Filling an essential gap in the understanding of warfare during World War II, author Donald E. Anderson describes life as a young enlisted man in Hawaii prior to the bombing of Pearl Harbor when he had only six months left in his tour. In Combat Infantry, he provides an emotional and firsthand account of the Pearl Harbor bombing and his next four years of service as he fought disease and injury, spending time in New Caledonia and New Zealand. A member of the 35th Regiment, 25th Division, he captures in vivid detail the fighting in the jungles of Guadalcanal and later, five months of continuous combat on the island of Luzon in the Philippines. Anderson describes the grueling combats and deprivations faced by army infantrymen to liberate the islands. Anderson tells of a soldier's world that was confined to muddy foxholes, a dustclouded stretch of mined road, or a rocky, fog-shrouded mountain ridge where fear and fatigue took its toll. In Combat Infantry, he pays tribute to those who were killed in action. They are not just names carved on a stone monument, but living, breathing souls who gave their lives for freedom.

Combat Infantry

A Soldier's StoryBy Donald E. Anderson D.E. Anderson Jr.

Trafford Publishing

Copyright © 2011 Donald E. Anderson and D.E. Anderson Jr.
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4269-6877-8

Contents

Foreword.................................................ixAcknowledgments..........................................xiii1. Rising Sun............................................12. To the Shores of Paradise.............................213. The 'Canal............................................394. Into the Green Hell...................................515. Devil's Den...........................................776. Dust to Dust..........................................897. Jungle Juice, Typhoons and Cigars.....................958. Deliverance...........................................1139. Warriors Go Forth.....................................13310. Valley of Shadows....................................14911. In the Midst of Lions................................17312. Blood and Steel......................................19313. Victory at the Quarter-Moon..........................21114. Whirlwind............................................21715. Attrition............................................23516. Unsung...............................................24317. The Siege of Balete Pass.............................25718. Fire from the Heavens................................27319. Last Journey.........................................28520. New Beginning........................................301Epilogue.................................................305

Chapter One

Rising Sun

She emerged from the cloud layer and swept past us and over the lagoon, a magnificent white flying boat. Banking slightly, her engines changed pitch as the pilots brought her in for a landing on the blue-grey water.

We anxiously waited; the only sounds were the idling engines, the lapping of waves against the low concrete seawall and the scuffing of the watchers' shoes as they snuffed out cigarettes that joined a carpet of others. The sense of foreboding was as thick as the clouds blanketing the island's rim and the surrounding ocean.

We impatiently crowded the dock, as fledgling chicks might await their mother, clamoring to receive the first morsels, snapping them up with expectation of more. Our waiting band of soldiers and sailors sought valuable global news. On this day, there was none.

The Philippine Clipper was one of three flying boats with passenger routes between the West Coast of the United States and the Pacific Islands: Pearl Harbor in Oahu, Hawaii, Wake Island to the west of the Hawaiian Islands and on to the Philippines.

In July 1941, we had been training and preparing for a possible conflict with Japan, but when and where? There was never enough news or information to be had. Of course, everyone had an opinion or knew the latest "straight dope" from on high. Rife with rumor and wild speculation, these tidbits were mostly guesswork pieced together from other speculation, embellished as it made the rounds.

Our outfit, the 25th Infantry Division, stationed at Schofield Barracks outside Honolulu would be facing the Japanese somewhere in the vast Pacific.

As a driver for my company commander, I had embarked on an extensive survey of our fighting positions with Captain James Dalton. We sat eating lunch in silence, high on a ridge, overlooking Honolulu and the naval base at Pearl Harbor. I asked him the question that had been gnawing at me for months.

"Sir, are we going to war with Japan?"

He looked me in the eye and nodded, sadness clouding his face.

"Yes, there's no way around it."

"When, do you think?" I asked, dreading an answer.

"By Christmas. Intelligence reports that Germany is trying twenty-four hours a day to convince Japan to enter the war. The War Department wants to reinforce all our positions in the Pacific but the people in Congress don't want to offend the Japanese."

He turned away and gazed out over the vast, bustling expanse of Pearl Harbor.

We had no way of knowing that the plans for the destruction of our fleet at Pearl Harbor were already under way by the Japanese. They knew the only way to possibly have a chance of winning the coming conflict was to cripple our fleet before it sailed out to meet their invasion forces in the Pacific. A simultaneous strike on the Philippines, Guam, Wake and Hawaii would not only divide our forces, but without a fleet to escort troop convoys, reinforcement would not be possible.

The first week of August, we went on full alert, assigned to roving patrols with half-ton Chevy pick-up trucks. There was a driver and noncom in front, and four armed men in the back with a pedestal-mounted 30 caliber machine gun. Everyone carried live rounds. We drove four hours on, four hours off, around the clock, usually out in the boonies.

We stopped and checked every bridge and culvert. At night, we used paver lanterns to check the superstructures for explosives and communication junction boxes in remote areas. To prevent any observers from plotting our movements, we constantly changed our patrol patterns. This lasted for twelve weeks.

In November, we were suddenly taken off alert status and our weapons and ammunition were locked up. Everything reverted back to normal.

Two weeks later we had a full dress parade for the Japanese Emissary, Saburo Kurusu. He was on his way to Washington to confer with our government concerning the growing tensions between the United States and Japan. Stopping off at Hawaii, he was given a first-hand look at our troops and weapons. Perhaps our leaders considered this a show of strength to impress Japan with a parade of power. With war rumors thicker than ever, this show didn't go over very well with the troops: a violation of the old street fighter's adage; never lead with your chin.

Following the parade, I was given two weeks leave to go to the big island of Hawaii, where Kilowea military rest camp was located. It was great to get a real break from the grinding rotation on Oahu.

The camp was built on the slopes of the Mauna Loa Mountains. We visited the observatory and were shown the seismograph that measured tremors inside the volcano. We hiked over the mountains and visited the town of Hilo, looking much like an old western frontier town. When the weather was overcast and drizzling, we went to a café and enjoyed hot buttered rum with cinnamon sticks, and just sat around shooting the breeze. There really wasn't much else to do. I guess that's why it was called a "rest camp."

It seemed as if I'd only been there a few days when it was already time to return to Schofield Barracks, just in time for Thanksgiving dinner. That Sunday, November 30, our outfit was invited to have lunch aboard the battleship Arizona at Pearl Harbor. As an inter-service exchange program, some of her sailors visited Schofield Barracks at the same time.

The Arizona's sailors gave us a guided tour of the entire ship. We walked for what seemed like miles through hatches, down corridors, up and down ladders, in and out of the massive gun turrets—everything sparkling, gleaming, polished and spotless. It was a magnificent ship and they loved her. After she was lost in the attack, I often thought about all the men who had treated us so warmly. In a few days most of them would be killed and entombed forever when the ship was hit and sunk in the attack.

The following week was a normal routine: no alerts or motorized patrols. We felt that we should at least be on alert status: have our weapons and ammunition available, not locked up. If anything happened, how would we get the keys to the Arms Room? The supply sergeant didn't live at the barracks, nor did our colonel. The Officer of the Day was supposed to be available at all times, but each day he went home and let the Sergeant of the Guard take over the responsibilities. We were to find one man on the Post and convince him to give us the keys to the Arms Room? It was ludicrous.

On December 5, I received a bomb from home, a "Dear Don" letter from my girlfriend. She was getting married at one o'clock on December 7, 1941. My buddy from Maine also received one from his girlfriend. We both went off base together and drowned our sorrows. Somewhere in the mix, we each got a tattoo, a large American eagle with Hawaii, 1941 in red, white and blue scrollwork grasped in its claws. In a few days, I wouldn't need a tattoo to remind me.

Saturday, December 6, dawned bright and clear. Details were finished up, equipment squared away and plans made for our day off: Sunday, December 7. My buddies and I had a pass to go into town, no details. We could kick back and enjoy another beautiful day in the Islands. Most of our discussions centered on what we would be doing the following day. I had only six more months to go before I could go home.

December 7, 1941

7:00 am—I was out of my bunk and ready to wash and shave. The sun was shining; it was a beautiful day, and I had a pass to go to town. I returned to the squad room and dressed in my "civvies." I was one happy dogface. No duty, no driving, just a day off to relax and have a good time. My two buddies and I walked down to the mess hall. I picked up my dishes and silverware. Moving along the line, I asked the server for eggs over-light, bacon and toast, then picked up a bottle of cold milk. We walked over to a table and sat down together; it was going to be great, all right. One whole day on the town and no duty. As we turned our attention to our bacon and eggs, I said, "Yeah, just watch some sonofabitch screw it up."

7:50 am—Suddenly the scream of a diving plane shattered the quiet morning, getting louder and louder. Thinking it was one of our planes from Wheeler Field in trouble, I said, "Oh, Christ! He's going to crash!"

We jumped up and ran to the door.

Just as we stepped out, there was a tremendous explosion. Glancing up, we saw a plane fly over us, large red meatball markings on the wings. I smelled the sharp, biting stink of explosives from the bomb he had just dropped.

The screeching sound of diving planes was joined by the heavy stutter of 20mm cannon shells. Chunks of cement flew from the barracks walls as the shells impacted in vicious, sparking lines around the quadrangle. Men ran to break into the locked supply room to grab weapons and ammunition.

My buddies and I decided to try and get to the motor pool to disperse our vehicles. Like sitting ducks, perfectly lined up next to each other. Running across the open ground, I heard planes diving on us for another attack. We kept running as fast as we could, intent on reaching the vehicles before they were destroyed. We needed every vehicle to repulse an invasion on the beaches.

The low flying enemy planes curved in and started strafing before we could reach the motor pool. We threw ourselves down on the ground as shells from their machine guns and cannon ripped into the neatly manicured lawn all around us as chunks of dirt, grass and shrapnel flew in all directions. But we weren't hit.

As soon as the planes swept by, we jumped up and ran like the devil himself was after us—which he was. We made it to the cabinet where all the keys were kept for the vehicles. I thanked God—it was unlocked.

I grabbed my keys and ran like hell for my truck. I saw a plane firing at me, so I swerved and dove headlong into a drainage ditch, tumbling heavily into the bottom. Hugging the side towards the strafing plane, I felt the jarring impact of 20mm cannon shells striking the other side of the ditch.

As he flashed by, I saw the pilot looking down at me. I jumped up, trying to reach my truck again, when another plane angled in towards me—hanging a bomb and heading straight for the lines of nearby vehicles. I hit the dirt and flattened out, waiting for the explosion that would send me to oblivion—

Praying as loudly as I could, I watched the plane scream in. I heard a loud "click" as the bomb dropped free of its shackles. Time crawled as the ugly black shape of the bomb fell towards me. The banking plane passed just overhead, its huge wing markings obscenely brilliant. The bomb exploded nearby on the other side of the motor pool with a tremendous earth-shaking blast, vomiting dirt and grass skywards.

An instant before the pilot dropped his bomb he banked sharply to avoid a tall tree directly in his path. The violent movement threw off the trajectory of the bomb, causing it to miss. The Japanese pilot was concentrating on watching me. At the last possible moment he threw his plane to the right, barely missing the tree. Fortunately, he also missed our vehicles.

Jumping up again, I dashed to my truck, jammed the key in the ignition and started the engine. I looked up, hearing the sound of another plane cruising in. The enemy fighter was gliding over at about fifty feet, as if he was at an air show. As unconcerned as if he was over his own airfield, he grinned at me like we were old buddies. He wore a tight-fitting leather flying helmet and goggles with a long, pure white scarf streaming back along his open canopy. I wasn't as mad at him, as much as I was at the incompetence of the turkeys who had taken us off alert status and disarmed us.

As the enemy planes flew off, I drove my truck into a field and ran back to the barracks as quickly as I could. Just then, one of our planes flew over. It was a P-40 that must have been at one of the auxiliary airfields on the other side of the island. Guys had started firing at him, so he kept banking to show everybody his markings. I could see the white stars on his fuselage as he flashed past. They looked mighty good to me. So far, all we had seen were Japanese.

I was still in my "civvies," so I ran up to the squad room, quickly changed into my uniform and grabbed all my equipment. An officer told me to get three trucks and report to the base hospital. We ran to our vehicles, threw all our equipment in the back and raced off to the hospital. The attendants tied large Red Cross flags over our trucks' grills and told us to go to Diamond Head to pick up medical supplies and head back as quickly as possible.

While the enemy planes were hitting us, their second strike formations had been attacking the naval base and the surrounding airfields at Wheeler, Hickam, Bellows, Ewa and Kaneohe. The B-17s, fighters, observation planes, and flying boats were hit and burning before anyone could react.

Bombs, bullets and cannon shells made short work of the hangers, vehicles and runways. Clouds of thick, black smoke rose everywhere from the blasted ruins. Only a few of our aircraft managed to get airborne from small satellite fields. The devastation was complete. Rows of planes, parked closely together, were destroyed. Burning fuel set them on fire, and one after another they blew up, throwing debris hundreds of feet in the air.

High numbers of casualties at the airfields were due to so many new men arriving from the States, they had to be quartered in the hangers because the barracks were overcrowded. Some of the Japanese planes flew straight down the runways at a height of fifty feet or less, firing into the hangers as men struggled to escape the infernos around them. The mess halls were also full when they received bomb hits.

The Air Corps had just completed building revetments around the airfields to protect the planes from just such an attack, but every Saturday the planes were arranged in nice, even lines for inspection. Why weren't they moved into the revetments after the inspection?

Since the attack, the most prevalent explanation was that the planes were lined up close together to keep them safe from sabotage, as Japanese spies roamed the island, bent on destroying every plane before they took off. There was only one real spy arrested after the attack.

All the rest were phantoms.

We drove past our barracks as our outfit loaded on vehicles and prepared to move out. As we sped past, everyone held up two fingers, flashing the "V for victory" sign. Pulling onto the road, we were sickened by the stench of burning flesh, mixed with smoke and cordite from exploding munitions—still over a mile away from the airfield where the slaughter was taking place,

Racing by Wheeler Field, we were shocked by the terrible scene. Mutilated bodies were strewn about on the runways amid scattered debris from shattered buildings. Flames leaped from the wreckage of the riddled aircraft, easy targets. Men were dragging the wounded away from exploding planes and vehicles, trying to save as many as they could before the Japanese planes returned for another sweep.

The first strike, consisting of fighters, dive-bombers, torpedo planes and high level bombers, hit Pearl from the west and south. The second wave struck from the east, north and northeast. Sweeping in on our ships, they blasted them one after another. Caught in the anchorage, the battleships, cruisers, and destroyers were unable to escape because most of them didn't have their boilers on line, ready to steam. Sporadic firing from the ships couldn't stop the torrent of explosives from the wave-hugging Japanese aircraft.

Using specially designed, shallow-running torpedoes, they decimated the heavy ships, exploding and settling where they were docked. Burning oil spread over the surface of the water, killing men who had either been blown overboard or jumped to escape the flames from bomb explosions.

Thousands of soldiers, sailors and marines died trying to stop the savage attack. Civilians killed in the indiscriminate strafing of vehicles, schools and houses by marauding aircraft, lay scattered about in bullet-riddled cars, yards, stores, and streets.

Our tiny convoy raced toward Honolulu as fast as the vehicles would go. Miles before we arrived we could see the enormous, billowing black clouds from Pearl Harbor, tinged with dark red and yellow. We drove past at 40 miles-per-hour and then slowed to 20 in the city itself, through thick, choking smoke from Hickam Field and the burning oil and exploding ammunition from the blasted ships in the harbor. Pearl looked like an exploding volcano, spewing flames and burning debris.

I couldn't believe the terrible carnage before my eyes. I didn't want to believe it. Beautiful Honolulu was blanketed with smoke, blotting out the sun. The gentle tropical breezes had been replaced by the stench of burning oil and death.

From Honolulu, we drove up to Diamond Head. Our trucks were loaded with supplies without leaving our vehicles or even shutting down the engines. Retracing our route at the same speeds, we made two round trips on our mercy missions, and returned to Schofield to hook up our anti-tank guns.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Combat Infantryby Donald E. Anderson D.E. Anderson Jr. Copyright © 2011 by Donald E. Anderson and D.E. Anderson Jr.. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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