers—started inland from Laguna de Bay along the narrow road that led to the assembly area. On either side of the roadway, eight feet below, were rice paddies. Somehow, after successfully traversing the lake two times, the driver lost control, and the amtrac slid off and fell onto its side. Fortunately, no one was seriously injured.47 To the west of Los Baños, Colonel Soule and his men spotted the ﬁrst group of amtracs heading north toward Mamatid and knew that at least so far, everything was going as planned. A few hours later, they watched as the amtracs returned to Los Baños and, a little after that, saw them heading north again, this time loaded with internees and paratroopers. Soule now realized that the reinforced 511th PIR would not be ﬁghting its way west to meet him, so he gave the order to begin a slow withdrawal back to the San Juan River. Late in the afternoon, the entire task force was back where it had started, with two killed and three wounded. “Not a d— Jap got away,” said Soule.48 The raid on the internment camp understandably netted all sorts of publicity for General Swing and the 11th Airborne Division. Newspaper reporters ﬂocked to Swing’s headquarters for interviews with him and anyone else involved in the raid. At the same time, the news hounds spoke to the grateful internees at New Bilibad prison. Committees of internees wrote letters to General MacArthur, Major Burgess, and others. MacArthur himself sent a letter to the division: “Nothing could be more satisfying to a soldier’s heart than this rescue. I am deeply grateful. God was certainly with us today.”49 Military historians have generally accepted the Los Baños Raid as a roaring success. “Of all of the 11th Airborne Division operations during the Luzon Campaign,” wrote a historian from the division, “the most spectacular was the hit-run raid on the Japanese internment camp at Los Baños.” A 511th PIR historian concluded, “The whirlwind speed and split-second timing of the attack was the main contributing factor in the success of the operation. The support of the 188th Glider Infantry and the 472nd F.A. Battalion, coming

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down from the north kept the Japs occupied in that sector so that the northern ﬂank was secured.”50 In 1979, preeminent airborne historian Maj. Gerard M. Devlin echoed the army historians: “Because of the highly accurate intelligence information, a perfect plan, and a faultless performance by the attacking troops, the Los Baños mission is still considered to be the ﬁnest example of a small-scale operation ever executed by American airborne troops. There is no doubt that it will remain a masterpiece of planning and execution and the blueprint for any future daring prisoner-rescue operation.”51 Although praise came from many quarters, the highest praise that the men could get came from the internees themselves. Even after the war, they continued to be praised. “I wouldn’t be here today, if it wasn’t for him,” said Helen Hendrickson in 2002, ﬁfty-seven years after Harlan P. Jones of the 511th PIR rescued her mother, Helen Merriman, then ﬁfteen years old, from the internment camp.52 Terry Santos, a member of the 11th’s recon platoon, spoke for many of the rescuers when he wrote, “We, the liberators, have in the past, sometimes have been referred to as ‘Heroes.’ I disagree. The true heroes/heroines were the internees and the 12 POWs, the U.S. Navy Nurses. These courageous people did not give up. They survived almost 1,200 days of incarceration, which emphasizes the invincibility of their spirit. Their faith in the United States and its Armed Forces remained unshaken. This, to me, is true heroism.”53 Despite the praise, the raid has been largely obscured by history. According to internee Robert Wheeler, “To this day, ﬁfty-seven years later, this singular event in history, this magniﬁcent military operation, this unmatched rescue of starved civilian prisoners of war from behind enemy lines, has been overshadowed by a ﬂag raising.” On February 23, 1945, the same day as the Los Baños raid, U.S. Marines raised the American ﬂag on Iwo Jima, an event immortalized in a famous photograph by Joe Rosenthal.54 When the Japanese ﬁnally discovered that the Los Baños prisoners had been spirited away from under their very noses, they retaliated against the Filipino residents in the barrio of Los Baños. Shortly after ﬁnding the internment camp empty and destroyed by ﬁre, the Japanese rounded up an estimated 1,400 Filipinos, tied them to the stilts holding up their houses, and set the structures on ﬁre. For these crimes and others committed against the Filipino people and internees at the Los Baños internment camp, Lieutenant General Fujishige and Warrant Ofﬁcer Sadaaki Konishi, a brutally sadistic supply ofﬁcer at the camp, were summarily found guilty by the subsequent War Crimes Commission and executed.55 For the men of the reinforced 1st Battalion of the 511th PIR and Task Force Soule, the war continued.

CHAPTER 26

The Last Jump

O

ne day after the Los Baños Raid, the 11th Airborne Division was back on the job of clearing the Japanese off Luzon. The division was assigned the mission of cleaning out the southern half of the island. To strengthen the division, which was down to about 7,000 effectives, the 158th RCT was added just before the push. On February 25, the 1st Battalion of the 511th PIR moved down to the San Juan River and relieved the 1st Battalion of the 188th GIR at Calamba, on the eastern ﬂank of the division. The 188th GIR then headed almost straight west toward the town of Ternate on the western shore of Luzon, about twenty miles above Nasugbu, to become the western ﬂank of the division. In the middle, the 187th GIR moved to Tagaytay Ridge, prepared to move east around Lake Taal and assist the 511th PIR.1 “In general,” wrote an 11th Airborne Division historian, “the plan was to secure the west coast [of southern Luzon], push south and free the area around Batangas Bay, which would enable ships to enter Batangas Harbor, one of the best deep-water ports in the Philippines, and then drive eastward. . . . Air strikes and artillery barrages were constant against the pockets of Japs which patrols located. The [division’s] advance was steady: Ternate, Batangas, Mt. Macolod, Lipa, and Mt. Malapunyo were all major, bloody battles in this campaign, and all of them represented American victories.”2 On March 19, with the 1st Cavalry Division moving in from the north and the 11th Airborne moving in from the southwest, the Americans began a double envelopment of the Japanese positions on the eastern side of Lake Taal. By the end of the month, the task had been completed, and the vital highway line between Batangas harbor and the village of Santo Tomas, situated between the northeastern corner of Lake Taal and the southwestern corner of Laguna de Bay, was open. Although the 158th RCT was taken away from the 11th to make an amphibious landing on Luzon’s huge Bicol Peninsula, the airborne troops kept advancing, and by the middle of April, they had cut all of the routes leading into the peninsula.3 According to a historian with the 11th Airborne, “Around the middle of April, 1945, combat was limited to occasional skirmishes between patrols, and on May 4, the campaign was declared closed.” The 158th RCT had made an amphibious landing at Legaspi on the eastern coast of the Bicol Peninsula

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and had made a rapid advance northward against very little enemy opposition. When MacArthur invaded Luzon from Lingayen Gulf far to the north, most of the Japanese troops in the Bicol Peninsula had been moved up to help protect the Manila watershed area. By April, there were very few enemy defenders left along the rugged peninsula. On May 2, the 158th RCT linked up with the 1st Cavalry Division at the top of the peninsula, thus ending the campaign to clear southern Luzon of General Yokoyama’s Shimbu Group.4 From February 29 through March 8, the 503rd PRCT on Corregidor continued to patrol The Rock and seal cave entrances. The 1st Battalion’s historian reported: “Very few enemy encountered.” On March 8, the 503rd PRCT was removed from the Sixth Army under General Krueger, “a soldier’s soldier,” and placed under the command of the Eighth Army and General Eichelberger, “not a ﬁrst-rate soldier” according to some of the men in the regiment. On that same date, the 503rd PRCT began boarding LCIs at Corregidor’s southern docks for a short trip to Mindoro.5 After a hard night aboard ship during which the LCIs were tossed every which way by a terrible storm, the men reached San Jose at the southwestern tip of Mindoro around 2:00 P.M. and quickly settled into their old campsite. Like the “Angels” of the 11th Airborne—who were known to appropriate “a few things” on occasion—the 503rd PRCT had also gained the same reputation. As they waded ashore from the LCIs, they were greeted by a huge sign from some of the units that had been left behind: “BEWARE, PANAMA JONES AND HIS 3,000 THIEVES RETURN TODAY!” Lieutenant Calhoun commented: “How thoughtful, truly they had missed us. We almost choked up with emotion. How thoughtful of someone to take the trouble to paint a well-built sign! We were not insulted, far from it. We had worked hard to earn this reputation. ‘They damn well better beware,’ we said under our breaths, ‘because ready or not, here we come!’”6 Although the men set up their tents in the exact same location as before, something was different. “The tents were erected in the exact sites where they had stood before, but it was no longer the same camp,” wrote Calhoun. “It should have been familiar, but it was not. Half of us were gone. Every meal in the mess tent was a reminder. Company formations brought on sadness. Once the formation had covered a large area, half-way down the company street. Now it looked as though four squads had fallen out.”7 The 844 casualties on Corregidor left a big hole in the hearts and ranks of the paratroopers. The ranks could be reﬁlled; the hearts could not. The 503rd PRCT did not have too much time to grieve, however. On March 25, the men were alerted for a jump onto Negros, a large island southwest of Leyte. In late February, American infantry had begun invading the many different islands in the southern Philippines. On February 28, one regiment of soldiers from the 41st Infantry Division invaded Palawan, southwest

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of Mindoro. On March 9, a detachment from the 41st moved directly north and found the small island of Dumaran deserted. The next day, the two other regiments of the 41st invaded the Zamboanga Peninsula on Mindanao. General MacArthur then turned to the central Philippine islands of Panay, Negros, Cebu, and Bohol.8 The ﬁrst island to be assaulted was Panay. On March 18, one regiment from the 40th Infantry Division hit the beach and, to everyone’s surprise, was greeted by 23,000 Philippine guerrillas, drawn up in parade formation. Only one small area still contained Japanese soldiers, and the Americans and Filipinos were soon hard at work eliminating this pocket.9 Small islands to the east of Panay were seized on March 20 and 21, and then General Eichelberger began eyeing Negros, the next island over. It was known from guerrillas that there were 13,500 Japanese on the island, so Eichelberger decided to send in two regiments from the 40th by sea and the 503rd PRCT by air. One regimental combat team would make an amphibious landing on the west-central shore of Negros on March 29, and another would land the next day. The 503rd was to be dropped on Alicante Airﬁeld on the northwest Negros plain.10 Without much brieﬁng, the men of the 503rd PRCT were beginning their preparations for the jump when they were told that they would be jumping out of big boxy twin-engine Curtis C-46 “Commando” carrier planes. Lieutenant Calhoun remembered: “These planes have a door on each side and a capacity of thirty-six loaded paratroopers. Two sticks of eighteen men jump simultaneously, one stick out the right door and another stick out the left door. We are not enthused about the right door. This is backwards to our training.” Unfortunately, the number of airplanes needed to drop the entire regimental combat team never materialized, so the drop was cancelled. Only later did the men of the 503rd learn how lucky they were to miss the jump on Panay. According to Calhoun, “We did not know it, but the Curtis C-46’s had been nick-named ‘ﬂying cofﬁns’ in Europe. They were used there for some parachute drops, and they tended to burst into ﬂames when hit by ack-ack.”11 The two infantry regiments landed on Panay as scheduled, and the Japanese pulled inland, away from the shores and into the rugged interior of the island. The 40th Infantry Division troops drove north and eventually captured the important northern area of Panay before heading inland toward the Japanese. At this point, General Eichelberger decided to bring in the 503rd PRCT, but instead of having the unit drop by parachute, he decided to have it come in by sea. There was no need for a risky parachute drop.12 On April 6, the 3rd Battalion, 503rd PRCT, ﬂew from San Juan on Mindoro to Iloilo on Panay. The following day, the 2nd Battalion moved down to Elmore Airstrip at San Juan and received a shock: instead of ﬂying to Panay, the battalion would make a combat parachute jump onto northern Negros.

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The unit was instructed to land in a small ﬁeld near the town of Fabrica and seize the Fabrica sawmill—the world’s largest—owned by the Insular family of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Without much more of a brieﬁng than that, the men were given their parachutes and combat equipment and loaded into a number of waiting C-46s.13 Pvt. John Reynolds of Company D, who joined the 503rd PRCT on Mindoro, was about to make his ﬁrst combat parachute jump. “I got on the plane with the assistance of two guys standing on each side of the steps,” Reynolds recalled. “I was not a very big person and at the time only weighed 135 pounds, if that much, and I know damn well I had more than that on my back and attached to the other parts of my body. My legs would not permit me to make the ﬁrst step up the ladder, even though I could walk. So, with a bit of help I got up on the ladder and was then able to proceed on into the plane. Those memories stick with you a long time.”14 The planes took off at around 7:50 A.M. and headed southeast toward Negros. In midair, however, Lieutenant Calhoun, again acting as one of the two jumpmasters on his C-46, was called to the cockpit, where the pilot told him, “‘The jump is off! The mill at Fabrica is on ﬁre.’” By 9:00 A.M., the planes were landing at the small airﬁeld at Iloilo.15 One more Paciﬁc combat mission had been scrubbed. On April 7, the 3rd Battalion, 503rd PRCT, landed on the western shore of Negros. The 2nd Battalion followed the next day. Only the 1st Battalion did not go to Negros; instead, it remained on Mindoro, awaiting replacements for the large number of paratroopers lost on February 26 from the “big explosion” on Corregidor. It would be almost four weeks before the 1st Battalion joined its brethren on Negros, arriving on the island on April 24.16 According to historian Robert Ross Smith, the battle on Negros “soon degenerated into mountain warfare of the roughest sort. . . . The [Americans] employed air and artillery support liberally, but in the end, as on Luzon, had to close with each individual Japanese position with ﬂame throwers and the riﬂe carrying infantrymen. As the campaign wore on, weather also became a factor with which the [Americans] had to reckon, for the dense fogs and heavy rains slowed all operations.”17 By the beginning of June, organized Japanese resistance in northern Negros was disintegrating. On June 4, the Japanese leader directed that his men give up the northern mountains and withdraw into the unexplored mountains of central Negros. On June 9, the 503rd PRCT relieved all elements of the 40th Infantry Division on Negros. By then, the Japanese garrison had lost more than 4,000 men in battle and 3,350 to disease and starvation. The 503rd lost 144 men killed and 370 wounded and also had 2 men murdered by Filipinos; another 1,028 men were impaired by illness or heat exhaustion.18

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After the 40th was pulled off Negros, the 503rd PRCT continued to hunt down the Japanese with their Philippine guerrilla counterparts, continuing to ﬁght as foot soldiers. Back on Luzon, however, the 511th PIR had one more combat jump to make. Germany surrendered on May 7, ending the war in Europe. In the Paciﬁc, ﬁghting still raged on the island of Okinawa, on Negros and Mindanao, and in northern Luzon, although southern Luzon had been liberated. After the campaign was declared over, the 11th Airborne settled into a “semi-permanent ﬁeld camp” near Lipa, about six miles east of Lake Taal, the old home airﬁeld of the Japanese Army’s paratroopers. For relaxation, the men went to the small town of Lemery on the west coast of southern Luzon. The men were “battle-weary,” wrote a division historian. “The division had been in continuous combat for 94 days, one of the longest periods of unrelieved action in the Paciﬁc War. The paratroopers needed their rest.”19 Unfortunately, the rest would not last long. In northern Luzon, General Krueger’s Sixth Army had been battling the Shobu Group, the main Japanese force on Luzon, since the invasion began in early January. By mid-June, American soldiers and guerrilla forces had managed to secure the entire western coast of Luzon and were driving northward up the center of the island into the Cagayan Valley between the Sierra Madre Mountains on the east and the Cordillera Central Mountains on the west. The Japanese, halfstarved and ill-equipped, but deadly as ever, were trying to stay one step ahead of their pursuers as they retreated north up the valley ﬂoor.20 While the 37th Infantry Division kept pushing the Japanese northward, Connolly Task Force—made up of a reinforced infantry company from the 32nd Infantry Division, a company of rangers, a battery of 105-millimeter howitzers, engineers, medical personnel, and port detachments, all commanded by Maj. Robert V. Connolly—climbed into trucks and raced around the northwestern edge of Luzon, heading toward the port city of Aparri at the far north end of Cagayan Valley. If Aparri could be captured, the Americans would cut off any slim hope of evacuation that the Japanese might have.21 With reports coming in that the Japanese were ﬂeeing before the advancing 37th Infantry Division “in wild disorder on Highway 5 toward Aparri,” Krueger decided to throw a roadblock in front of them. On June 21, he decided to drop one battalion of the 511th PIR just south of Aparri. The drop would be made on June 23 and was intended to “close the Luzon campaign by closing the last Japanese port, and destroying what Japs remained in the Northern Cagayan Valley.” However, on the same date that Krueger made his decision for the jump, Connolly Task Force rolled into Aparri unopposed. The next day, the task force—reinforced by the 11th Infantry, U.S. Army Forces in the Philippines–Northern Luzon (USAFIP-NL), a guerrilla unit— advanced ten miles south along Route 5, securing the Camalaniugan airstrip

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three miles south of Aparri. The airstrip had been the intended drop zone of the 511th.22 The whole Aparri region was already in American hands before the paratroopers would make their jump. Robert Ross Smith argued that Krueger decided to go through with the combat jump “to clinch the success of the 37th Division’s drive” and “was also motivated by a desire to clean up northern Luzon before the Eighth Army took over control of operations, an event scheduled for 1 July.” On June 21, Colonel Lahti was notiﬁed of the jump and immediately began building a task force around his most experienced troopers—the 1st Battalion of the recently promoted Lt. Col. Henry A. Burgess, now the executive ofﬁcer of the 511th PIR.23 Called Gypsy Task Force, the different components included the entire 1st Battalion, 511th PIR, reinforced with Companies G and I from the 3rd Battalion; Battery C of the 457th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion; detachments of the 511th Airborne Signal Company, 711th Airborne Ordnance Company, and 511th PIR Service Company; the 2nd Platoon of the 221st Medical Company; the 11th Parachute Maintenance Company; the 1st Platoon of Company C, 127th Airborne Engineer Battalion; the demolition platoon of headquarters and HQ Company, 511th PIR; and language and

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chemical detachments from 11th Airborne Division headquarters. The entire force totaled about 1,030 ofﬁcers and men.24 The entire task force would leave from the concrete runway at Lipa Airﬁeld, the same ﬁeld used by the Japanese to stage their combat parachute drop against the Burauen airﬁelds in December 1944. Once again, the paratroopers would be carried by their friends in Colonel Lackey’s 317th Troop Carrier Group. This time, however, they would be jumping from both C-47s (ﬁfty-four) and C-46s (thirteen). Moreover, the task force’s jeeps, radios, and artillery pieces would be carried into combat aboard six CG-4A gliders and one CG-13 glider “for their ﬁrst combat use in the Paciﬁc.”25 At 4:30 A.M. on the morning of June 23, while it was still dark, the different forces began loading into their numbered troop transports or gliders. Generals Krueger and Swing, as well as Colonel Lahti, were on hand for the loading. Krueger took “personal charge of the brieﬁng, and [sent] the men off with good luck wishes.” At 6:00 A.M., the ﬁrst plane, a C-46 piloted by Colonel Lackey, took off from Lipa and began circling above, waiting for the other planes to lift off and assemble on him.26 When all of the aircraft were in the air and the planes had assembled into a formation of V of Vs, with the seven gliders being towed in the rear, Lackey headed the whole group just slightly west of north, aiming for the city of Santa Lucia on the western coast of Luzon, above Lingayen Gulf. Flying along in a B-25 bomber to watch were Krueger, Swing, and Lahti. As ﬁghter planes from the Fifth Air Force circled around and above the transports and gliders, the formation hit their checkpoint city and then made a slight right turn, heading northeast, directly toward the drop zone at Camalaniugan.27 Minutes before the carriers came into view over the tops of the Cordillera Central Mountains, a group of P-51 Mustangs from the Fifth Air Force ﬂew low over the area to the south and east of the landing zone and laid down a smoke screen along the jungle edge.28 At the drop zone site itself were not only the 511th PIR pathﬁnders, who had been ﬂown up to Abulug Airﬁeld near Aparri the night before, but also members of the 11th Infantry USAFIP-NL. In an act of bravado for having already secured the landing zone the day before, the members of the guerrilla unit wanted to erect a ground panel stating, “Welcome to Aparri. The 11th Infantry,” but their commander, Col. Russell W. Volckmann, thought that it was in bad taste and rejected the idea.29 Since capturing the airstrip, Volckmann and his Philippine guerrillas had been working hard to get the landing zone in good shape. They had been ﬁlling in numerous bomb craters that might cause injuries to the landing paratroopers and gliders, and just prior to 9:00 A.M., they had chased a number of wild carabao off the airstrip.30

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At 9:00 A.M., right on schedule, the formation of airplanes nosed into view, and the pathﬁnders popped their green smoke grenades. In the lead plane, Colonel Lackey immediately picked up the green smoke signals and ﬂicked on the green “go” light. At 9:06, the ﬁrst paratrooper stepped out of the lead plane in the ﬁrst of the nine-plane Vs. As the ﬁrst stick went out, the sticks in the other eight planes followed. Then, the following Vs of aiplanes ﬂew over the go point, and the paratroopers blossomed into space.31 The ﬁrst group to jump onto the Camalaniugan airﬁeld contained the paratroopers, engineers, and medical personnel. At 9:10, just a few minutes behind the others, the artillerymen and several specialist teams began their jump. Ten minutes after that, the seven gliders were cut loose from their tow planes and made their landings.32 The paratroopers exited the airplanes into a twenty- to twenty-ﬁve-mileper-hour wind, about ten miles more than was recommended. The winds and the rough drop zone consisting of a “considerable number of small ruts” led to a high percentage of jump casualties. Two men were killed when their parachutes failed to open, and another seventy were injured—a rate of about 7 percent. According to a Sixth Army report, the injuries consisted of “a good many broken or sprained ankles and a few fractured legs.” Although all seven gliders landed safely, two of them collided after landing, resulting in a “minor accident” that damaged the wing tip on one and jostled the troopers in both.33 It took less than an hour to get all of the jeeps and artillery pieces out of the gliders and get all of the men assembled. By 10:00 A.M., Burgess had Gypsy Task Force moving south down Highway 5, hoping to box the retreating Japanese between themselves and the 37th Infantry Division coming up from the south. Over the next three days, the task force ran into very little opposition, and on June 26, it met the lead elements of the 37th Infantry Division near the Paret River, thirty-ﬁve miles south of Camalaniugan Airﬁeld. According to Burgess, the commander of the 37th, Gen. Robert Beightler, told Gen. Ennis Swift, the commander of the infantry corps, that the 37th “‘rescued the 511th.’” “My temper ﬂared at that,” Burgess recalled, telling the generals that he “thought we were rescuing the 37th Division, as we had out-marched them and their armored column. . . . Swift laughed and said, ‘Well, you sound like one of Joe Swing’s boys.’”34 Any retreating Japanese caught between the two moving forces pushing from the north and south had simply ﬂed east or west into the mountains. According to Robert Ross Smith, “The airborne operation had proved both useless and unnecessary.”35 One day after linking up with the 37th Infantry Division, the reinforced 511th PIR was pulled out of line and sent back toward Aparri. In two days, all of the men and equipment were back at Lipa.36 The Cagayan Valley campaign had come to a close. The Americans had won.

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Many of the men felt that they had played an important role in closing out the campaign. The Sixth Army’s planning ofﬁcer wrote: The smoothness and efficiency with which the operation was conducted served to maintain high morale. Another contributing factor was the feeling among the men that they were being employed as parachute troops are supposed to be employed—that is, to be dropped behind the enemy lines in a vertical envelopment, fight until contact is made with the main friendly force, and then be pulled out of the action. Parachute units are not equipped for sustained combat. In spite of the fact that no opposition was encountered, it was evident that this feeling prevailed among the men.37 Back at Lipa during June and July, Swing’s division continued training for “future ﬁghting.” In addition to making parachute jumps every ten days, division personnel worked with the airmen and crews of the 54th Troop Carrier Wing, who “had been used mostly to ﬂy cargo and were in no state of training to drop paratroopers or tow gliders in formation,” according to 11th Airborne veteran Edward Flanagan. Of course, this intense training caused many rumors among the paratroopers and the air teams. “It was said that we were supposed to jump ahead of the forces making the landings on Japan,” wrote Flanagan. “At other times, we were scheduled to land in China; and for awhile, Formosa was the favored DZ.”38 It deﬁnitely looked like something was up when the 11th received a mass of reinforcements in mid-July. The new men came from a new Paciﬁc parachute regiment, the 541st PIR. Organized at Fort Benning, Georgia, on August 12, 1943, under the command of Col. Ducat M. McEntee and assigned to the Airborne Command, a portion of the regiment had taken part in the Knollwood maneuvers that December, ﬁghting against the 11th. Assigned to the XIII Corps in March 1944, most of its personnel had been taken away as replacements for other airborne units just prior to the June 6, 1944, invasion of Normandy. In July 1944, the remainder of the men had been returned to Fort Benning to help conduct the thirteen-week parachute-infantryman program at Benning’s Replacement and School Command. On November 23, 1944, the regiment was shipped back to Camp Mackall, North Carolina, brought up to full strength, and given extensive overseas training.39 By the fall of 1944, the new army table of organization stipulated that all airborne divisions were to have only one glider unit and two parachute regiments. When the 541st PIR moved to North Carolina, word ﬁltered down that it would soon be assigned to the 11th as the replacement for the 188th GIR, thereby becoming the division’s second parachute regiment. In May

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1945, the paratroopers boarded a train at Camp Mackall and arrived at Camp Stoneman, California, on the twenty-third. On June 5, the regiment shipped out of San Francisco for the Philippines.40 The 541st PIR steamed into Manila Bay on July 10 but soon learned that it was not going to be added to the 11th. In fact, the regiment was about to be broken up and added to the airborne division as replacement troops. On July 20, the 188th GIR was redesignated the 188th PIR, so rather than being removed from the 11th, it became the division’s second parachute regiment. Since glider regiments had only two battalions—instead of three like the parachute regiments—the new 188th PIR formed a cadre of a third battalion from the other two battalions and then ﬂeshed out the rest of the unit with the paratroopers from the 541st PIR. At the same time, the other two battalions of the 188th PIR and all three understrength battalions of the 511th PIR also absorbed men from the 541st. On August 10, the 541st PIR, which had been in the Paciﬁc theater for exactly one month, was ofﬁcially deactivated at Lipa on Luzon. Nevertheless, according to historian Gordon Rottman, the 541st’s “contributions to tactical development, replacement traing, and revitalizing the 11th Airborne Division were invaluable to the war effort.”41 On August 6, while the 11th was absorbing the personnel from the 541st PIR and rumors about their next combat parachute drop continued to ﬂy, a Boeing B-29 heavy bomber nicknamed the Enola Gay made history when it dropped a single atomic bomb on the city of Hiroshima. In the blink of an eye, 93,233 people perished and another 37,425 were horribly injured. Three days later, after Japan refused a call to surrender, another B-29, this one nicknamed Bock’s Car, dropped a second atomic bomb on the city of Nagasaki. There, 23,753 people died instantly, and another 43,020 were injured.42 On August 11, before the ofﬁcial surrender of Japan, the 11th Airborne was notiﬁed that it would be moving to the island of Okinawa for eventual movement to occupy Japan. During the many ﬂights to Okinawa, one of the C-46 transports crashed into the side of a cliff near Naha, Okinawa, killing all thirty-one men on board, including Lieutenant Skau, the leader of the provisional reconnaissance platoon.43 During the two weeks that the 11th was on Okinawa, every four-engine C-54 transport that could be found was forwarded to the island. The new planes were the largest transports in the American arsenal and were sure to impress the Japanese. While the planes were coming in, General Swing’s division was conducting all types of training and hearing lectures about the Japanese people, their customs, traditions, and country. The soldiers of the 11th would be the ﬁrst Americans to occupy Japan. They would be representing their country, and General MacArthur and others wanted them well prepared.44

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At 1:00 in the morning of August 30, the ﬁrst C-54—carrying Swing, his staff, and an honor guard—lifted off from Okinawa. So many C-54s had been assembled on the island that the giant transports took off at the rate of ﬁfteen every hour for the next eleven hours. At 6:00 A.M., Swing’s plane touched down at Atsugi Airﬁeld near Yokohama, signifying that the occupation of Japan had begun in force. On September 2, the Japanese signed the ofﬁcial surrender documents on board the U.S. battleship Missouri in Tokyo Bay. World War II had ofﬁcially come to an end.45 At the end of hostilities in the Paciﬁc, the 503rd PRCT was still on Negros in the Philippines. With the end of the war, about 7,500 Japanese soldiers who had been hiding in the jungle interior of the island surrendered to the paratroopers. Men began rotating back to the United States, and others went to Japan for occupation duty. Those few who remained were sent back to the United States by ship, arriving at the Los Angeles docks on December 23, 1945. Two days later, the regiment was deactivated at Camp Anza, California, a perfect Christmas present for the survivors of “The Rock Regiment.”46

EPILOGUE

The Pacific Combat Parachute Drops

F

rom the beginning of the war in the Paciﬁc on December 7, 1941, when the Japanese staged their surprise attack against Pearl Harbor, until September 2, 1945, when the surrender documents were signed in Tokyo Bay, a total of twelve combat parachute drops were made in the Paciﬁc—ﬁve by the Japanese and seven by the Americans. Additionally, there had been a few small parachute drops of individual commanders or soldiers, such as those of Lieutenant Colonel Tipton and Trooper Berg on Leyte. Two of the ﬁve Japanese parachute drops were complete successes—the ﬁrst, at Manado, Celebes, by the Yokosuka 1st Special Naval Landing Force, on January 11, 1942, and the second, at Palembang, Sumatra, on February 14, 1942, by the 2nd Raiding Regiment. Two were disasters—the February 20, 1942, raid on Koepang, Dutch Timor, by the Yokosuka 3rd Special Naval Landing Force, and the December 6, 1944, drop near Burauen, Leyte, by the 2nd Raiding Brigade. The last drop—the reinforcing move by the 4th Raiding Regiment near Valencia, Leyte—did nothing to change the outcome of the battle for Leyte. Out of the seven American combat parachute drops, two were highly successful. These were the drops, a week apart, of the 503rd PRCT onto Topside on Corregidor on February 16, 1945, and of the reinforced Company C of the 511th PIR outside the Los Baños internment camp on February 23. Both drops were well planned, well timed, and well executed. The very ﬁrst American drop, by the 503rd PIR at Nadzab on New Guinea on September 5, 1943, helped seal the back door to the Japanese defense of Lae and can also be labeled a success. The ﬁrst parachute jump by elements of the 11th Airborne Division was also a success. Dropping out of Piper Cub airplanes onto small Manarawat Mesa in December 1944, the paratroopers and artillerymen helped close off sections of Leyte’s western mountains and caused havoc among the Japanese 26th Division. The February 3–4, 1945, combat drop on Tagaytay Ridge, Luzon, by the 511th PIR and 457th Parachute Field Artillery was a bit of a disaster because of a lack of jump discipline, a problem with cleaning up parachutes from the

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drop zone, and difﬁculty identifying the drop zone. The second drop for the 503rd PIR—when two battalions of the regiment dropped on Noemfoor, Dutch East Indies, on July 3, 1944—was a tactical error. The Noemfoor airﬁeld had already been captured by American forces and numerous paratroopers were injured when they landed on parked construction vehicles and destroyed Japanese equipment. The drop was pointless, and the resulting injuries were inexcusable. The seventh and ﬁnal American drop—that of the reinforced 511th PIR onto the Camalaniugan airstrip near Aparri on June 23, 1945—was wholly unnecessary. The airstrip was already under Allied control, and the high rate of casualties was totally preventable. The fact that some of the Japanese and American combat parachute drops ended in disaster or proved unnecessary does not diminish the accomplishment of the individual paratroopers. All of the men who jumped out of the airplanes over the Paciﬁc battleﬁelds, whether Japanese, American, or even Australian, did so with courage and determination. Although a few of the jumps may have failed because of poor planning, poor logistics, or poor leadership, they certainly did not fail because of the actions, or lack thereof, of the paratroopers themselves. Whether Japanese or American, all of the Paciﬁc paratroopers were highly trained individuals with high morale and an exceptional esprit de corps. If there was failure along the way or if the results were less than desired, it was no fault of the individual paratroopers. When ﬁrst envisioned as a new combat weapon, paratroopers were intended to deploy behind enemy lines in small groups to disrupt communications; damage, eliminate, or seize road junctions or bridges; and throw fear into the heart of the enemy. Airborne troops were never supposed to be used in massive numbers. As the war progressed, however, the idea of large parachute drops became a reality, not only a possibility. In Europe, more than 12,000 paratroopers were dropped behind German lines during the D-Day operations. On September 17, 1944, another 14,000 were dropped at different spots in the disastrous Operation Market Garden in Holland. In the Paciﬁc, though, the small parachute drop remained the norm, not the exception, mainly because of the lack of sufﬁcient transport planes to carry such large numbers of men. As ﬁrst envisioned, the Paciﬁc paratroopers did indeed drop behind enemy lines to seize key terrain. The Japanese drop on Manado grabbed Langoan airﬁeld, which was subsequently used by Japanese ﬁghter and bomber planes to take the war deeper into the Dutch East Indies. The Japanese combat drop on Palembang helped seize both P1 airﬁeld and the two oil facilities southeast of town. Both the airﬁeld and the oil were needed for further expansion of the Japanese empire. Although unsuccessful, the Japanese raid on the Burauen airﬁelds was meant to throw fear into the hearts of the Amer-

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icans, and for a few days, it disrupted supply ﬂights to the men in the forward positions in Leyte’s central mountains and tied up several reserve units. For the Americans, the quick seizure of the strategic area of Topside on Corregidor helped eliminate any plunging battery ﬁre from the Japanese against the forthcoming amphibious assault and ensured the tactical advantage of possessing the high ground during the rest of the battle. At Nadzab, the Americans came the closest to carrying out the airborne doctrine of seizing key terrain so that it could be exploited by the more conventional arms. After seizing and securing the Nadzab airﬁeld, MacArthur brought in a brigade of Australian infantrymen to help in the capture of Lae, thus proving the tactical advantage of a quick, unexpected strike behind enemy lines on a key location. The successful seizure of the Nadzab airﬁeld by the 503rd PIR came at a time when the U.S. military was considering the cancellation of the creation of airborne divisions. Instead, it led to the birth of those divisions. For the American paratroopers in the Paciﬁc, the problem was always the lack of air transport. Many more combat drops might have been made if the planes had been available. MacArthur was prepared to drop his paratroopers on New Britain, and the Marine paratroopers were ready to go a couple of times, but the lack of carrier planes forced the cancellation of the drops. Even the drops that were made were sometimes hampered by the lack of transports. The combat jumps on Noemfoor and Corregidor had to be made in stages because there were not enough C-47s to carry everyone at one time. In spite of these handicaps, however, the Pacific paratroopers fought on and proved their worth to the military. From these small beginnings came the powerful airborne units of today. The small combat parachute drops in the Pacific proved that airborne doctrine was feasible and worth continuing, while the large combat drops of Europe proved that an expanded doctrine was also capable of success. Although most airborne assaults today are made by helicopter rather than parachute, the doctrine and tactics developed in World War II are still in effect today. Airborne troops are still used to secure key pieces of terrain, disrupt enemy communications, and frighten the enemy. With a “can do” attitude, both the Japanese and American paratroopers in the Pacific proved that an airborne assault, if properly planned, implemented, led, and supplied, could be a devastating tactic against an unsuspecting enemy.

Notes

INTRODUCTION 1. U.S. Army Infantry School, “The Development of Vertical Attack,” Infantry School Quarterly, 6. 2. Ibid.; Gerard M. Devlin, Paratrooper! (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1979), 2; Carl Smith, U.S. Paratrooper, 1941–45 (Oxford, England: Osprey Publishing, 2000), 32. 3. Globalsecurity.org, “Parachute—History,” [accessed July 8, 2007]. 4. George Weller, The Story of the Paratroops (New York: Random House, 1958), 14. 5. Ibid., 14–15; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 2. 6. Weller, Story of the Paratroops, 15–17; U.S. Army Infantry School, “The Development of Vertical Attack,”, 6–7. 7. Weller, Story of the Paratroops, 20–21; Nick Moehlmann, “John Wise: A Pioneer,” [accessed July 7, 2007]. 8. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 7–10. 9. Ibid., 10–11. 10. U.S. Army Infantry School, “The Development of Vertical Attack,” 10; Weller, Story of the Paratroops, 24–25. 11. Weller, Story of the Paratroops, 25–26; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 11–13; Aerofiles, “U.S. Aviation Firsts,” [accessed July 7, 2007]; U.S. Army Infantry School, “The Development of Vertical Attack,” 10. 12. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 13. 13. Aerofiles, “U.S. Aviation Firsts”; Globalsecurity.org, “Parachute—History.” 14. U.S. Army Infantry School, “The Development of Vertical Attack,” 10; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 15, 20. 15. U.S. Patent and Trademark Office, “Parachute—Patent No. 1,340,423,” [accessed July 9, 2007]. 16. Ibid. 17. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 23–24, 27; U.S. Army Infantry School, “The Development of Vertical Attack,” 11; Wikipedia, “James Floyd Smith,” [accessed July 9, 2007]; Wikipedia, “Leslie Irvin (parachutist),” [accessed July 9, 2007]. 18. U.S. Army Infantry School, “The Development of Vertical Attack,” 11–12. 19. Ibid., 12; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 22–23. 20. U.S. Army Infantry School, “The Development of Vertical Attack,” 12–13; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 23.

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21. Bellum.nu, “Air Mobile Infantry,” [accessed July 9, 2007]; John Weeks, The Airborne Soldier (Dorset, England: Blandford Press, 1982), 18. 22. U.S. Army Infantry School, “The Development of Vertical Attack,” 13. 23. Ibid. 24. Ibid. 25. Weeks, Airborne Soldier, 18; Stephen B. Patrick, “Paratroop: A History of Airborne Operations,” Strategy and Tactics 77 (November/December 1979): 5; Weller, Story of the Paratroops, 46–50; Bellum.nu, “Air Mobile Infantry”; Peter Harclerode, Wings of War: Airborne Warfare, 1918–1945 (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2005), 22. 26. Weeks, The Airborne Soldier, 18; Patrick, “Paratroop: A History of Airborne Operations,” Strategy and Tactics, 5; Flanagan, Airborne, 4. 27. Harclerode, Wings of War, 25–26; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 31. 28. Weeks, Airborne Soldier, 18–20, 27, 29; Patrick, “Paratroop,” 5, 6; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 31. 29. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 40; Patrick, “Paratroop,” 5; Lt. Col. Jon T. Hoffman, “Silk Chutes and Hard Fighting: U.S. Marine Corps Parachute Units in World War II,” [accessed July 9, 2007].

CHAPTER 1: THE YOKOSUKA 1ST SPECIAL NAVAL LANDING FORCE 1. Gordon L. Rottman and Akira Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II (Oxford, England: Osprey Publishing, 2005), 20–21; Harclerode, Wings of War, 579; U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops (Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1945), 29; “The Fall of Menado,” [accessed May 27, 2001]. Today, Celebes Island is known as Sulawesi and the Netherlands East Indies as Indonesia. 2. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 20; “The Fall of Menado.”; Graham Donaldson, “The Japanese Paratroopers in the Dutch East Indies, 1941–1942,” [accessed May 27, 2001]. 3. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 23. 4. Christopher Shores and Brian Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 1 (London: Grub Street Books, 1993), 213; U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 29. 5. “The Fall of Menado.” 6. Ibid. 7. Ibid. 8. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 29. 9. Ibid., 5–6. 10. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 22, 24. 11. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 6. 12. Ibid. I have calculated the drop to take approximately twenty-eight seconds. Each man jumped from approximately 500 feet. The static line did not open the parachute until after a four-second freefall. At a rate of fifteen feet per second,

Notes

13. 14. 15. 16.

17.

18.

19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

25. 26.

27. 28. 29.

30. 31.

323

the paratrooper would cover the remaining 350 feet in a little over twenty-three seconds, making for roughly twenty-eight total seconds in the air. “The Fall of Menado.” Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 60, 61, 62. Ibid., 20, 62; Wikipedia, “Type 38 Rifle,” [accessed June 16, 2007]. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 14; Tadao Nakata and Thomas B. Nelson, Imperial Japanese Army and Navy Uniforms and Equipment (Hong Kong: Colorcraft Ltd., 1997), 313; Wikipedia, “Type 99 Light Machine Gun,” [accessed June 14, 2007]. Nakata and Nelson, Imperial Japanese Army and Navy Uniforms and Equipment, 29–31; Wikipedia, “Type 89 Grenade Discharger,” [accessed June 14, 2007]. “The Fall of Menado”; Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 23; Pete Gade, “Dutch Indies Campaign—Part II: Armored Carjacking,” [accessed June 15, 2007]. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 23; “The Fall of Menado.” “The Fall of Menado.”; Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 23. “The Fall of Menado.” Ibid. “The Fall of Menado”; Rottman, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 23–24. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 22–23, 24; U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 29; LemaireSoft, “Encyclopedia of the Guns of World War II: 37mm Type 94 Gun” [accessed June 14, 2007]. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 24; U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 29. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 24; “The Fall of Menado.” Rottman and Takizawa give the smaller numbers of thirty-two dead and thirty-two wounded. “The Fall of Menado” gives the higher number of thirty-five dead and ninety wounded. Toyoaki Horiuchi, the commander of the 1st SNLF, would later be executed for the atrocities he committed at Menado. Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 1, 213. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 29. Lt. Cmdr. F. C. Van Oosten, “Fall of the Dutch East Indies” in History of the Second World War, pt. 31, 848, 850; Gordon L. Rottman, World War II Pacific Island Guide (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2002), 208. Van Oosten, “Fall of the Dutch East Indies,” 850; Rottman, World War II Pacific Island Guide, 208. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 29; Philip A. Crowl, Campaign in the Marianas (Washington, DC: Center of Military History, U.S. Army, 1993), 55–56; Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 27.

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32. Crowl, Campaign in the Marianas, 98, 454; Mike Yaklitch, et al., “Japanese Special Naval Landing Forces,” [accessed June 23, 2007].

CHAPTER 2: DASH FORWARD 1. 2. 3. 4.

5.

6. 7. 8.

9. 10.

11.

12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 4. Ibid., 6. Ibid., 6, 7. Ibid., 7; Orbat.com, “World War II Armed Forces: Orders of Battle and Organization—Imperial Japanese Navy: Organization Special Naval Landing Force,” [accessed June 23, 2007]; Martin Favorite, “Special Naval Landing Forces in December 1941,” [accessed June 23, 2007]. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 29; Yaklitch, et al., “Japanese Special Naval Landing Forces.” All of the numbers for the Yokosuka SNLFs are estimates at best, as compiled by the U.S. War Department in 1945. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 7. Ibid., 7; Yaklitch, et al., “Japanese Special Naval Landing Forces.” Orbat.com, “World War II Armed Forces: Orders of Battle and Organization— Imperial Japanese Navy: Organization Special Naval Landing Force”; Favorite, “Special Naval Landing Forces in December 1941.” Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 6, 7. Ibid., 4–5. Although some early histories of Japanese parachute training claim that as many as 100 German officers came to Japan to train the volunteers, this is incorrect. The Japanese received no help from Germany, although they most definitely studied the early German paratroop successes. Ibid., 5; U.S. Army Infantry School, “The Development of Vertical Attack,” Infantry School Quarterly 33 (October 1948): 17; U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Enemy Air-Borne Forces (Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office), 67–68. U.S. Army Infantry School, “The Development of Vertical Attack,” 17; U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Enemy Air-Borne Forces, 67. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 5. Ibid., 5–6. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Enemy Air-Borne Forces, 68–69. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 3. Ibid., 60; Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 5. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, “Japanese Parachute Troops,” Tactical and Technical Trends 14 (December 17, 1942): 23. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 6, 8. Ibid., 8–9. Ibid.; U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Enemy Air-Borne Forces, 68 U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 40. Ibid.; Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 16. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 16.

Notes 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37.

38.

39.

40. 41. 42.

43.

44. 45. 46. 47.

48.

49. 50.

325

Ibid., 16, 60, 62. Ibid., 18, 60. Ibid., 19, 61. Ibid., 61; U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 56–57. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 18. Ibid., 19, 61. Ibid., 60; U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 58–59. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 60. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 59–60. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 18–19; U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 56. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 60. Ibid., 14, 17; Wikipedia, “Type 99 Rifle,” [accessed June 14, 2007]. Nakata and Nelson, Imperial Japanese Army and Navy Uniforms and Equipment, 29–31; Wikipedia, “Type 89 Grenade Discharger,” [accessed June 14, 2007]. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 55; LemaireSoft, “Encyclopedia of the Guns of World War II: 37mm Type 94 Gun” [accessed June 14, 2007]. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 55; Wikipedia, “Type 97 20mm AT Rifle,” [accessed June 4, 2007]; Wikipedia, “Type 11 37mm Infantry Gun,” [accessed June 14, 2007]. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 55. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 9. Ibid., 8, 9, 11; U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 34, 35, 38; Wikipedia, “Mitsubishi Ki-57,” [accessed June 14, 2007]. Frans Bonné, “The Mitsubishi G3M,” [accessed June 23, 2007]; Wikipedia, “Mitsubishi G4M,” , [accessed June 23, 2007]. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, “Japanese Parachute Troop Equipment,” Tactical and Technical Trends 14 (December 17, 1942): 48. Ibid., 47, 48. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 28. Ibid.; Hirofumi, “Government, the Military, and Business in Japan’s Wartime Comfort Women System,” [accessed June 24, 2007]. Orbat.com, “World War II Armed Forces: Orders of Battle and Organization— Imperial Japanese Navy: Organization Special Naval Landing Force”; Favorite, “Special Naval Landing Forces in December 1941.” Ibid. Ibid.

326

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CHAPTER 3: JAPAN NEEDS OIL 1. Susan Wels, Pearl Harbor: America’s Darkest Day (San Diego, CA: Laurel Glen Publishing, 2001), 66; Gordon W. Prange, At Dawn We Slept (New York: McGraw-Hill Book Company, 1988), 9–10. 2. Stan Cohen, East Wind Rain (Missoula, MT: Pictorial Histories Publishing Company, 1981), 2. 3. James F. Dunnigan and Albert A. Nofi, Victory at Sea: World War II in the Pacific (New York: Quill, 1995), 44. 4. Cohen, East Wind Rain, 2; A. J. Barker, Pearl Harbor (New York: Ballantine Books, 1970), 9–11; Cesare Salmaggi and Alfred Pallavisini, comps., 2194 Days of War (New York: Windward, 1977), 172. 5. Ernest Arroyo, Pearl Harbor (New York: Metro Books, 2001), 12; Dunnigan and Nofi, Victory at Sea, 45. 6. Arroyo, Pearl Harbor, 12; Salmaggi and Pallavisini, 2194 Days of War, 172; Cohen, East Wind Rain, 2. 7. NavSource Naval History, “U.S. Naval Chronology of W.W. II, 1940,” [accessed June 11, 2007]; Salmaggi, 2194 Days of War, 172; Prange, At Dawn We Slept, 4. 8. Arroyo, Pearl Harbor, 12; Prange, At Dawn We Slept, 4. 9. John Costello, The Pacific War, 1941–1945 (New York: Quill, 1982), 71. 10. Wels, Pearl Harbor, 58. 11. Arroyo, Pearl Harbor, 12; Salmaggi and Pallavisini, 2194 Days of War, 173; Prange, At Dawn We Slept, 167, 169. 12. Prange, At Dawn We Slept, 169; Cohen, East Wind Rain, 2. 13. Barker, Pearl Harbor, 32, 35. 14. Costello, Pacific War, 129–48. 15. Dunnigan and Nofi, Victory at Sea, 515–17; Van Oosten, “Fall of the Dutch East Indies,” 849. 16. “The Japanese Invasion of Sumatra Island,” [accessed June 25, 2007]. 17. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 28; Bob Hackett and Sander Kingsepp, “Junyokan!—HIJMS Kashi: Tabular Record of Movement,” [accessed June 24, 2007]; Bob Hackett and Sander Kingsepp, “Junyokan!—HIJMS Natori: Tabular Record of Movement,” [accessed June 24, 2007]; Donaldson, “The Japanese Paratroopers in the Dutch East Indies, 1941–1942.” 18. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 29; U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 29. 19. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 29. 20. Ibid. 21. Ibid. 22. Ibid. 23. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Service, “Japanese Parachute Troops,” Tactical and Technical Trends, 24. 24. Ibid., 23; Rottman, World War II Pacific Island Guide, 212, 213. 25. Rottman, World War II Pacific Island Guide, 212, 213. 26. James F. Dunnigan and Albert A. Nofi, The Pacific War Encyclopedia (New York: Checkmark Books, 1988), 475.

Notes

327

27. “The Battle for Palembang, February 1942,” and “The Japanese Invasion of Sumatra Island,” [accessed June 25, 2007]. 28. “The Japanese Invasion of Sumatra Island.” 29. Ibid.; Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 29. 30. Ibid.; “The Battle for Palembang, February 1942”; R. J. Lelendon, “Gunners in Java—1942,” [accessed April 30, 2007]; Wikipedia, “Battle of Palembang,” [accessed May 14, 2007]. 31. The Battle for Palembang, February 1942.”

CHAPTER 4: P1 AIRFIELD 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

6.

7.

8. 9.

10.

11. 12. 13.

Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 29. Ibid. 31. Ibid. Ibid.; “The Battle for Palembang, February 1942”; “The Japanese Invasion of Sumatra Island.” “The Japanese Invasion of Sumatra Island,”; Bob Hackett and Sander Kingsepp, “Various Japanese Ship Tabular Records of Movement,” [accessed June 26, 2007]; Wikipedia, “Battle of Palembang,” [accessed May 14, 2007]. Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 72–82, 89; Keith Hannay, “Recollections of Service in the Bureau and RAAF,” [accessed May 14, 2007]. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 31; Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 93. Shores and Cull state that the airborne armada was made up of thirty-four Ki-56 and Ki-57 transport aircraft from the Raiding Flying Regiment and seven more transports (type unknown) from the 12th Transport Chutai. They also state that there were eighteen K1-21 bombers of the 98th Sentai sent to drop “anti-personnel bombs” and nine other Ki-21s of the 98th Sentai to drop supplies. I have decided to use Rottman and Takizawa’s figures and specifications since they seem to be more detailed. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 31; Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 93–94. “Tweedale’s War Part 7,” WW2 People’s War, [accessed July 11, 2006]; “Tweedale’s War Part 6,” WW2 People’s War, [accessed July 11, 2006]; Shores, Bloody Shambles, Vol. Two, 105. Pam Baker, “Les Baker’s Letter Home—Part 2, Fall of Singapore and Sumatra,” WW2 People’s War, [accessed June 25, 2007]; Hannay, “Recollections of Service in the Bureau and RAAF.” Wakefield and Ross quoted in Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 92–93. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 31; “The Battle for Palembang, February 1942.” Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 95; “Tweedale’s War Part 7,” WW2 People’s War.

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14. “Terry’s War,” WW2 People’s War, [accessed June 25, 2007]; “Tweedale’s War Part 6,” WW2 People’s War. 15. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 32. 16. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 25. 17. Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 95. 18. Ibid. 19. Ibid., 95–97. 20. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 32. 21. Ibid. 22. Ibid., 41; Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 106–7. Shores and Cull claim that Lieutenant Hirose and his sixty men landed west of the airfield two hours after the main group landed to the southeast. I have decided to go with Rottman and Takizawa’s timetable because it would have been tactically advantageous to drop paratroopers on two sides at the same time. 23. Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 93, 97. 24. Ibid., 97. 25. Ibid., 98–99. 26. Ibid., 99. 27. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 26. 28. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Service, “Japanese Parachute Troops,” Tactical and Technical Trends, 24–25. 29. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 27; Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 99. 30. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Service, “Japanese Parachute Troops,” Tactical and Technical Trends, 25. 31. Ibid., 100. 32. Ibid.; Gade, “Dutch Indies Campaign—Part II: Armored Carjacking.” 33. Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 102. 34. Ibid. 35. Ibid., 100; Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 32. 36. Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 101. 37. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 41. 38. Ibid., 41. 39. Ibid., 43. 40. Ibid. 41. Ibid. 42. Ibid. 43. Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 101. 44. Ibid., 101, 105. 45. Ibid. 46. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 41. 47. Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 105. 48. Ibid., 100. 49. Ibid., 102. 50. Baker, “Les Baker’s Letter Home—Part 2, Fall of Singapore and Sumatra.” 51. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Service, “Japanese Parachute Troops,” Tactical and Technical Trends, 25.

Notes

329

52. Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 105–6. 53. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 41. 54. Ibid., 41.

CHAPTER 5: CAPTURE OF PALEMBANG 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26.

27. 28.

29. 30. 31.

Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 41. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., 42. Ibid., 41–42; “The Japanese Invasion of Sumatra Island.” Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 42; Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 106. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 42. Ibid., 42–43. Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 109; Salmaggi and Pallavisini, 2194 Days of War, 213; “The Japanese Invasion of Sumatra Island.” Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 109–14; “The Japanese Invasion of Sumatra Island.” Ibid., 114; “Tweedale’s War Part 7.” Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 43. Ibid. Ibid.; Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 122. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 43. Ibid.; Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 122. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 43. Ibid., 42; Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 122. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Service, “Parachute Forces,” Intelligence Bulletin I (October 1942): 45. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Service, “Japanese Parachute Troops,” Tactical and Technical Trends, 24–25. Ibid., 26–27. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Enemy Air-Borne Forces, 15–16. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 26–27. U.S. Army Infantry School, “The Development of Vertical Attack,” 17–18. Shores and Cull, Bloody Shambles, vol. 2, 122; “The Japanese Invasion of Sumatra Island”; Donaldson, “The Japanese Paratroopers in the Dutch East Indies, 1941–1942”; Dunnigan and Nofi, Pacific War Encyclopedia, 476; Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 43. Rottman, World War II Pacific Island Guide, 214. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 43; Bernard C. Nalty, ed., Pearl Harbor and the War in the Pacific (New York: Smithmark Publishers, 1991), 73; Salmaggi and Pallavisini, 2194 Days of War, 230–31. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 43. Ibid., 43–44; Salmaggi and Pallavisini, 2194 Days of War, 230–31. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 44.

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CHAPTER 6: DUTCH WEST TIMOR 1. Favorite, “Special Naval Landing Forces in December 1941”; Orbat.com, “World War II Armed Forces: Orders of Battle and Organization—Imperial Japanese Navy: Organization Special Naval Landing Force.” 2. Rottman, World War II Pacific Island Guide, 206. 3. Ibid., 210. 4. Australian War Memorial, “Australian Army War Diaries—Second World War,” [accessed July 1, 2007]; Adelphia.net, “The Australian Army 1939–1941,” [accessed July 1, 2007]; “The Japanese Invasion of Dutch West Timor Island, February 1942,” [accessed June 30, 2007]. 5. “The Japanese Invasion of Dutch West Timor Island, February 1942.” 6. Ibid. 7. Ibid.; “Remembering 1942: The Battles on Timor, 20–23 February 1942,” transcript, [accessed June 30, 2007]; Brian Anderson, “A Family Story,” [accessed June 30, 2007]; Australian War Memorial, “Australian Army War Diaries—Second World War: AWM52, Item 8/3/34—2/40 Infantry Battalion,” [accessed July 1, 2007]; Australian Biography, “Tom Uren Interview,” Tape 1, [accessed September 14, 2006]. 8. Australian War Memorial, “Australian Army War Diaries—Second World War: AWM52, Item 8/3/34—2/40 Infantry Battalion.” 9. “The Japanese Invasion of Dutch West Timor Island, February 1942”; “Remembering 1942: The Battles on Timor, 20–23 February 1942,” transcript. 10. Ibid.; Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 25. 11. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 25. 12. “The Japanese Invasion of Dutch West Timor Island, February 1942”; Bob Hackett and Sander Kingsepp, “Junyokan!—HIJMS Jintsu: Tabular Record of Movement,” [accessed July 3, 2007]. 13. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 25. 14. “Remembering 1942: The Battles on Timor, 20–23 February 1942,” transcript; Pappin quoted in Colin Humphris, Trapped on Timor (Richmond, Australia: Hyde Park Press, 1991), 14. 15. Humphris, Trapped on Timor, 3–4, 14. 16. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 25, 26. 17. Ibid. 18. Ibid., 25. 19. Humphris, Trapped on Timor, 15. 20. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 25; U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Service, “Parachute Forces,” Intelligence Bulletin, 44; U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Service, “Japanese Tactics and the Employment of Parachute Troops,” Tactical and Technical Trends, 24. 21. Humphris, Trapped on Timor, 15; U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Service, “Parachute Forces,” Intelligence Bulletin, 44; U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Service, “Japanese Parachute Troop Equipment,” Tactical and Technical Trends, 48.

Notes

331

22. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 25; U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Service, “Japanese Tactics and the Employment of Parachute Troops,” Tactical and Technical Trends, 23. 23. “The Japanese Invasion of Dutch West Timor Island, February 1942.” 24. Australian Biography, “Tom Uren Interview,” Tape 2, [accessed September 14, 2006]; “The Japanese Invasion of Dutch West Timor Island, February 1942.” 25. “The Japanese Invasion of Dutch West Timor Island, February 1942”; Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 25–26. 26. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 26. 27. Ibid. 28. Ibid. 29. “The Japanese Invasion of Dutch West Timor Island, February 1942.” 30. Ibid.; John Tasman Prosser reminiscence in Digger History, “Timor in WW2: The Whole Sad Story,” [accessed May 14, 2007]. 31. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 26. 32. Ibid. 33. “The Japanese Invasion of Dutch West Timor Island, February 1942.” 34. Ibid. 35. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 27. 36. “The Japanese Invasion of Dutch West Timor Island, February 1942”; Australian Biography, “Tom Uren Interview,” Tape 2. 37. “The Japanese Invasion of Dutch West Timor Island, February 1942.” 38. Ibid.; Rottman, World War II Pacific Island Guide, 210–11. 39. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 26. 40. “The Japanese Invasion of Dutch West Timor Island, February 1942.” 41. U.S. War Department, Military Intelligence Division, Japanese Parachute Troops, 29; Crowl, Campaign in the Marianas, 55–56. 42. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 26; Favorite, “Special Naval Landing Forces in December 1941.”

CHAPTER 7: THE U.S. PARATROOPER 1. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 33–34. 2. Ibid., 35; Lt. Gen. Edward M. Flanagan Jr., The Angels: A History of the 11th Airborne Division (Novato, CA: Presidio Press, 1989), 8–9. 3. Ibid. 4. Flanagan, Angels, 9–10; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 37–39; Salmaggi and Pallavisini, 2194 Days of War, 15, 18. 5. Salmaggi and Pallavisini, 2194 Days of War, 14, 24, 27, 29; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 40; Flanagan, Angels, 10. 6. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 42; Flanagan, Angels, 10. 7. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 42, 45; Flanagan, Angels, 10. 8. U.S. War Department, U.S. Army Air Forces Illustrated Catalog: Clothing, Parachutes, Equipment & Supplies (Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1943), 43; Smith, U.S. Paratrooper, 30. 9. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 44. 10. Ibid., 46. 11. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 48–49; C. J. Johnson and Associates, “The Iron Men of the Test Platoon,”

332

12. 13.

14.

15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27.

28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37.

38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43.

BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN [accessed July 9, 2007]; Lt. Gen. Edward M. Flanagan Jr., Airborne: A Combat History of American Airborne Forces (New York: Ballantine Books, 2002), 15; Mark R. Henry, The U.S. Army in World War II (Oxford, England: Osprey Publishing, 2001), 64. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 50; Johnson and Associates, “The Iron Men of the Test Platoon.” Patrick, “Paratroop: A History of Airborne Operations,” Strategy and Tactics, 5; Rudolf Witzig, “Coup from the Air: The Capture of Fort Eben-Emael” in History of the Second World War, pt. 4, 106–11. Hoffman, “Silk Chutes and Hard Fighting,” 1; Chris Mason, Paramarines: Uniforms and Equipment of Marine Corps Parachute Units in World War II (Atglen, PA: Schiffer Publishing, 2004), 5; Gordon L. Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 1942–45 (Oxford, England: Osprey Publishing, 2007), 8. Hoffman, “Silk Chutes and Hard Fighting,” 12. Ibid. Ibid., 21. Flanagan, Airborne, 10–11; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 50–51, 55. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 51, 53; U.S. Army Infantry School, “The Development of Vertical Attack,” Infantry School Quarterly, 21. Ibid. Flanagan, Airborne, 11. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 59–60. Ibid., 62–67; Flanagan, Angels, 12. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 69–70; Flanagan, Angels, 12–13; Weller, Story of the Paratroops, 94. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 74; Flanagan, Airborne, 12. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 75. Gordon L. Rottman and Mike Chappell, U.S. Marine Corps, 1941–45 (Oxford, England: Osprey Publishing, 1995), 27; Mason, Paramarines, 5; Hoffman, “Silk Chutes and Hard Fighting,” 31. Flanagan, Airborne, 14. Ibid., 13; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 81–82. Gordon L. Rottman, World War II Airborne Tactics (Oxford, England: Osprey Publishing, 2006), 19. Flanagan, Airborne, 15; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 82. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 85. Ibid., 89; U.S. Army Infantry School, “The Development of Vertical Attack,” Infantry School Quarterly, 21. Hoffman, “Silk Chutes and Hard Fighting,” 6, 21. Ibid., 6. Ibid. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 91–92. In 1943, when regulations stipulated that officers had to wear a small rank insignia on the left side of their overseas caps, the paratroopers began wearing their “wings” badge on the right side. Ibid., 93–95. Ibid., 95–96; Flanagan, Angels, 15. Hoffman, “Silk Chutes and Hard Fighting,” 6–7, 16. Ibid., 2; Rottman and Chappell, U.S. Marine Corps, 27. Hoffman, “Silk Chutes and Hard Fighting,” 7. Ibid., 7.

Notes

333

44. Ibid., 2. 45. Ibid., 2; Rottman, World War II Airborne Warfare Tactics, 19. 46. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 103, 106; James A. Huston, Out of the Blue: U.S. Army Airborne Operations in World War II (Nashville, TN: The Battery Press, 1981), 48. 47. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 107. 48. Ibid., 108, 112. 49. Hoffman, “Silk Chutes and Hard Fighting,” 1–3. 50. Ibid., 4. 51. Ibid. 52. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 108; “History of the First Battalion, 503d Parachute Infantry,” Infantry Battalion History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Battalion, 1 (hereafter cited as History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR). 53. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 109. 54. Ibid., 109–10. 55. Ibid., 110, 118. 56. Ibid., 110–11. 57. Huston, Out of the Blue, 101–3.

CHAPTER 8: EQUIPPING THE AMERICAN PARATROOPER 1. Devlin, Paratroopers!, 113–14. 2. Ibid., 114; Shelby L. Stanton, World War II Order of Battle (New York: Galahad Books, 1991), 263; History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 2. 3. Devlin, Paratroopers!, 114. 4. Ibid., 115. 5. Flanagan, Airborne, 21. 6. Ibid., 29; Huston, Out of the Blue, 49, 51. 7. Devlin, Paratroopers!,120–21; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 1942–45, 9. The 2nd Battalion, 503rd PIR, was redesignated the 2nd Battalion, 509th PIR, in Scotland on November 2, 1942. It eventually became the 509th Parachute Infantry Battalion. 8. William T. Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All, Book 1: The Original 503rd PIR,” [accessed July 12, 2007]. 9. Devlin, Paratroopers!,121. 10. Ibid., 114, 124–25. 11. Devlin, Paratroopers!,125, 192–93. 12. Ibid., 125–26; James P. Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 1—The First Successful Airborne Operation,” [accessed July 14, 2007] 13. Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 1—The First Successful Airborne Operation.” 14. History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 2–3. 15. Flanagan, Airborne, 107; James P. Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 1—The Long Road to Moresby,” [accessed July 14, 2007]. 16. History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 2–3; Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 1—The Long Road to Moresby”; Flanagan, Airborne, 108. 17. History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 3; Flanagan, Airborne, 108–9. The original 2nd Battalion, 503rd PIR, was later redesignated the 509th PIR in England, where it would go on to fight in North Africa and Italy.

334

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18. History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 3; Donald E. Abbott, “A Condensed History of the 503rd Parachute Regimental Combat Team, WWII,” [accessed May 27, 2001]. 19. Henry, U.S. Army in World War II, 58; Henri-Paul Enjames, Government Issue: U.S. Army European Theater of Operations Collector Guide (Spain: KSG Danona, 2003), 138. 20. Henry, U.S. Army in World War II, 58; Enjames, Government Issue, 139. 21. Smith, U.S. Paratrooper, 31. 22. Ibid. 23. Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 20, 57. 24. Smith, U.S. Paratrooper, 10, 61, 25. Henry, U.S. Army in World War II, 58; Enjames, Government Issue, 64–65, 139. 26. Enjames, Government Issue, 176. 27. Ibid., 177. 28. Ibid., 176. 29. Stanton, World War II Order of Battle, 13. 30. Henry, U.S. Army in World War II, 26; Smith, U.S. Paratrooper, 45. 31. Enjames, Government Issue, 95; Rottman and Chappell, U.S. Marine Corps, 13; Henry, U.S. Army in World War II, 25. 32. Smith, U.S. Paratrooper, 45; M1 Carbine Owner’s Manual: M1, M2 & M3 Caliber Carbines (Cornville, AZ: Firepower Publications, 1984), 2, 7, 9; Headquarters, “Noemfoor Operation,” 503rd PIR, 7. 33. Henry, U.S. Army in World War II, 27–28; Smith, U.S. Paratrooper, 46; Headquarters, “Noemfoor Operation,” 503rd PIR, 7. 34. Henry, U.S. Army in World War II, 28; Smith, U.S. Paratrooper, 46. 35. Henry, U.S. Army in World War II, 28; Smith, U.S. Paratrooper, 47; Enjames, Government Issue, 97; Headquarters, “Noemfoor Operation,” 503rd PIR, 7. 36. Henry, U.S. Army in World War II, 69; Smith, U.S. Paratrooper, 47; Enjames, Government Issue, 98. 37. Henry, U.S. Army in World War II, 72; Smith, U.S. Paratrooper, 48; Enjames, Government Issue, 105; U.S. War Department, “60mm Mortar Demonstration,” [accessed July 13, 2007]; Headquarters, “Noemfoor Operation,” 503rd PIR, 7. 38. Henry, U.S. Army in World War II, 72; Smith, U.S. Paratrooper, 48; Enjames, Government Issue, 105; U.S. War Department, “60mm Mortar Demonstration.” 39. Smith, U.S. Paratrooper, 48; Enjames, Government Issue, 106; Bert Kortegaard, “81mm M1 Mortar,” [accessed July 13, 2007]. 40. Henry, U.S. Army in World War II, 26; Smith, U.S. Paratrooper, 46; Enjames, Government Issue, 90–91. 41. Enjames, Government Issue, 138, 142. 42. Ibid., 100; Henry, U.S. Army in World War II, 37. Practice grenades, which did not blow up, were painted light blue or, later, had a light-blue band around the neck. 43. Enjames, Government Issue, 100; Henry, U.S. Army in World War II, 37–38. 44. Smith, U.S. Paratrooper, 30; Huston, Out of the Blue, 83–84. 45. Mason, Paramarines, 24–37. 46. Ibid., 38–44, 48–53, 56–60. 47. Ibid., 72–82. 48. Ibid., 97–99; Hoffman, “Silk Chutes and Hard Fighting,” 37–38. 49. Mason, Paramarines, 143; Rottman and Chappell, U.S. Marine Corps, 14.

Notes

335

50. Mason, Paramarines, 151–55; Rottman and Chappell, U.S. Marine Corps, 14. 51. Mason, Paramarines, 132–33; Rottman and Chappell, U.S. Marine Corps, 53. The companies that made the utility knife were the Union Cutlery Company, the Pal Blade Company, Camillus Cutlery, and Robeson Cutlery. Union Cutlery Company produced the original “Ka-Bar Knife.”

CHAPTER 9: OPERATION CARTWHEEL 1. Van Oosten, “Fall of the Dutch East Indies,” 848–53; John Vader, “The Fall of the Philippines” in History of the Second World War, pt. 31, 856–63; Fred Stolley, “The Fall of Corregidor” in History of the Second World War, pt. 31, 864–68; Arthur Swinson and Maj. Tokuji Morimoto, “Conquest of Malaya” in History of the Second World War, pt. 26, 710–21; Salmaggi and Pallavinisi, 2194 Days of War, 196–232; Dunnigan and Nofi, Victory at Sea, 515–22. 2. Robert Goralski, World War II Almanac: 1939–1945 (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1981), 212–13; Arthur Zich, The Rising Sun (Alexandria, VA: Time-Life Books, 1977), 108; Dunnigan and Nofi, Victory at Sea, 25; Costello, Pacific War, 233–36. 3. Nalty, Pearl Harbor and the War in the Pacific, 81; Costello, Pacific War, 236. 4. Salmaggi and Pallavinisi, 2194 Days of War, 236–39; Costello, Pacific War, 268. 5. Gene Eric Salecker, Fortress against the Sun: The B-17 Flying Fortress in the Pacific (Conshohocken, PA: Combined Publishing, 2001), 197; Salmaggi and Pallavinisi, 2194 Days of War, 248–53. 6. Rottman, World War II Pacific Island Guide, 160; Charles R. Anderson, Papua: The U.S. Army Campaigns of World War II (Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1992), 7–18. 7. Salmaggi and Pallavinisi, 2194 Days of War, 219. 8. James Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 3—Planning for Cartwheel,” [accessed July 14, 2007] 9. Edward J. Drea, New Guinea: The U.S. Army Campaigns of World War II (Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1994), 4–5. 10. Ibid., 5; Salecker, Fortress against the Sun, 313–15. 11. Drea, New Guinea, 5. 12. James Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 2—The Development of the Airborne,” [accessed July 14, 2007]; Harclerode, Wings of War, 269–72. 13. Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 2—The Development of the Airborne.” 14. Ibid. 15. Ibid.; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 240–41. 16. Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 2—The Development of the Airborne.” 17. Ibid.; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 244–46. 18. History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 4. 19. Ibid. 20. Ibid., 4–6. 21. Ibid., 8. 22. Drea, New Guinea, 8; John Miller Jr., Cartwheel: The Reduction of Rabaul (Washington, DC: The Department of the Army, 1959), 59–66. 23. Miller, Cartwheel, 189–90. 24. Ibid., 191–92, 194; Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 3—Planning for Cartwheel.”

336 25. 26. 27. 28.

29. 30.

31. 32. 33. 34.

35. 36. 37.

BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN Ibid. Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 3—Planning for Cartwheel.” Miller, Cartwheel, 191; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 57. James Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 4—The Long Road to Moresby,” [accessed July 14, 2007] Ibid. Ibid.; History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 6–7; Jerry Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal,” [accessed July 14, 2007]; John W. Britten, “Personal Letters from Col. John William Britten describing his Experiences as a Battalion Commander in the 503rd RCT,” 28 September 1943, [accessed July 21, 2007]. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” Develin, Paratrooper!, 257–58. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” Ibid.; Arthur Burke, “Jumping into History,” [accessed July 15, 2007]; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 59. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal”; Burke, “Jumping into History.” Ibid.; Flanagan, Airborne, 112. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 261.

CHAPTER 10: NADZAB 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

6. 7.

8. 9. 10.

Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal”; History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 7. Ibid. Ibid. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” Headquarters, 503d Parachute Infantry, Office of the Regimental Commander, “Report of Encounter with Enemy Forces, 26 Oct 1943, APO 929,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 1; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 259; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 57. Various authors have given different numbers on the number of transports used in the Nadzab drop. Devlin says eighty-two (Paratrooper!, 261); Flanagan says seventy-nine (Airborne, 113); Miller says eighty-one (Cartwheel, 208); Rottman says seventy-nine (U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 57); and Riseley says eighty-nine (“The Adjutant’s Journal”). The post report filed by the regimental commander states that eighty-two C-47s were used to transport the 503rd PIR to Nadzab. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 261; Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” Devlin, Paratrooper!, 261–62; Salecker, Fortress against the Sun, 364–65; James Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 5—The Nadzab Airborne Operation,” [accessed July 14, 2007]; Headquarters. 503d Parachute Infantry, Office of the Regimental Commander, “Report of Encounter with Enemy Forces, 26 Oct 1943, APO 929,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 1. Salecker, Fortress against the Sun, 365. Ibid., 364–65; Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 5—The Nadzab Airborne Operation.” Devlin, Paratrooper!, 262; Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal”; Miller, Cartwheel, 208.

Notes 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

17. 18.

19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28.

29. 30.

31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37.

337

Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” Ibid.; Miller, Cartwheel, 207. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” Ibid.; History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 7; Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 5—The Nadzab Airborne Operation.” Miller, Cartwheel, 208; Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal”; Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 5—The Nadzab Airborne Operation.” Headquarters, 503d Parachute Infantry, Office of the Regimental Commander, “Report of Encounter with Enemy Forces, 26 Oct 1943, APO 929,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 1. Ibid.; Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal”; Smith, U.S. Paratrooper, 24–25. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal”; “History of 503d Parachute Infantry, Phase V, 23 August 43–29 December 44,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment; Headquarters, 503d Parachute Infantry, Office of the Regimental Commander, “Report of Encounter with Enemy Forces, 26 Oct 1943, APO 929,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 1. Broadwell quoted in Patrick K. O’Donnell, Into the Rising Sun (New York: Free Press, 2002), 123. Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 5—The Nadzab Airborne Operation”; Miller, Cartwheel, 208; Devlin, Paratooper!, 262. Ibid. Ibid.; Miller, Cartwheel, 209. Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 5—The Nadzab Airborne Operation”; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 262. Broadwell quoted in O’Donnell, Into the Rising Sun, 123; Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 5—The Nadzab Airborne Operation.” Reeves quoted in Gerald Astor, Crisis in the Pacific (New York: Dell Publishing, 2002), 276. Rodriguez quoted in Astor, Crisis in the Pacific, 276–77. Reeves quoted in Astor, Crisis in the Pacific, 276. “The Great Fire Fight of 5–6 September 1943,” [accessed July 16, 2007]. Devlin, Patatrooper!, 262. Miller, Cartwheel, 208–9; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 262; Headquarters, 503d Parachute Infantry, Office of the Regimental Surgeon, “History of Medical Department Activities for Third Quarter 1943,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 2. The effective strength of the regiment on September 5 was 1,713 men, but only 1,565 made the jump on Nadzab. The other 148 were service company and kitchen personnel. Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 5—The Nadzab Airborne Operation”; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 56. Ibid.; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 265. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” Ibid.; Broadwell and Amaty quoted in O’Donnell, Into the Rising Sun, 123; Salecker, Fortress against the Sun, 365; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 263. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” “The Great Fire Fight of 5–6 September 1943.” Devlin, Paratrooper!, 263.

338

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38. Salecker, Fortress against the Sun, 365; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 263; “History of 503d Parachute Infantry, Phase V, 23 August 43–29 December 44,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment; Flanagan, Airborne, 114. 39. “The Great Fire Fight of 5–6 September 1943.” 40. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” 41. Ibid.; Amaty quoted in O’Donnell, Into the Rising Sun, 123; Salecker, Fortress against the Sun, 365. 42. “The Great Fire Fight of 5–6 September 1943.” 43. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 263–64. 44. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” 45. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 264–65; Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 5—The Nadzab Airborne Operation.” 46. Burke, “Jumping into History.” 47. Ibid.; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 59. 48. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” 49. Ibid. 50. Ibid. 51. Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 59. 52. History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 7. 53. Burke, “Jumping into History”; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 265. 54. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” 55. Ibid.; History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 7; “History of 503d Parachute Infantry, Phase V, 23 August 43–29 December 44,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment; Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 5—The Nadzab Airborne Operation.” 56. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” 57. “Casualty Report, Form ‘A’,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment; Headquarters 503d Parachute Infantry Office of the Regimental Surgeon, “History of Medical Department Activities for Third Quarter 1943,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 2, 3, 4. 58. Ibid.; Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal”; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 263; Miller, Cartwheel, 210. 59. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal”; “The Great Fire Fight of 5–6 September 1943.”

CHAPTER 11: BAPTISM OF FIRE 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

“The Great Fire Fight of 5–6 September 1943.” Ibid.; Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” “The Great Fire Fight of 5–6 September 1943.” Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” “The Great Fire Fight of 5–6 September 1943.” Ibid.; Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” Burke, “Jumping into History.” Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 5—The Nadzab Airborne Operation”; “History of 503d Parachute Infantry, Phase V, 23 August 43–29 December 44,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment. 10. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” 11. Devlin, Paratooper!, 265; History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 8. 12. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.”

Notes

339

13. Burke, “Jumping into History.” 14. Ibid. 15. Miller, Cartwheel, 210; Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 5—The Nadzab Airborne Operation.” 16. Miller, Cartwheel, 210; “History of 503d Parachute Infantry, Phase V, 23 August 43–29 December 44,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment. 17. Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 5—The Nadzab Airborne Operation.” 18. Miller, Cartwheel, 211; Devlin, Paratooper!, 263, 266. 19. Ibid.; Salmaggi and Pallavinisi, 2194 Days of War, 417. 20. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal”; “Casualty Report, Form ‘A’,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment; Headquarters, U.S. Army Forces in the Far East, “19 Dec. 1943, Sect. II, Distinguished Service Cross, APO 501,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment. 21. Ibid.; History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 8. 22. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal”; Flanagan, Airborne, 115. 23. Broadwell quoted in O’Donnell, Into the Rising Sun, 124. 24. Miller, Cartwheel, 210; Flanagan, Airborne, 115. 25. Flanagan, Airborne, 115–16; Headquarters, U.S. Army Forces in the Far East, “19 Dec. 1943, Sect. II, Distinguished Service Cross, APO 501,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment; “Casualty Report, Form ‘A’,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment; Headquarters, 503d Parachute Infantry Office of the Regimental Surgeon, “History of Medical Department Activities for Third Quarter 1943,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 5. 26. Ibid. 27. Flanagan, Airborne, 116; “Training Status Report,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 2; Devlin, Paratooper!, 266; Headquarters, 503d Parachute Infantry, Office of the Regimental Commander, “Report of Encounter with Enemy Forces, 26 Oct 1943, APO 929,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 2. 28. Devlin, Paratooper!, 266; Salmaggi and Pallavinisi, 2194 Days of War, 420. 29. Miller, Cartwheel, 209; Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 5—The Nadzab Airborne Operation.” 30. Devlin, Paratooper!, 266. 31. Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 5—The Nadzab Airborne Operation.” 32. Flanagan, Airborne, 116–17. 33. James Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 5—The Impact of Nadzab,” [accessed July 14, 2007]; Devlin, Paratooper!, 246. 34. Ibid. 35. Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 5—The Impact of Nadzab.” 36. Ibid. 37. Ibid. 38. Ibid. 39. 11th Airborne (Paducah, KY: Turner Publishing Company, 1993), 17, 18; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 12. 40. 11th Airborne, 18; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 12. 41. Ibid., 18; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 248; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 13. 42. Lowe, “Nadzab, 1943: Chapter 5—The Impact of Nadzab.”

340

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CHAPTER 12: BIRTH OF A DIVISION, DEATH OF A PROGRAM 1. “History of the 11th Airborne Division,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 1. 2. 11th Airborne, 11; 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment (Paducah, KY: Turner Publishing Company, 1997), 6–7. 3. Ibid.; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 10. 4. 11th Airborne, 12; 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 7; Stanton, World War II Order of Battle, 94, 264. 5. 11th Airborne, 10. 6. Ibid.; World War II Airborne Demonstration Team Foundation, “Operation Torch,” [accessed July 19, 2007]; Flanagan, Airborne, 160. 7. 11th Airborne, 10–11. 8. Ibid., 11; 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 8; “History: 11th Airborne Division,” 11th Airborne Division, 2. 9. 11th Airborne, 11; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 11. 10. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 117; Flanagan, Airborne, 23; Smith, U.S. Paratrooper, 61. 11. 11th Airborne, 12. 12. Henry, U.S. Army in World War II, 111; Smith, U.S. Paratrooper, 49. 13. Stanton, World War II Order of Battle, 411; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 11. 14. Smith, U.S. Paratrooper, 45, 61. 15. 11th Airborne, 14. 16. Ibid. 14, 23; “History of the 11th Airborne Division,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 4. 17. “History: 11th Airborne Division,” 11th Airborne Division, 3. 18. 11th Airborne, 14–15; Smith, U.S. Paratrooper, 20–21; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 12. 19. “History: 11th Airborne Division,” 11th Airborne Division, 3; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 12. 20. 11th Airborne, 12, 14, 15; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 12. 21. 11th Airborne, 12, 14, 15; Stanton, World War II Order of Battle, 94, 571; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 11. 22. Stanton, World War II Order of Battle, 10, 94; 11th Airborne, 12; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific, 25. 23. Ibid. 24. Stanton, World War II Order of Battle, 9; 11th Airborne, 12; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific, 25. 25. Hoffman, “Silk Chutes and Hard Fighting,” 19; John Miller Jr., Guadalcanal: The First Offensive (Washington, DC: Center of Military History, U.S. Army, 1949), 65–67, 111, 123. 26. Hoffman, “Silk Chutes and Hard Fighting,” 19–20; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 9. 27. Hoffman, “Silk Chutes and Hard Fighting,” 20; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 9. 28. Hoffman, “Silk Chutes and Hard Fighting,” 20. 29. Ibid., 22–23; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 9. 30. Ibid., 25, 29, 37–38. 31. Ibid., 38.

Notes

341

32. “History of the 11th Airborne Division,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 4; “History: 11th Airborne Division,” 11th Airborne Division, 3. 33. Flanagan, Angels, 396–97. 34. “History of the 11th Airborne Division,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 4. 35. 11th Airborne, 20. 36. Ibid.; Dr. James Lorio, “Strength from Above: The Early Days of the 511th,” Static Line 1, No. 6, [accessed May 14, 2007]. 37. Doherty quoted in Lorio, “Strength from Above: The Early Days of the 511th”; 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 13. 38. “History: 11th Airborne Division,” 11th Airborne Division, 5; Doherty quoted in Lorio, “Strength from Above: The Early Days of the 511th.” 39. 11th Airborne, 22. 40. Ibid., 21. 41. Lt. Gen. Edward M. Flanagan Jr., The Rakkasans: The Combat History of the 187th Airborne Infantry (Novato, CA: Presidio Press, 1997), 13. 42. 11th Airborne, 23. 43. Ibid.; 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 13. 44. Lorio, “Strength from Above: Camp Polk, LA Jan–Apr, 1944”; 11th Airborne, 23. 45. 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 13; “History: 11th Airborne Division,” 11th Airborne Division, 6. 46. Lorio, “Strength from Above: Col. Haugen’s 511th PIR Record March”; 11th Airborne, 23.

CHAPTER 13: NEW GUINEA INTERLUDE 1. Gale article, “Crossing the Pacific Ocean, Part 1, May 1944,” in Lorio, “Strength from Above”; 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 14; 11th Airborne, 23. 2. “History: 11th Airborne Division,” 11th Airborne Division, 6. 3. Marks article, “SS Sea Pike May, 1944,” in Lorio, “Strength from Above”; 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 14. 4. Gale article, “Crossing the Pacific Ocean, Part 1, May 1944,” in Lorio, “Strength from Above”; 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 14. 5. Walker quoted in 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 15. 6. Gale article, “Crossing the Pacific Ocean, Part 1, May 1944,” in Lorio, “Strength from Above.” 7. Ibid. 8. 11th Airborne, 25. 9. “History: 11th Airborne Division,” 11th Airborne Division, 6; 11th Airborne, 25. 10. 11th Airborne, 25. 11. 11th Airborne, 26; “History of the 11th Airborne Division,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 4; “History: 11th Airborne Division,” 11th Airborne Division, 7. 12. “History: 11th Airborne Division,” 11th Airborne Division, 7. 13. 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 17; 11th Airborne, 26–27; Santos, “The Provisional Recon. Platoon—Spearhead of the Los Baños Raid,” [accessed August 9, 2007]. 14. Flanagan, Angels, 397.

342

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15. Nycum, “How I Remember It: Markham Valley, Nadzab, Hollandia,” [accessed July 21, 2007]; Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” 16. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” 17. Ibid. 18. Nystrom, “How I Remember It: Markham Valley, Nadzab, Hollandia.” 19. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal”; History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 8. 20. Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal.” 21. Britten, “Personal Letters.” 22. Ibid.; Riseley, “The Adjutant’s Journal”; History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 9; Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” 23. Flanagan, Airborne, 207. 24. History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 9. 25. Flanagan, Airborne, 207. 26. Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” 27. Flanagan, Airborne, 208. 28. Ibid.; History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 9. 29. History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 9. 30. Nycum, “How I Remember It: Markham Valley, Nadzab, Hollandia.” 31. Headquarters, 503rd Regimental Combat Team, “Unit History, March 42–Dec 44,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, INRG— 503-0.1; Headquarters, 503rd Parachute Infantry, Office of the Regimental Surgeon, “History of Medical Department Activities for Third Quarter 1944,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 1; Stanton, World War II Order of Battle, 411. 32. History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 15. 33. Ibid. 34. Ibid.; Britten, “Personal Letters.” 35. History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 15; Flanagan, Airborne, 208; Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” 36. History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 15; Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” 37. History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 15; Flanagan, Airborne, 209; Rottman, World War II Pacific Island Guide, 231–33. 38. Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” 39. Headquarters, 503d Parachute Infantry Office of the Regimental Surgeon, “History of Medical Department Activities for Third Quarter 1944,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 1; Flanagan, Airborne, 209.

CHAPTER 14: NOEMFOOR 1. Robert Ross Smith, The Approach to the Philippines (Washington, DC: Center of Military History, U.S. Army, 1993), 280–82. 2. Ibid., 397; Charles R. Rambo, “Drop Zone—Noemfoor Island,” [accessed May 21, 2007]. 3. Smith, Approach to the Philippines, 400–402. 4. Ibid., 401–3. 5. Ibid., 402–3. 6. Headquarters, 503rd Parachute Infantry, Office of the Regimental Commander, “Noemfoor Island (TABLETENNIS) Operation, 1 Sept. 44,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd PIR, 1.

Notes 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29.

30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35.

36.

37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

343

Smith, Approach to the Philippines, 398, 400. Headquarters, “Noemfoor Operation,” 503rd PIR, 1. Ibid. Smith, Approach to the Philippines, 412–13. Ibid., 397–409; Drea, New Guinea, 26. Smith, Approach to the Philippines, 408–9, 412. Ibid., 412; Headquarters, “Noemfoor Operation,” 503rd PIR, 2. Smith, Approach to the Philippines, 413. Headquarters, “Noemfoor Operation,” 503rd PIR, 2; Headquarters, U.S. Force, “Report of Investigation by Board of Officers on Casualties Resulting from Parachute Drops on 3–4 July 1944,” Alamo Force Operation “I” Tabletennis (Noemfoor Island) Operation, G-3 Journal No. 9, July 10–July 16, 1944, 1 (hereafter cited as Headquarters, “Casualties Investigation,” Alamo Force). Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” Ibid.; Smith, Approach to the Philippines, 413. Headquarters, “Casualties Investigation,” Alamo Force, 2; Smith, Approach to the Philippines, 413. Smith, Approach to the Philippines, 413. Ibid., 415. Rambo, “Drop Zone—Noemfoor Island”; Smith, Approach to the Philippines, 415; Headquarters, “Casualties Investigation,” Alamo Force, 2; Headquarters, “Noemfoor Operation,” 503rd PIR, 2. Headquarters, “Casualties Investigation,” Alamo Force, 2. Rambo, “Drop Zone—Noemfoor Island.” Devlin, Paratrooper!, 427, 429. Ibid., 429; Rambo, “Drop Zone—Noemfoor Island”; Headquarters, “Casualties Investigation,” Alamo Force, 2. Headquarters, “Casualties Investigation,” Alamo Force, 1, 2; Smith, Approach to the Philippines, 415. Headquarters, “Noemfoor Operation,” 503rd PIR, 2. Smith, Approach to the Philippines, 415. Headquarters, “Noemfoor Operation,” 503rd PIR, 2; Headquarters, “Casualties Investigation,” Alamo Force, 2, 3; History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 18; Rambo, “Drop Zone—Noemfoor Island.” Smith, Approach to the Philippines, 415. Headquarters, “Noemfoor Operation,” 503rd PIR, 1. Nycum, “How I Remember It: Our Jump on Noemfoor.” Headquarters, “Casualties Investigation,” Alamo Force, 1–2. Nycum, “How I Remember It: Our Jump on Noemfoor.” Headquarters, “Casualties Investigation,” Alamo Force, 2; “Operation Report, 2 July–31 August 44,” Alamo Force—Operation “I”—Tabletennis (Noemfoor Island) Operation, 10–11. Scott Long, “Getting Airborne: Vienna Man Serves in Parachute Infantry During World War II,” < [accessed July 11, 2006]. Smith, Approach to the Philippines, 416; Rambo, “Drop Zone—Noemfoor Island.” History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 18. Nycum, “How I Remember It: Our Jump on Noemfoor.” Smith, Approach to the Philippines, 416. Ibid.; Headquarters, “Noemfoor Operation,” 503rd PIR, 2; Headquarters, 503rd Regimental Combat Team, “Unit History, March 42–Dec 44,” Infantry Regiment

344

42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54.

55.

56. 57. 58. 59. 60.

BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 4. Many historians report that the 2nd Battalion, 503rd PIR, reached Noemfoor on July 11. The unit history and the operations report, both compiled by the office of the regimental commander, place the date as July 9, with the operations report even giving the time of 0930 hours. I have therefore decided to place the date of arrival of the 2nd Battalion on Noemfoor as July 9. Smith, Approach to the Philippines, 416–17; Rottman, World War II Pacific Island Guide, 245. Rottman, World War II Pacific Island Guide, 245. Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 61. Rottman, World War II Pacific Island Guide, 245. Smith, Approach to the Philippines, 419. Headquarters, “Noemfoor Operation,” 503rd PIR, 3. The Congressional Medal of Honor: The Names, the Deeds (Chico, CA: Sharp & Dunnigan Publications, 1988), 313; O’Donnell, Into the Rising Sun, 126–27. Headquarters, “Noemfoor Operation,” 503rd PIR, 3. Nycum, “How I Remember It: Our Jump on Noemfoor.” Smith, Approach to the Philippines, 422. Nycum, “How I Remember It: Our Jump on Noemfoor.” “History 1st Battalion,” 503rd PIR, 18; “Operation Report, 2 July–31 August 44,” Alamo Force—Operation “I”—Tabletennis (Noemfoor Island) Operation, 12. Britten, “Personal Letters.” Colonel Britten’s letter is dated “28 July 1944,” but this must be a mistake. The 503rd PIR did not begin encountering Japanese defenders dug into caves until after this date. Britten’s letter also mentions that his 2nd Battalion had been on the island for twenty-two days without a cooked meal. This is impossible if the battalion arrived on Noemfoor on July 9. Additionally, Krueger did not announce “Mission Successfully Completed” until around August 31. I therefore believe that Britten’s letter is incorrectly dated. Perhaps he meant August instead of July. Headquarters, 503d Parachute Infantry Office of the Regimental Surgeon, “History of Medical Department Activities for Third Quarter 1944,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 1. Headquarters, “Noemfoor Operation,” 503rd PIR, 4–5. Headquarters, “Casualties Investigation,” Alamo Force, 3. Rambo, “Drop Zone—Noemfoor Island.” Headquarters, “Noemfoor Operation,” 503rd PIR, 5. Headquarters, 503d Parachute Infantry Office of the Regimental Surgeon, “History of Medical Department Activities for Third Quarter 1944,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 3; Headquarters, 503D Regimental Combat Team, “Unit History, March 42–Dec 44,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 2.

CHAPTER 15: LEYTE FIREFIGHT 1. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 434. 2. M. Hamlin Cannon, Leyte: The Return to the Philippines (Harrisburg, PA: The National Historical Society, 1994), 3; Charles R. Anderson, Leyte: The U.S. Army Campaigns of World War II (Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1994), 7; Smith, Approach to the Philippines, 453.

Notes

345

3. Anderson, Leyte, 12; Dunnigan and Nofi, Victory at Sea, 577; Cannon, Leyte, 78; Michael Green, MacArthur in the Pacific: From the Philippines to the Fall of Japan (Osceola, WI: Motorbooks International, 1996), 92–93. 4. Cannon, Leyte, 125–33, 169–77. 5. Ibid., 176–77; 11th Airborne, 29; “History: 11th Airborne Division,” 11th Airborne Division, 8. 6. Flanagan, Angels, 105; “History: 11th Airborne Division,” 11th Airborne Division, 8. 7. 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 20; Flanagan, Angels, 105. 8. 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 20; Cannon, Leyte, 144–45. 9. Cannon, Leyte, 94, 99–102. 10. Flanagan, Angels, 116–17. 11. Ibid., 117; 11th Airborne, 30. 12. Ibid. 13. Flanagan, Angels, 117. 14. Ibid.; 11th Airborne, 31; 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 20. 15. 11th Airborne, 31; Flanagan, Angels, 117. 16. Renfroe account in 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 21–22; Renfroe account in LeRoy, From My Foxhole to Tokyo: The True Story of One Christian Combat Paratrooper (Boring, OR: CPA Book Publisher, 1992), 177. 17. Ibid., 22; Flanagan, Angels, 118. 18. Renfroe account in 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 22; Renfroe account in LeRoy, From My Foxhole to Tokyo, 177. 19. Flanagan, Angels, 118. 20. Ibid., 119. 21. Ibid. 22. Renfroe account in 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 22–23; Renfroe account in LeRoy, From My Foxhole to Tokyo, 177. 23. Flanagan, Angels, 118. 24. Ibid., 118–19. 25. Ibid., 122. 26. Ibid., 120. 27. Ibid. 28. Renfroe account in 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 23. 29. Flanagan, Angels, 118. 30. Ibid., 120, 122. 31. Ibid., 122. 32. Ibid. 33. Ibid.; “History of the 11th Airborne Division,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 12. 34. Flanagan, Angels, 123. 35. Ibid.; “History of the 11th Airborne Division,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 12. 36. Flanagan, Angels, 123. 37. Ibid., 122. 38. Deane E. Marks, “No One Smiles on Leyte,” [accessed May 5, 2007]. 39. Ibid. 40. Swan account in 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 20–21.

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41. 42. 43. 44. 46.

Flanagan, Angels, 124. Swan account in 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 21. Ibid. Marks, “No One Smiles on Leyte.” “511th Parachute Infantry Regiment Troopers Killed in Action during World War II,” [accessed May 5, 2007]; “Roll of Honor, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment,” [accessed June 9, 2007]. 47. Flanagan, Angels, 124.

CHAPTER 16: THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

8.

9.

10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

Flanagan, Angels, 128. Ibid., 130–31. Ibid., 131. Ibid., 131–34; Headquarters, 11th Airborne Division, “Ltr, The Cavalry School; Dtd 30 August 1946. Subj: Airborne Operations,” 11th Airborne Division, 1. Flanagan, Angels, 134. Ibid., 134–35; 11th Airborne, 33. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 10–12; “Type 97 81mm Infantry Mortar,” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Type_97_81_mm_ Infantry_Mortar> [accessed July 1, 2007]; “Type 92 Battalion Gun,” [accessed July 1, 2007]. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 12; LemaireSoft, “Encyclopedia of the Guns of World War II: 47mm Type 1,” [accessed July 1, 2007]; LemaireSoft, “Encyclopedia of the Guns of World War II: 75mm Type 94,” [accessed July 1, 2007]. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 12; “Combat Aircraft of the Pacific War: Nakajima Ki-49 Donryu—’Helen’,” [accessed July 1, 2007]. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 13. Ibid.; “Type 98 20mm AA Machine Cannon,” [accessed July 1, 2007]. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 13. Ibid.; “Tanks of World War II: Type 2 Ke-To,” [accessed July 1, 2007]. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 13–14; “Tanks of World War II: Type 94,” [accessed July 1, 2007]. Rottman, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 45–46. 11th Airborne, 34. Ibid. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 44, 45. Ibid., 45; Flanagan, Angels, 124–25; Cannon, Leyte, 297. Cannon, Leyte, 298; Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 45. Cannon, Leyte, 298.

Notes

347

22. Flanagan, Angels, 146; “Japanese Airborne Attack on Elements of the 11th A/B,” [accessed May 27, 2001]. 23. Lt. Gen. Edward M. Flanagan, The Angels: A History of the 11th Airborne Division, 1943–1946 (Nashville, TN: The Battery Press, 1988), 47 (hereafter cited as Flanagan, Angels 1943–46); Headquarters, 11th Airborne Division, “Operations Report Leyte: Section IV—Japanese Airborne Counterattack (5–11 December),” 11th Airborne Division, 12. 24. Flanagan, Angels 1943–46, 50; Muller, “Japanese Airborne Attack on Elements of the 11th A/B.”

CHAPTER 17: CAUGHT NAPPING 1. U.S. Army Infantry School, “The Development of Vertical Attack,” Infantry School Quarterly, 18; Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 47; Cannon, Leyte, 301. 2. Flanagan, Angels, 142; Flanagan, Angels, 1943–46, 48; 11th Airborne, 34. 3. Flanagan, Angels, 142. 4. Cannon, Leyte, 295–96. 5. 11th Airborne, 34; Flanagan, Angels, 147. 6. 11th Airborne, 34; Flanagan, Rakkasans, 35. 7. Flanagan, Rakkasans, 36; Flanagan, Angels, 146. 8. Flanagan, Rakkasans, 35, 36–37; Flanagan, Angels, 148; 11th Airborne, 34; Cannon, Leyte, 299–300. 9. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 46–47. 10. Ibid. 11. Ibid., 48; Flanagan, Angels 1943–46, 51. 12. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 48; Flanagan, Angels 1943–46, 50. 13. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 47, 57; Flanagan, Angels 1943–46, 51; 11th Airborne, 34. 14. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 47; Headquarters, 11th Airborne Division, “Operations Report Leyte: Section IV—Japanese Airborne Counterattack (5–11 December),” 11th Airborne Division, 13. 15. Flanagan, Angels, 154. 16. Cannon, Leyte, 302–3; 11th Airborne, 35. 17. Flanagan, Angels, 150. 18. Ibid., 152; Muller, “Japanese Airborne Attack on Elements of the 11th A/B”; “11th Airborne Division, G2 Periodic Reports—Leyte,” 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, December 6–7, 1944, 1; Headquarters, 11th Airborne Division, “Operations Report Leyte: Section IV—Japanese Airborne Counterattack (5–11 December),” 11th Airborne Division, 12. 19. Hayes quoted in O’Donnell, Into the Rising Sun, 158. 20. “11th Airborne Division, G2 Periodic Reports—Leyte,” 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, December 6–7, 1944, 1; Flanagan, Angels 1943–46, 49. 21. Ibid., 3. 22. Muller, “Japanese Airborne Attack on Elements of the 11th A/B”; Flanagan, Angels, 152. 23. Flanagan, Angels 1943–46, 50; “11th Airborne Division, G2 Periodic Reports— Leyte,” 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, December 6–7, 1944, 1; Flanagan, Angels, 152.

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24. Headquarters, 11th Airborne Division, “Operations Report Leyte: Section IV— Japanese Airborne Counterattack (5–11 December),” 11th Airborne Division, 13. 25. Flanagan, Angels, 150, 153. 26. Ibid., 153; Hayes quoted in O’Donnell, Into the Rising Sun, 158. 27. Flanagan, Angels 1943–46, 50. 28. Ibid.; Hayes quoted in O’Donnell, Into the Rising Sun, 158. 29. Hayes quoted in O’Donnell, Into the Rising Sun, 158; Flanagan, Angels, 155. 30. Muller, “Japanese Airborne Attack on Elements of the 11th A/B”; Flanagan, Angels, 153. 31. “11th Airborne Division, G2 Periodic Reports—Leyte,” 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, December 6–7, 1944, 1. 32. U.S. Army Infantry School, “The Development of Vertical Attack,” Infantry School Quarterly, 19. 33. Ibid., 18. 34. Flanagan, Angels 1943–46, 50. 35. Flanagan, Angels, 155; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 559. 36. Flanagan, Angels, 145. 37. Ibid., 156–57. 38. Flanagan, Angels, 154; Flanagan, Rakkasans, 41; “History: 11th Airborne Division,” 11th Airborne Division, 9; “11th Airborne Division, G2 Periodic Reports— Leyte,” 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, December 6–7, 1944, 1. 39. Hayes quoted in O’Donnell, Into the Rising Sun, 159. 40. Ibid.; Flanagan, Angels, 154. 41. Flanagan, Angels, 154, 155; Flanagan, Angels 1943–46, 51. 42. Flanagan, Angels 1943–46, 51. 43. Flanagan, Angels, 155, 156. 44. Flanagan, Angels 1943–46, 51; Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 48. 45. “History: 11th Airborne Division,” 11th Airborne Division, 10; “11th Airborne Division, G2 Periodic Reports—Leyte,” 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, December 6–7, 1944, 1, and December 7–8, 1944, 1; Muller, “Japanese Airborne Attack on Elements of the 11th A/B.” 46. Flanagan, Angels, 157.

CHAPTER 18: BURI AIRFIELD 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

Flanagan, Angels, 154; Flanagan, Rakkasans, 51. Flanagan, Angels, 157. Ibid. Ibid., 158. Ibid. Ibid., 158–59; 11th Airborne, 35. Flanagan, Angels, 159. Ibid., 159–60. Cannon, Leyte, 303. Ibid.; Flanagan, Angels, 157, 160. Flanagan, Angels, 160; “11th Airborne Division, G2 Periodic Reports—Leyte,” 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, December 6–7, 1944, 2. 12. Ibid.; Cannon, Leyte, 304.

Notes 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

25.

26.

349

Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 48. Ibid., 47; Cannon, Leyte, 301. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 48. Congressional Medal of Honor, 358. “11th Airborne Division, G2 Periodic Reports—Leyte,” 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, December 7–8, 1944, 1; Flanagan, Angels, 161. Flanagan, Angels, 161;”11th Airborne Division, G2 Periodic Reports—Leyte,” 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, December 8–9, 1944, 2. Flanagan, Angels, 161. Ibid. Ibid., 163; Cannon, Leyte, 304–5. Cannon, Leyte, 281, 283; U.S. Army Infantry School, “The Development of Vertical Attack,” Infantry School Quarterly, 19. Cannon, Leyte, 283–86, 305. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 48; U.S. Army Infantry School, “The Development of Vertical Attack,” Infantry School Quarterly, 19. “History of the 11th Airborne Division,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 13; Headquarters, 11th Airborne Division, “Operations Report Leyte: Section IV—Japanese Airborne Counterattack (5–11 December),” 11th Airborne Division, 14; Flanagan, Angels 1943–46, 51. Cannon, Leyte, 305.

CHAPTER 19: BY AIR AND BY SEA 1. Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 48–49. 2. Fumio Ohmura, “Account of Captain Fumio Ohmura, the commander of the Heavy Weapon Company of 4th Raiding Regiment on Leyte,” [accessed July 10, 2006]. 3. Ibid.; Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 49. 4. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 562; Congressional Medal of Honor, 321; Flanagan, Angels, 169–70. 5. Flanagan, Angels 1943–46, 55–60; 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 23–29. 6. “History of the 11th Airborne Division,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 14. 7. Ohmura, “Account of Captain Fumio Ohmura, the commander of the Heavy Weapon Company of 4th Raiding Regiment on Leyte.” 8. Ibid.; Rottman and Takizawa, Japanese Paratroop Forces of World War II, 51. 9. “History: 11th Airborne Division,” 11th Airborne Division, 12; Cannon, Leyte, 368; Flanagan, Airborne, 38. 10. Flanagan, Airborne, 38. 11. History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 21; “History of the 503rd Parachute Infantry, Phase IV, 23 Aug 43–29 Dec 44,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 4; Richard Hess, “World War II Memoirs of Richard Morton Hess: Dulag, Leyte, Philippines,” [accessed July 31, 2007]; Nycum, “How I Remember It: The Move to Leyte.” 12. History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 21; Hess, “World War II Memoirs of Richard Morton Hess: Dulag, Leyte, Philippines.” 13. Hess, “World War II Memoirs of Richard Morton Hess: Dulag, Leyte, Philippines.”

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14. Nycum, “How I Remember It: The Move to Leyte”; History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 21. 15. Andradé, Luzon: The U.S. Army Campaigns of World War II, 5. 16. “History 1st Battalion,” 503rd PIReg, 22; “Training Status Report,” Infantry Battalion History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Battalion, 3. 17. Dale Andradé, Luzon: The U.S. Army Campaigns of World War II (Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1992), 5–7; Robert Ross Smith, Triumph in the Philippines (Washington, DC: Center of Military History, U.S. Army, 1993), 48–49. 18. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 43, 52; “Training Status Report,” Infantry Battalion History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Battalion, 4. 19. Nycum, “How I Remember It: On to Mindoro”; History, 1st Battalion, 503rd PIR, 23–24; Andradé, Luzon, 9.

CHAPTER 20: TAGAYTAY RIDGE 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28.

Andradé, Luzon, 9. Ibid. Ibid., 11. Ibid. Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 68. Ibid. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 221–22. Ibid., 223. Ibid.; Flanagan, Angels, 38; LeRoy, From My Foxhole to Tokyo, 179; “History of the 11th Airborne Division,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 15–16. Flanagan, Angels, 38; 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 32. Flanagan, Angels, 38; Flanagan, Angels 1943–46, 67. 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 32; Flanagan, Angels, 40, 42; “Field Order #10, Operation Mike 6,” 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment. Flanagan, Angels, 218. Flanagan, Angels, 39; Memmel, “Nagsubu [sic],” [accessed Aug 1, 2007]. Flanagan, Angels, 39. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 224. Flanagan, Angels, 232–39. Ibid., 239; “Field Order #10, Operation Mike 6,” 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment. Flanagan, Angels, 239–40. Ibid., 40. Ibid., 245. Flanagan, Angels 1943–46, 75. Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 72. Flanagan, Angels 1943–46, 76; 11th Airborne, 40. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 227; 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 32. Memmel, “Nagsubu.” Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 227. Ibid.; LeRoy, From My Foxhole to Tokyo, 180; Miley quoted in Astor, Crisis in the Pacific, 521.

Notes

351

29. Flanagan, Angels, 245. 30. Miley quoted in Astor, Crisis in the Pacific, 521. 31. LeRoy, From My Foxhole to Tokyo, 180; Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 227; 11th Airborne, 40; Flanagan, Angels, 245–46. 32. LeRoy, From My Foxhole To Tokyo, 180. 33. Ibid.; Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 229. 34. Ibid. 35. Burgess quoted in Flanagan, Angels, 246. 36. Ibid.; Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 229; Astor, Crisis in the Pacific, 522. 37. Burgess quoted in Flanagan, Angels, 247. 38. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 227–28. 39. Flanagan, Angels 1943–46, 76 40. Ibid.; 11th Airborne, 42. 41. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 229–30. 42. Flanagan, Angels 1943–46, 77. 43. Astor, Crisis in the Pacific, 514; Bobb Tutt, “World War II Remembered: When MacArthur Returned to Manila,” Houston Chronicle (14 July 14 1995) 4; Ralph DioGuardi, “Santo Tomas Testament,” VFW Magazine (March 1988): 34–35. 44. 11th Airborne, 42. 45. Ibid. 46. “S-4 Journal (3 February to 1 July) Covering the Luzon Campaign,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment; Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 230. 47. Ibid.; 11th Airborne, 42; 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 32–33; Flanagan, Angels, 251. 48. 11th Airborne, 42; Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 230; 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 33. 49. Cole quoted in Flanagan, Angels, 256–57. 50. Flanagan, Angels, 256. 51. Cole quoted in Flanagan, Angels, 257; “S-4 Journal (3 February to 1 July) Covering the Luzon Campaign,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment. 52. 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 33. 53. Flanagan, Angels, 254. 54. Ibid., 254–55. 55. Ibid., 255. 56. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 228. 57. Ibid., 229.

CHAPTER 21: THE ROCK 1. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 578–81; Rottman, World War II Pacific Island Guide, 280; Edward T. Flash, “Operations of the 2nd Battalion, 503d Parachute Infantry Regiment in the Recapture of Corregidor Island, 16 February–23 February 1945,” [accessed August 3, 2007]; Donald A. Crawford, “Operations of 503d Parachute Regimental Combat Team in the Capture of Corregidor Island, 16 February–2 March 1945,” [accessed August 3, 2007]. 2. Crawford, “Operations of 503d PRCT.”

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3. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 335–36; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 580; U.S. Army Forces in the Far East, “Corregidor Island Operation, 16 Feb–8 Mar 1945,” 3. 4. Bradford, “Combat over Corregidor, Online: Talking It Over,” [accessed August 2, 2007]. 5. Hill, “The Operation of Company ‘E’, 503d Parachute Regiment at Wheeler Point, Island of Corregidor, Philippines Islands, 23 February 1945,” [accessed August 3, 2007]; Crawford, “Operations of 503d.” 6. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 581. 7. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 335. 8. Ibid., 338. 9. Ibid. 10. Blair, “Operations of the 3d Battalion, 503d Parachute Infantry Regiment in the Landing on Corregidor, P.I., 16 February—2 March 1945,” [accessed August 3, 2007]. 11. Bradford, “Combat Over Corregidor”; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific, 76. 12. Ibid.; Crawford, “Operations of 503d.” 13. U.S. Army Forces in the Far East, “Corregidor Operation, 16 Feb–8 Mar 1945,” 3; Blair, “Operations of the 3d Battalion.” 14. Ibid.; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 581–82; Crawford, “Operations of 503d”; Pacific Warfare Board, “Battle Experiences Against the Japanese,” General Staff G-2 Section, Intelligence Reports Numerical File 1943–1946, 4 September 1945, 2. 15. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 582; U.S. Army Forces in the Far East, “Corregidor Operation, 16 Feb–8 Mar 1945,” 3. 16. Ibid. 17. Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 77. 18. U.S. Army Forces in the Far East, “Corregidor Operation, 16 Feb–8 Mar 1945,” 3. 19. Crawford, “Operations of 503d.” 20. HEA Headquarters, 317th Troop Carrier Group, “Operations Instructions,” [accessed August 3, 2007]; Pacific Warfare Board, “Battle Experiences against the Japanese,” General Staff G-2 Section, Intelligence Reports Numerical File 1943–1946, 30 August 1945, 1. 21. U.S. Army Forces in the Far East, “Corregidor Operation, 16 Feb–8 Mar 1945,” 3; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 584. 22. Bradford, “Combat over Corregidor.” 23. Flanagan, Corregidor: The Rock Force Assault (Novato, CA: Presidio Press, 1995), 173. 24. Flash, “Operations of 2d Battalion”; Flanagan, Corregidor, 166–67. 25. Ibid.; Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 340. 26. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 332–34, 336. 27. Bradford, “Combat over Corregidor.” 28. Smith quoted in Flanagan, Corregidor, 172; Crawford, “Operations of 503d.” 29. Blair, “Operations of the 3d Battalion.” 30. Nycum, “How I Remember It: Corregidor—Day 1.” 31. Kenneth L. Hess, “World War II Memoirs of Richard Morton Hess: Corregidor Island, Philippines.”

Notes

353

32. “A Nisei on Corregidor,” [accessed May 6, 2007]; “Akune’s actions on Corregidor,” [accessed May 6, 2007]. 33. Akune quoted in O’Donnell, Into the Rising Sun, 197. 34. Nycum, “How I Remember It: Corregidor—Day 1.” 35. Powers quoted in Flanagan, Corregidor, 197. 36. Bradford, “Combat over Corregidor.” 37. Pacific Warfare Board, “Battle Experiences Against the Japanese,” General Staff G-2 Section, Intelligence Reports Numerical File 1943–1946, 25 August 1945, 1. 38. Ibid. 39. Flanagan, Corregidor, 191. 40. HEA Headquarters, 317th Troop Carrier Group, “Operations Instructions.” 41. Nycum, “How I Remember It: Corregidor—Day 1.” 42. Blair, “Operations of the 3rd Battalion”; Rodriquez quoted in Astor, Crisis in the Pacific, 540. 43. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 340. 44. Ibid. 45. Crawford, “Operations of 503d”; Blair, “Operations of the 3rd Battalion.” 46. Nycum, “How I Remember It: Corregidor—Day 1.” 47. Flanagan, Corregidor, 195.

CHAPTER 22: ROCK FORCE ASSAULT 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12.

13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

Erickson quoted in Flanagan, Corregidor, 195. Jones quoted in Ibid., 196. Flash, “Operations of the 2nd Battalion.” Bradford quoted in Flanagan, Corregidor, 198. Ibid., 199. Headquarters, 503d Regimental Combat Team, “Historical Report Corregidor Island Operation (Operation No. 48) 3 Feb–2 Mar 45,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 2. Ibid., 2; Flanagan, Corregidor, 201–3; “Journal of 503rd Parachute R.C.T.: 16 Feb 45,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment. Hess, “World War II Memoirs of Richard Morton Hess: Corregidor Island, Philippines.” Rodriquez quoted in Astor, Crisis in the Pacific, 540–41. Flanagan, Corregidor, 207. Ibid., 203–4. Ibid., 204; Regimental Medical Detachment, 503d Parachute Infantry, “Medical Section, Historical Report,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 1. Nycum, “How I Remember It: Corregidor—Day 1.” Flanagan, Corregidor, 205–6. Ibid., 197. Wilcox quoted in “PFC Duane Larson,” [accessed July 19, 2005]. Flanagan, Corregidor, 207. Arlis E. Kline, “Corregidor [1945],” [accessed August 3, 2007].

354

BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN

19. Spicer’s posthumous Silver Star citation in Headquarters XI Corps, “General Orders, Number 13, APO 471, 12 March 1945,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 4. 20. Calhoun, “Emmett R. Spicer, M.D.” in “The 503d PRCT Corregidor Honor Roll,” [accessed August 5, 2007]. 21. Flanagan, Corregidor, 208. 22. Ibid., 197. 23. Hanson’s Silver Star citation in Headquarters XI Corps, “General Orders, Number 13, APO 471, 12 March 1945,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 4. 24. Flanagan, Corregidor, 218; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 77. 25. Flanagan, Corregidor, 218. 26. Abbott quoted in Ibid. 27. Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” 28. Flanagan, Corregidor, 205; “Journal of 503rd Parachute R.C.T.: 16 Feb 45,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment. 29. “Journal of 503rd Parachute R.C.T.: 16 Feb 45,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment; U.S. Army Forces in the Far East, “Corregidor Island Operation, 16 Feb–8 Mar 1945,” 124; Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 339. 30. Flanagan, Corregidor, 206. 31. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 341; Flanagan, Corregidor, 211. 32. U.S. Army Forces in the Far East, “Corregidor Island Operation, 16 Feb–8 Mar 1945,” 128. 33. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 341–42. 34. Regimental Medical Detachment, 503d Parachute Infantry, “Medical Section, Historical Report,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 1; “Journal of 503rd Parachute R.C.T.: 16 Feb 45,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment; Flanagan, Corregidor, 215.

CHAPTER 23: SEIZING THE ROCK 1. Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” 2. Ibid. 3. William T. Calhoun, “Diary,” [accessed August 3, 2007]. 4. HEA Headquarters, 317th Troop Carrier Group, “Operations Instructions.” 5. Ibid.; Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” 6. Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” 7. Ibid. 8. Flanagan, Corregidor, 216–18. 9. Hill, “The Operation of Company ‘E’, 503d Parachute Regiment at Wheeler Point, Island of Corregidor, Philippines Islands, 23 February 1945”; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 78. 10. Ibid.; Flanagan, Corregidor, 220. 11. Millican narrative in Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” 12. Gibson quoted in Flanagan, Corregidor, 221–22. 13. Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” 14. Ibid. 15. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 588–89; Congressional Medal of Honor, 386.

Notes 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23.

24. 25.

26.

27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38.

355

Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” Ibid. Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” Hill, “The Operation of Company ‘E’, 503d Parachute Regiment at Wheeler Point, Island of Corregidor, Philippines Islands, 23 February 1945.” “Journal of 503rd Parachute R.C.T.: 16 Feb 45,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment. U.S. Army Forces in the Far East, “Corregidor Island Operation, 16 Feb–8 Mar 1945,” 137, 140. Ibid. “Journal of 503rd Parachute R.C.T.: 16 Feb 45,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment; Charles R. Rambo, “Fate of the Corregidor Flag,” [accessed August 6, 2007]. “Journal of 503rd Parachute R.C.T.: 16 Feb 45,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment; Blair, “Operations of the 3rd Battalion.” Regimental Medical Detachment, 503d Parachute Infantry, “Medical Section, Historical Report,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 1; U.S. Army Forces in the Far East, “Corregidor Island Operation, 16 Feb–8 Mar 1945,” 131. Regimental Medical Detachment, 503d Parachute Infantry, “Medical Section, Historical Report,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 1; Flanagan, Corregidor, 222. Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” Flanagan, Corregidor, 239. Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” “Journal of 503rd Parachute R.C.T.: 17 Feb 45,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 345; Headquarters 503d Regimental Combat Team, “Historical Report Corregidor Island Operation (Operation No. 48) 3 Feb–2 Mar 45,” Infantry Regiment History, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 4. Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units of the Pacific Theater, 79. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 588–89; Congressional Medal of Honor, 386. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 346–47. Ibid., 348; U.S. Army Forces in the Far East, “Corregidor Island Operation, 16 Feb–8 Mar 1945,” 131; Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 348–49. U.S. Army Forces in the Far East, “Corregidor Island Operation, 16 Feb–8 Mar 1945,” 125, 131; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 79. Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.”

CHAPTER 24: LOS BAÑOS 1. 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 34. 2. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 266–67; “History of the 11th Airborne Division,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 19. 3. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 267. 4. Flanagan, Angels, 272–73; 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 35. 5. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 268.

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6. Ibid., 273–74; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 575–76; Congressional Medal of Honor, 419–20; Flanagan, Angels, 282–83. 7. Flanagan, Angels, 46. 8. Ibid., 46–47; Lt. Gen. Edward M. Flanagan Jr., The Los Baños Raid: The 11th Airborne Jumps at Dawn (New York: Jove Books, 1987), 18; Anthony Arthur, Deliverance at Los Baños (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1985), 7; Astor, Crisis in the Pacific, 545. 9. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 26. 10. Ibid., 7–8. 11. Headquarters 11th Airborne Division, “Narrative of the Rescue of Internees at Los Baños Prison Camp by 11th Airborne Division on 23 February 1945,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 1. 12. Ibid.; Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 64; Arthur, Deliverance at Los Baños, 197, 203. 13. Headquarters, “Narrative of the Rescue,” 1–2; Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 64–67. 14. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 103–4. 15. Ibid., 109–10; Headquarters, “Narrative of the Rescue,” 2. 16. Headquarters, “Narrative of the Rescue,” 2. 17. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 117. 18. Ibid.; 11th Airborne Division, 511th Prcht Inf., “Phase V: Alabang, Reduction of Jap Pocket vic McKinley & Los Baños Raid, 20 Feb–3 March,” 18. 19. Ringler quoted in 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 37. 20. Ibid., 38; Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 120. 21. Ringler quoted in 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 37; Headquarters, “Narrative of the Rescue,” 2. 22. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 141; Arthur, Deliverance at Los Baños, 206–7. 23. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 125, 141–42; Arthur, Deliverance at Los Baños, 208. 24. Holzem quoted in Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 127. 25. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 129; Arthur, Deliverance at Los Baños, 147–53, 225–27; Roger Miller, “Carlos Palvarosa,” [accessed August 11, 2007]. 26. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 125. 27. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 126; Herbert J. Parker, “Through the Eyes of the Pilot,” [accessed May 24, 2007]. 28. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 134–35; Flanagan, Angels 1943–45, 95; Arthur, Deliverance at Los Baños, 221; Headquarters, “Narrative of the Rescue,” 3. 29. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 144. 30. Ibid., 144. 31. Ibid., 140; Headquarters, “Narrative of the Rescue,” 3. 32. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 141. 33. Ibid., 142, 145, 147n; Astor, Crisis in the Pacific, 546. 34. Holzem and Ringler quoted in Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 127, 132. 35. Holzem quoted in Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 127–28. 36. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 132, 142; Arthur, Deliverance at Los Baños, 227; Headquarters, “Narrative of the Rescue,” 3. 37. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 132, 144–45. 38. Ibid., 163, 171. 39. Ibid., 135–37. 40. Ibid., 138. 41. Santos, “The Provisional Recon. Platoon—Spearhead of the Los Baños Raid.” 42. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 147–48; Arthur, Deliverance at Los Baños, 227.

Notes

357

43. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 147; Arthur, Deliverance at Los Baños, 235–36; Headquarters, “Narrative of the Rescue,” 3. 44. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 147n.

CHAPTER 25: THE RAID 1. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 148. 2. Ringler quoted in 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 38; Parker, “Through the Eyes of the Pilot.” 3. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 155n. 4. Ibid., 148; Parker, “Through the Eyes of the Pilot.” 5. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 148. 6. Coleman quoted in Astor, Crisis in the Pacific, 546; Sass quoted in O’Donnell, Into the Rising Sun, 210. 7. Santos, “The Provisional Recon. Platoon—Spearhead of the Los Baños Raid.” 8. Parker, “Through the Eyes of the Pilot”; Ringler quoted in Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 155. 9. Coleman quoted in Astor, Crisis in the Pacific,161. 10. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 161; Headquarters, 11th Airborne Division, “Narrative of the Rescue of Internees at Los Baños Prison Camp by 11th Airborne Division on 23 February 1945,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 3. 11. Miller, “Carlos Palvarosa.” 12. Robert A. Wheeler, “The Angels Came at Dawn,” [accessed May 19, 2007. 13. Navy Historical Center, “Dorothy Still Danner: Oral Histories—U.S. Navy Nurse Prisoner of War in the Philippines, 1942–1945,” [accessed August 9, 2007]. 14. Ringler quoted in 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 38; Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 159; Sass quoted in O’Donnell, Into the Rising Sun, 210. 15. Ringler quoted in 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 38; Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 153. 16. Brooks quoted in Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 157–58. 17. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 155. 18. Burgess quoted in Ibid., 161. 19. Navy Historical Center, “Dorothy Still Danner: Oral Histories—U.S. Navy Nurse Prisoner of War in the Philippines, 1942–1945”; Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 161. 20. Rivers quoted in Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 159. 21. Ringler quoted in 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 38–39. 22. Sass quoted in O’Donnell, Into the Rising Sun, 210. 23. Navy Historical Center, “Dorothy Still Danner: Oral Histories—U.S. Navy Nurse Prisoner of War in the Philippines, 1942–1945.” 24. Burgess quoted in Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 163. 25. Ibid., 160; Sass quoted in O’Donnell, Into the Rising Sun, 210–11. 26. Kroeger quoted in Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 167. 27. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 163, 165. 28. Ibid., 164, 174. 29. Ringler quoted in 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 39; Navy Historical Center, “Dorothy Still Danner: Oral Histories—U.S. Navy Nurse Prisoner of War in the Philippines, 1942–1945.”

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30. Burgess quoted in Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 163. 31. Hettlinger, “The Los Baños Raid, How Did the Fire Start? Zippo,” [accessed August 11, 2007]. 32. Burgess quoted in Flanagan, Angels, 302–3. 33. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 164–65. 34. Ibid., 175. 35. Ibid., 175–76. 36. Navy Historical Center, “Dorothy Still Danner: Oral Histories—U.S. Navy Nurse Prisoner of War in the Philippines, 1942–1945.” 37. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 173–74. 38. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 172–73, 177. 39. Coleman quoted in Astor, Crisis in the Pacific, 548; Headquarters, “Narrative of the Rescue,” 3. 40. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 179. 41. Ibid., 180–81. 42. Ibid., 181. 43. Burgess quoted in Ibid., 183. 44. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 184. 45. Coleman quoted in Astor, Crisis in the Pacific, 548. 46. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 186. 47. Ibid., 187. 48. Flanagan, Los Baños Raid, 175–76; Soule quoted in Astor, Crisis in the Pacific, 547. 49. Flanagan, Angels, 305. 50. Headquarters, 11th Airborne Division, “Ltr, The Cavalry School; Dtd 30 August 1946. Subj: Airborne Operations,” 2; Headquarters, 11th Airborne Division, APO 468, “Luzon,” 3; 11th Airborne Division, 511th Prcht Inf., “Phase V: Alabang, Reduction of Jap Pocket vic McKinley & Los Baños Raid, 20 Feb–3 March,” 19. 51. Devlin, Paratrooper!, 610. 52. John Trumbo, “Ailing Veteran, Daughter of Woman He Rescued Meet,” [accessed August 9, 2007]. 53. Santos, “The Provisional Recon. Platoon—Spearhead of the Los Baños Raid.” 54. Wheeler, “The Angels Came at Dawn.” 55. Arthur, Deliverance at Los Baños, 258–61.

CHAPTER 26: THE LAST JUMP 1. Headquarters, 11th Airborne Division, APO 468, “Luzon,” 3; 11th Airborne Division, 511th Prcht Inf., “Phase V: Alabang, Reduction of Jap Pocket vic McKinley & Los Baños Raid, 20 Feb–3 March,” 19. 2. “History of the 11th Airborne Division,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 23. 3. Andradé, Luzon, 25. 4. Ibid., 25–26; “History of the 11th Airborne Division,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 23. 5. “History 1st Battalion,” 503rd PIR, 26; Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” 6. Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” 7. Ibid.

Notes

359

8. Ibid.; Andradé, Luzon, 10–13. 9. Andradé, Luzon, 15–16. 10. Ibid., 16–17; Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 604–5; Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” 11. Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” 12. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 606–7. 13. Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” 14. Reynolds quoted in Ibid. 15. Calhoun, “Bless ‘Em All: Company Histories of the 503d.” 16. Ibid. 17. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 607. 18. Ibid., 607–8; Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 87. 19. “History of the 11th Airborne Division,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 23. 20. Andradé, Luzon, 26, 28. 21. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 561–62. 22. Ibid., 569–70. 23. Ibid., 570; Headquarters, 11th Airborne Division, APO 468, “Luzon,” 6; “History of the 11th Airborne Division,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 24; Headquarters, Sixth Army, “Report of the Airborne Operations Carried out in the Vicinity of Aparri on 23 June,” 11th Airborne Division, 1. 24. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 570, 570n; Headquarters, Sixth Army, “Report of the Airborne Operations Carried out in the Vicinity of Aparri on 23 June,” 11th Airborne Division, 1. 25. “History of the 11th Airborne Division,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 24; Flanagan, Angels, 354; 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 43. 26. “History of the 11th Airborne Division,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 24; Flanagan, Angels, 354; 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 43. 27. Flanagan, Angels, 354; 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 43. 28. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 571; Flanagan, Angels 1943–45, 141; “History of the 11th Airborne Division,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 24. 29. Flanagan, Angels, 354; Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 571n. 30. Flanagan, Angels, 356; Devlin, Paratrooper!, 644. 31. Ibid.; “History of the 11th Airborne Division,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 24. 32. Headquarters, Sixth Army, “Report of the Airborne Operations Carried out in the Vicinity of Aparri on 23 June,” 11th Airborne Division, 1–2. 33. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 571; Flanagan, Angels, 356; “History of the 11th Airborne Division,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 24; Headquarters, Sixth Army, “Report of the Airborne Operations Carried out in the Vicinity of Aparri on 23 June,” 11th Airborne Division, 2. 34. Ibid.; Burgess quoted in Flanagan, Angels, 356. 35. Smith, Triumph in the Philippines, 571. 36. Flanagan, Angels, 356–57. 37. Headquarters, Sixth Army, “Report of the Airborne Operations Carried out in the Vicinity of Aparri on 23 June,” 11th Airborne Division, 4.

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38. Flanagan, Angels 1943–46, 143. 39. Rottman, U.S. Airborne Units in the Pacific Theater, 17; Stanton, World War II Order of Battle, 265. 40. Ibid. 41. Ibid. 42. Stanton, World War II Order of Battle, 234; Salmaggi and Pallavinisi, 2194 Days of War, 743–44. 43. Flanagan, Angels 1943–46, 147. 44. Flanagan, Angels, 367. 45. Ibid., 371–72; Salmaggi, 2194 Days of War, 745. 46. Abbott, “A Condensed History of the 503rd Parachute Regimental Combat Team”; Stanton, World War II Order of Battle, 263.

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“History of the 11th Airborne Division.” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment. “11th Airborne Division, G2 periodic Reports—Leyte,” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment. 11th Airborne Division, 511th Parachute Infantry “Phase V: Alabang, Reduction of Jap Pocket vic McKinley & Los Baños Raid, 20 Feb–3 March.” Headquarters 11th Airborne Division. “Narrative of the Rescue of Internees at Los Baños Prison Camp by 11th Airborne Division on 23 February 1945.” Infantry Regiment History, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment. Headquarters, 11th Airborne Division. “Ltr, The Cavalry School; Dtd 30 August 1946. Subj: Airborne Operations.” Headquarters, 11th Airborne Division. “Operations Report Leyte: Section IV—Japanese Airborne Counterattack (5–11 December).” Headquarters, 11th Airborne Division, APO 468. “Luzon.” Headquarters, Sixth Army. “Report of the Airborne Operations Carried out in the Vicinity of Aparri on 23 June.” “History: 11th Airborne Division.” Headquarters, U.S. Force. “Report of Investigation by Board of Officers on Casualties Resulting from Parachute Drops on 3–4 July 1944.” Alamo Force Operation “I” Tabletennis (Noemfoor Island) Operation, G-3 Journal No. 9, July 10–July 16, 1944. “Operation Report, 2 July–31 August 44.” Alamo Force—Operation “I”—Tabletennis (Noemfoor Island) Operation. Pacific Warfare Board. “Battle Experiences against the Japanese.” General Staff G-2 Section, Intelligence Reports Numerical File 1943–1946. U.S. Army Forces in the Far East. “Corregidor Island Operation, 16 Feb–8 Mar 1945.”

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Index

Page numbers in italics indicate illustrations Blumfield, Paul E., 125 Bossert, William T., 122, 127, 131 Bradbury, Max H., 113 Bradford, Charles H. “Doc,” 251–61, 262–71 Brayton, Lawrence S., 267 Britten, John W., 109–10, 159, 169–70 Broadwell, R. E., 115, 117–18, 120 Brown, Leo, 79 Burauen airfields, 209, 210–20 Burgess, Henry A., 237–45, 282–93, 294–306, 312–14 Buri airfield, 213, 221–27 Burma, 102 Burt, Robert E., 264

Abbott, Donald E., 269 Adachi, Hatazo, 130 Aiken, Louis G., 118, 121–22, 127, 128 Airborne Command, 87 aircraft CG-13 glider, 204 CG-4A glider, 204 Curtis C-46, 204 Douglas C-47, 98, 201, 204 gliders, 140, 199, 201 Piper L-4, 205 Stinson L-5, 205 Air Transport Command, 88 Akune, Harry M., 257–58, 268 Alamo Scout School, 151 Allen, Lloyd, 203 Alphonsa, Sister Mary, 196 Amaty, Andrew, 120, 122 Anderson, Donald G., 289, 294 Aparri gliders at, 199 parachute drop, 198 smoke screen laid down at, 199 Armstrong, Robert, 111, 123 Arnold, Henry H. “Hap,” 73 Arrigo, Frank Guy, 276

Cabanatuan prison camp, 283 Calhoun, William T., 154, 161–62, 275, 277, 308, 309, 310 Camalaniugan airfield, 311–14, 312 Camp Mackall, 139 Camp Polk, 146 Camp Stoneman, 90, 148 Camp Sudest, 155–56 Caskey, Lawson B., 255, 273 Castillo, Jesse S., 264 Castillow, Rosendo, 286 Cavanaugh, Steve, 247 Celebes Island, 8–9 Chase, Richard, 86 Chenevert, Alan H., 289, 298, 303 China, Japanese invasion of, 23 Clark, Ernest C., Jr., 253 Clayton, Alan, 111 Clearwater, Harry D., 202 Cohn, Hans, 221 Cole, Edward J., 247 Coleman, Art, 295, 297, 303, 304–5 Connolly, Robert V., 311

Bailey, William T., 274 Baker, Leslie, 31, 39–40 Balikpapan, capture of, 50 Barnes, Richard V., 182 Bassett, James A., 77 Bates, Clyde I., 276 Bernheim, Eli D., Jr., 173 Bilibad Prison, 283 Bismarck Sea, Battle of the, 104 Bito Beach, 173 Blair, John H., III, 253 Blake, William E., 263

369

370

BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN

Coral Sea, Battle of the, 103 Corregidor, 252 after drop, 71 artillery piece at Battery Wheeler on, 69 assault, 262–71 before drop, 69 casualties, 280 drop zones on, 69, 265 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment landing on, 206, 207, 208 Japanese counterattack on, 278–80 Japanese forces on, 270 plans and and preparation to recapture, 250–61 pre-invasion bombardment of, 260 raising American flag over, 276 seizing, 272–80 Topside, 250, 265 Crawford, Donald A., 253, 255 Crawford, Leo, 147 Creegan, O. D., 40 Cyclops Airdrome, 156 Danner, Dorothy Still, 298, 299, 300, 301, 302 Davis, Douglas C., 216, 219 del Valle, Pedro A., 75 Devlin, Gerard M., 73, 306 Dobodura, New Guinea, encampment, 150–51 Doerr, Jean P., 270 Doolittle, James H. “Jimmy,” 102 Dulag airfield, 67, 209, 212, 231–33 Dulag church, 67 Dutch West Timor, 50–60, 55 Eben Emael, 75 Eberhardt, Aubrey, 78 Eichelberger, Robert, 230–31, 245 18th Antitank Battery, B Troop, 51 Eighth Army, 308 82nd Airborne Division, 90 Eisenhower, Dwight D., 105–6 11th Airborne Division, 138–43, 149, 205, 216, 281–82, 307 Knollwood Maneuvers, 136–37 Leyte invasion and, 173–85 in Luzon, 234–49, 235 Manila area of operations, 246

nickname, 145 on Okinawa, 316 training, 142, 145–48 11th Parachute Maintenance Company, 312–13 Elwood, David, 168 Employment of Airborne and Troop Carrier Forces, 135, 159 Erickson, John R., 159, 253, 262, 268, 276 Eubank, Ray E., 168 Export Control Act, 23 Falcon, Davis P., 128 Farnsworth, Clayton B., 222–23 Farren, James, 216 Fifth Air Force, 216 54th Troop Carrier Wing, 151, 159–60, 315 Filipino people, crimes against, 306 1st Cavalry Division, 173 1st Glider Infantry Regiment (GIR), 191 1st Guerrilla Company, 191 1st Marine Amphibious Corps, 144 1st Marine Parachute Battalion, 83, 84–85, 88, 103 1st Marine Parachute Regiment, 144–45 1st Raiding Brigade, 14, 19, 49 1st Raiding Group, new table of organization, 189–90 1st Raiding Regiment, 14, 25, 48–49 1st Rifle Company, Palembang capture, 42–49 501st Parachute Infantry Battalion, 80, 84 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment (PIR), 91 502nd Parachute Infantry Regiment (PIR), 87 503rd Parachute Infantry Battalion, 85 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment (PIR), 87, 90, 91 accomplishments of, 133–34 assembling, 121–24 in Australia, 106 baptism of fire, 131–33 Corregidor assault, 272–80 Corregidor command post, 207

371

Index Corregidor landing, 206, 207, 208 Eberly Plantation stay, 156 first combat jump, 112–23 jump casualties, 125–26, 277 Kamiri drop, 161–66 landing in kunai grass, 120–21 Nadzab airfield mission, 127–30 New Guinea mission, 151–56 Noemfoor invasion, 157–71 Noemfoor jump injuries, 164 Noemfoor landing, 208 Operation Cartwheel and, 107–11 parachute drop problems, 170–71 2nd Battalion deployment, 88 Topside jumps, 273–76 503rd Parachute Regimental Combat Team (PRCT) Corregidor mission, 251–61, 262–71, 280 deactivation of, 317 at Dulag airfield, 231–33 jump casualties, 271 near Wheeler Point, 70 Negros jumps, 308–11 Topside jumps, 262–69 504th Parachute Infantry Battalion, 86 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment (PIR), 90, 105 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment (PIR), 89, 105 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment (PIR), 89 507th Parachute Infantry Regiment (PIR), 89–90 508th Parachute Infantry Regiment (PIR), 90 509th Parachute Infantry Battalion, in Algeria, 105 511th Airborne Signal Company, 142, 188–93, 216, 312–13 511th Medical Detachment, Tagaytay Ridge mission, 237–45 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment (PIR), 138–39, 146–48, 186, 213, 281–82, 307 aboard Sea Pike, 149–50 advance on Manila, 246 at Aparri, 200, 201 attack on, 181 Camalaniugan mission, 311–14

casualties, 185 Dobodura encampment, 150–51 Leyte mission, 173–85, 229–33 Leyte mountains firefight, 175–85 Los Baños mission, 282–93, 294–306 maneuvers, 146–47 men of, on Leyte, 67 rescue of, 183–85 Tagaytay Ridge jumps, 68, 241–44, 249 Tagaytay Ridge mission, 236–45 training, 151 541st Parachute Infantry Regiment, 315–16 550th Airborne Infantry Battalion, 84 Flanagan, Edward, 315 Flash, Edward T., 259, 262, 268 Fletcher, Bob, 287, 288 Fletcher, William M., 237 Fort Benning, 62, 86 4th Marine Parachute Battalion, 144 4th Raiding Regiment, 191, 221–26, 228–29 41st Infantry Division, 157 408th Airborne Quartermaster Company, 140, 143, 216 433rd Troop Carrier Group, 288 457th Parachute Artillery Battalion, 141 457th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion, 143, 237–45, 247–48, 285, 289, 295–306, 312–12 462nd Parachute Field Artillery Battalion, 155, 171, 255, 270 472nd Glider Field Artillery Battalion, 285, 289 Frew, S. L., 119 Fryar, Elmer E., 229 Fujishige, Masatoshi, 293, 306 Gale, Miles W., 149 Gambrell, Thomas R., 264 Gibbs, Joseph W., 290, 294, 301 gliders. See aircraft Gloucester mission, 153–54 Grigg, Martin C., 220–26 Griswald, Oscar W., 234 Guadalcanal, 103 Gulsvick, Edward, 274

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BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN

Halsey, William F. “Bull,” 107, 172 Hammerich, Edward A., 147 Hanson, John A., 268 Haugen, Orin D., 138, 179–85, 186, 237–45, 282 Hendrickson, Helen, 306 Henry, Eldon W., 177 Hess, Richard Morton, 231, 257, 263–64 Hettlinger, Walter, 302 Hill, Hudson C., 273–74 Hoffman, John T., 81, 197 Holcombe, Frank, 237–45, 246–49 Holcombe, Thomas, 75–76, 79 Holloway, Milton R. “Jelly-Belly,” 187, 209 Holzem, Jim, 287, 290–91, 305 Honie, Norman B., 176 Hood, Frank, 39 Hoskas, Lukas E., 217, 219 Hover, David L., 239 Hovis, Logan W., 166, 264–65 Howard, Marcellus J., 83 Howell, George P., Jr., 84, 87 Humphris, Colin, 53, 54 Huon Peninsula, attack on, 108 Irvin, Lesley, 86 Irvin Air Chute Company, 86 Itagaki, Akira, 266, 270 Jackson Airdrome, 152 Jacomini, Clement H., 124 Japanese Kembu Group, 234 Jeffries, Ivor Malcolm Terence, 32 Johnson, Chris, 275 Johnson, Johnny, 36 Jolly, Eustis A., 219 Jones, George M., 71, 110, 137, 153, 251–56, 259, 262–71 Jones, Harlan P., 306 jumpmaster, duties of, 113–14 Kalamas, Michael J., 213–14, 215–16 Kamiri Airfield, 158 Kelley, Ova A., 225 Kelly, Terence, 32 Kenney, George C., 108, 113 Keys, Ancel, 93 Kindley Field, 250

King, Ernest J., 145 King, Willian N. “Red,” 78 Kinsler, Kenneth, 90, 109–11, 129, 152–53 Kline, Arlis E., 267 Knollwood Maneuvers, 136–37 Knox, Cameron, 159 Knox, Frank, 79 Kobiska, John, 106 Konishi, Sadaaki, 306 Kozlowski, Chester, 186 Kroeger, Sister Louise, 301 Krueger, Walter, 151, 157, 169, 198, 234, 250–61, 311–14 Kure 1st Special Naval Landing Force (SNLF), 52–59 Lackey, John, 253, 259 Lae, 107, 130–31 LaFlamme, Ernie, 175, 178 Lahti, Edward H., 148, 178–85, 236, 282, 285–86, 313 Lambert, H., 34 Lang, J. T., 119 Langoan Airfield, Japanese invasion of, 1–7 Larson, Duane, 267 LaVanchure, William E., 269 Lee, William C. “Bill,” 73, 78, 84, 87, 90 Leggatt, William Watt, 50 LeRoy, Bob, 241, 242–43 Leyte, 228–33 aerial battles, 227 Buri airfield defense, 221–27 casualties, 185, 230 central, 174 firefight in central mountains of, 175–85 invasion of, 172–85 Japanese attack on, 191–92 Japanese plans to seize airfields on, 209–10 Japanese problems during invasion of, 217 last Japanese jump on, 228–29 men of 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment on, 67 results of mission on, 227 San Pablo airstrip on, 67 Lindsay, Charles A., 264

Index Lockwood, Bill, 33 Log Crossing, fighting around, 132–33 Los Baños Internment Camp, 194, 282–93, 300 incidents, 292 internees, 196 plans and preparations for raid on, 284–93 raid, 195, 296, 298–305 success of raid on, 305–6 units selected to carry out raid on, 285 LVT-4 alligators, 194, 195 Lynch, George A., 72 MacArthur, Douglas, 71, 103–4, 105, 113, 120, 130, 134, 153–54, 230, 232, 234, 280, 305, 308 Corregidor mission, 250–61 Leyte mission, 172–85 Operation Cartwheel and, 106–11 Operation Table Tennis and, 157–71 prison camps rescues, 283 McCarter, Lloyd G., 275, 278–79 McCarthy, Francis, 291 McDonough, Robert C., 81 McEntee, Ducat M., 315 McGowan, Glenn, 138, 194, 197 Mackall, John T., 139 McKnight, Robert R., 265–66 McNair, Lesley J., 87, 134 Macnamara, Ting, 33, 34, 35–36, 39 Maguire, H. J., 40 Malaya, 102 Manarawat mesa, 186–93 Manarawat Ridge, 66 Manila, 234, 245, 246–49 Markham Valley, 63, 108, 116 Marks, Deane E., 183 Marshall, George C., 72, 78, 134 Memmel, Carl, 238, 241 Merriman, Helen, 306 Mesereau, Thomas, 176–85 Midway, Battle of, 103 Miles, Prentice Melvin “Pete,” 286 Miley, William M., 80, 81, 82, 87, 241, 242 Miller, Roger, 287, 297 Millican, Fitzhugh R., 274

373 Mindoro, 232–33 Muller, Henry J. “Butch,” 141, 192, 194, 197, 202, 215, 217, 219, 220, 283–93 Murnane, Wally, 123 Murphy, Lyle M., 132 Nadzab airfield, 120 accomplishments of attack on, 134 activities, 127–30 airborne drop at, 65 American jump at, 112–26 casualties, 133 invasion of, 64-65 results of attack on, 133–34 wild firefight at, 127–28 Neff, Donald, 180 Negros, 308–11 Netherlands East Indies, 102 New Guinea, 149–56 Allied invasion plans for, 103–4 Australians in, 103 Japanese plans for, 104 Japanese troops on, 159 Noemfoor Island, 157–71, 158 C-47s approaching, 63 casualties, 167, 170 drop at, 62 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment landing on, 208 invasion of, 160–69 main objective of, 158 parachute drop problems on, 170–71 preparations for invasion of, 157–60 North Africa, Allied invasion of, 105 Nycum, Chester W., 152, 165, 168–69, 231, 233, 257, 258, 260, 261, 266 O’Brien, Richard F., 118, 121 Ohmura, Fumio, 228–29, 230 Olivetti, Michael G., 176, 177 101st Airborne Division, 90 101st Experimental Research Unit, 10 127th Airborne Engineer Battalion, 142, 216, 285, 288, 289, 291, 294–306, 312–13 149th Infantry Regiment, 218, 220–26 152nd Airborne Antiaircraft Battalion, 175, 216

374

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158th Regimental Combat Team (RCT), 157–71, 307, 308 161st Airborne Engineer Battalion, 70, 171, 254, 255 187th Glider Infantry Regiment (GIR), 140, 143, 174–85, 186–93, 211, 202, 221–26, 229–30, 281-82, 307 188th Airborne Infantry Battalion, 86 188th Glider Infantry Regiment (GIR), 140, 143, 175–85, 281–82, 285, 289, 307, 316 Operation Cartwheel, 106-11 Operation Husky, 105 Operation L, 30 Operation Table Tennis, 157–71 Operation Torch, 105 Osborne, Allen W., 219 Osipoff, Walter S., 81 Pacific War events leading up to, 22–24 first American combat parachute drop of the, 117–23 first American paratrooper to die from enemy fire during, 131 Japanese surrender, 317 Palembang, 27, 44 Allied defenses at, 28 analysis of raid on, 47–48 capture of, 42–49 evacuation of, 45 Japanese invasion of, 25–28, 29–30 Palvaros, Carlos, 287–88 Panay, assault on, 309 Pangkalanbenteng Airfield (P1) air battle over, 33 invasion of, 29–41 plan to capture, 25–28 results of attack on, 47–48 Papuan Infantry Battalion, 128 parachutes, 92, 99–100 development of, vi–xiii Japanese, 15–16 static-line, 73–74 Parachute Test Battery, 88–89 Parachute Test Platoon, 75, 76–77 control of, 79–80 training of, 77–79 paratrooper doctrine, x–xiii paratroopers, German

capture bridge near Corinth, Greece, 83–84 capture of Crete, 84 paratroopers, Japanese, 61 antitank weapons, 18 combat equipment, 17–18 combat parachute drops of WWII, 4 evaluation of parachute drops by, 318, 319–20 firing on, 3–4 first drop by, 1–7 formation of army and navy, 10–21 helmuts, 16–17 insignias, 17 landing near Usua, 61 on Luzon, 62 organization of, 20–21 parachute type used by, 15–16 rations, 19–20 in the sky, 62 training, 11 transportation units, 19 uniforms, 16 weapons carried by, 4–5 paratroopers, U.S. Army, 76–77, 81–82 creation of, 72–86 equipping, 87–101 evaluation of parachute drops by, 318–19, 320 first to die from enemy fire, 131 ineffectiveness of, 105–6 injured, 63 jumpmaster duties, 113–14 last jump of, 307–17 loading onto C-47s, 63 Marine Corps, 76, 81, 203 Marine Corps on Guadalcanal, 203 Marine Corps with weapons, 203 qualifications of, 75, 80–81 training, 81 uniforms, 81–82 Parker, Herbert J., 288, 294–95, 296–306 Parker, James A. “Ace,” 223 Parker, John M., 125 Patrick, Edwin D., 160–71 Patton, George S., 94 Pearson, George, 211, 221–26 Pearson, Johnnie, 110

Index Penfui Airfield, 50, 51, 53 Perez, Manuel, 282 Pergamo, Paul J., 218 Pershing, John J., 97 Petzelt, Norman F., 274 Philippines, 102 Powell, Ken, 32 Powers, John J., 258 Praboemoelih Airfield (P2), 27 Prosser, John Tassman, 57 Provisional Division Reconnaissance Platoon, 285 Provisional Parachute Group, 82 Quandt, Douglas, 145, 182, 183, 188, 194, 239–45, 283–93 Rabaul, insolation of, 106–11 Raiding Flying Regiment, 26 Raiding Training Unit, 11–15 Rambo, Charles R., 163, 170 Reeves, Hugh H., 118 Renfroe, Colbert, 176, 180 Reynolds, John, 310 Rich, Donald E., 268 Ringler, John M., 285–86, 290, 294, 296–306 Riseley, Jerry, 109, 112–26, 127–30, 152 Rivers, Bill, 299 Roberts, William N., 128 Robertson, Ian George, 111, 123, 129–30 Rodriguez, Reynaldo, 118, 260, 264 Rogers, Gerald S., 125–26 Roosevelt, Franklin D., embargo on crude oil, 24 Rosenthal, Joe, 306 Rottman, Gordon L., 75, 235, 316 Russo-Japanese War, 22 Ryder, William T., 76–77 Safe Parachute Company, 76, 77 Saida, Chisaku, 191 Salamaua, 107, 130–31 San Jose, 250 San Pablo airstrip, 67, 214–17 Santos, Terry, 151, 239, 292, 295, 306 Sasebo Combined Special Naval Landing Force (CSNLF), 2 Sass, Charles, 295, 296, 301

375 Schilmöller, B. F. A, 2 2nd Attack Group, 26 2nd Glider Infantry Regiment (GIR), 191 2nd Marine Parachute Battalion, 83, 143–44 2nd Raiding Brigade, on Luzon, 190–91 2nd Raiding Regiment, 14, 25–28, 30–41, 61 2nd Rifle Company, 38 17 Mile Camp, 152 17th Airborne Division, Knollwood Maneuvers, 136–37 79th Light Antiaircraft Battery Royal Artillery, British, 52 711th Airborne Ordnance Maintenance Company, 140, 216, 312–13 Shell Oil BPM facilities, 42–43 Shipley, Norman, 178–85 Shirai, Tsuneharu, 191, 209, 221–26, 230 “Shorty Ridge,” 240 Sicily, invasion of, 105 Sink, Robert F., 85 Sixth Army, Corregidor mission, 250–61 65th Troop Carrier Squadron, 288, 294 637th Tank Destroyer Battalion, 285 672nd Amphibious Tractor Battalion, 285, 290, 295–306 674th Glider Field Artillery Battalion, 140, 217, 219, 247 675th Glider Field Artillery Battalion, 140, 285, 289 Skau, George E., 245, 289–93, 296–306, 316 Smith, Frank, 291, 305 Smith, Holland M., 85 Smith, Magnus L., 256, 257 Smith, Robert Ross, 161, 278, 280, 312, 314 Solomons, 103 Soule, Robert H. “Shorty,” 240, 285, 289, 302, 305 Sparrow Force, Australian, Dutch West Timor defense, 50–52 Spicer, Emmet R., 267–68 Stadtherr, Nick, 187, 237 Standard Oil NKPM facility, 42–45

376

BLOSSOMING SILK AGAINST THE RISING SUN

Steele, Robert C., 247 Stevens, Thomas, 263 Stimson, Henry L., 78, 136 Stout, Roy, 194 Strong, John, 237–45 Sutherland, Richard K., 113 Suzuki, Sosaku, 191, 209–10, 230 Swan, Harry, 183–84 Swift, Innis P., 234 Swing, Joseph, 66, 106, 134–35, 139, 151, 180, 181, 186–93, 202, 211, 214, 216, 217, 220, 229–49, 282–93, 313, 315, 316, 317 Swing Board, recommendations of, 135–36 Switlick Parachute Company, 86 Tacloban airfield, 209 Tagaytay Ridge, 68, 234–45, 243 3rd Marine Parachute Battalion, 144 3rd Raiding Regiment, 191, 221–26 3rd Rifle Company, in Palembang, 46 34th Infantry Regiment, 161 317th Troop Carrier Group, 253, 256, 313 382nd Infantry Regiment, at Buri airfield, 221–26 Tipton, Norman E., 177, 318 Todd, Philip, 273, 275 Tokunga, Kenji, 190–91 Tokyo, bombing of, 102 Tolson, John J. “Jack,” 110, 117, 132, 163, 170 Tominaga, Kyoshi, 212 Trevena, A. G., 51 Tripartite Pact, 23–24 Troepencommando Manado Force, 2 Tsukada, Rikichi, 234 Tweedale, Harry, 31, 32 2/1st Fortress Company, 51 2/1st Heavy Artillery Battery, 51 2/2nd Independent Company, 50–51 2/2nd Pioneer Battalion, 119, 128 2/4th Field Artillery Regiment, 110–11, 123 2/6th Engineer Field Company, 119, 128 2/11th Field Company, 51 2/12th Medical Detachment, 51

2/40th Australian Infantry Battalion, 50–51 24th Infantry Division, 173 221st Airborne Medical Company, 143, 188–93, 237–45, 246, 312–13 228th Infantry Regiment, Timor mission, 52–59 229th Infantry Regiment, 38th Infantry Division, 45, 46–47 Uren, Tom, 56 Usua Ridge, 58 Valencia airfield, 228 Vance, Robert T., 144 Vandegrift, Alexander A., 145 Vandivort, Arthur C., 168 Varner, Merkel, 178 Vasey, George, 107–8, 129–30 Veale, William C. D., 51–52 Vincent, S. F., 37 Voils, Steve, 78–79 Wakefield, Archie, 31 Walker, Lee E., 150 War Department Training Circular 113, 135 weapons Browning .30-caliber M1919A4 machine gun, 96 .45-caliber semiautomatic pistol, 97 hand grenades, 98, 100 knives, 97–98, 100–101 M1903 Springfield rifle, 95 M1918A2 Browning automatic rifle, 96 M1941 Johnson .30-caliber semiautomatic rifle, 100 M1 carbine, 95 M1 Garand rifle, 94–95 M3 submachine gun, 96 mortars, 96–97 Thompson M1928A1, 95–96 West Dutch Timor, 52–59 Wheeler, Robert A., 297–98, 306 White, Robert H., 106 Whitney, Courtney, 291, 301 Whittington, Allie B., 132 Wilcox, James, 267 Williams, Earl, 268

377

Index Williams, Robert H., 83, 84–85 Wilson, Donald, 106 Wojewodzic, Edward T., 131 Woods, Robert H., 255, 277 Wylie, James E., 176, 177 Yalu village, 132–33 Yamamoto, Isoroku, 103 Yamashita, Tomoyuki, 174, 209–10

Yarborough, William P., 82 Yokosuka 1st Special Naval Landing Force (SNLF), 1–7, 10–11, 60 Yokosuka 2nd Special Naval Landing Force (SNLF), 10–11, 60 Yokosuka 3rd Special Naval Landing Force (SNFL), 11, 50, 52–59, 60 Ziler, William D., 265

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