Richard Kelly’s Journey through World War II

Forward: A Brother’s Loss and the Call to Enlist (1941-1942)

In early 1942, Richard Kelly—like many young Americans—found his world upended by the news of Pearl Harbor. Yet for him, the call to arms held a more personal and wrenching edge: his older brother, Hugh L. Kelly, had died while serving in the Army Air Corps. Official records attributed Hugh’s death to a tragic stateside training accident, but Richard and much of his grieving family believed otherwise—that sabotage by the Japanese had brought down his brother’s aircraft. Grief soon hardened into anger and resolve.

Richard’s decision to enlist in the United States Marine Corps was driven not only by patriotism but also by the conviction that his brother had been murdered. Decades later, he would recall the moment he learned the news: “My uncle says, ‘You have to come home… your brother is dead.’ I couldn’t believe it. After that, I quit my job in Watertown, saw a sign that said, ‘Join the Marines,’ and I did.”

The loss of his brother was not just a personal tragedy—it was the abrupt and heartbreaking end to a hard-fought family effort to secure a better future. Hugh had been a junior at Clarkson College on a football scholarship, a testament to both his athletic talent and determination. Richard, whose own educational path had been less certain, had taken a different route: when the opportunity arose to work at a papermill, he left school to help support his brother’s education. Even though Hugh’s scholarship covered his tuition, the cost of living and additional expenses remained a challenge, and Richard took it upon himself to ensure his brother could continue.

Richard briefly attended Plattsburgh State, where he met his future wife, but financial struggles quickly forced him to make a difficult choice. With the family barely making ends meet, he sacrificed his own education, focusing instead on earning money so his brother—who had just one year left—could finish college. His mother, an ironworker, also contributed what she could, working tirelessly to keep the family afloat. Their modest home, a small “White House” next to McBride’s bungalow, served as a constant reminder of their struggles.

Richard found work in the mines and later as a driller in Watertown. It was there that his world came crashing down. The phone call that changed everything delivered the worst possible news—his brother had been killed. Hugh had been so close to finishing college, so close to the future they had all sacrificed for, until his plane went down in Florida just a few months after Pearl Harbor.

Stricken, angry, and convinced his brother’s death was no mere accident, Richard turned away from the life he had built—his job, his brief time in college, and the future they had envisioned as a family—and set off to confront the enemy directly. Enlisting in the Marines was not just an act of duty; it was an act of defiance, fueled by loss, anger, and an unshakable determination to honor his brother’s memory.

[More information about the crash]

From Civilian to Marine: Training and Deployment

In the spring of 1942, the Marine Corps sent me to boot camp at Parris Island, South Carolina. Boot camp was a rude awakening. The transformation from a frightened, determined recruit to a disciplined Marine was nothing short of grueling. From before dawn until long after dusk, drill instructors barked orders that echoed off the barracks walls. They drilled into us the fundamentals of military life: strict discipline, instant obedience, military courtesy, close-order drill, and the never-ending duty of standing guard. The instructors—tough and relentless—pushed us both physically and mentally. I recall running obstacle courses in the sweltering Carolina heat, doing endless sets of push-ups in the soft, unforgiving sand, and marching for miles with heavy packs that seemed to weigh as much as the burden of my own grief.

One vivid memory still burns in my mind: the weapons instructor, his face set in a permanent scowl, would roar, “This rifle is your best friend!” He insisted we take apart and reassemble our rifles over and over until we could do it blindfolded. Every evening on the rifle range, as we practiced our marksmanship—steadying our breathing, squeezing the trigger with precision—I couldn’t help but think of my brother with every bulls-eye I hit. That focus and determination helped me earn my Expert Rifleman badge, a small honor that carried the weight of personal vengeance and the promise that I would honor Hugh’s memory.

Boot camp wasn’t merely about physical endurance; it was about forging a new identity. For eight punishing weeks, every grueling drill and every punishing physical test chipped away at the old me. By the time I graduated as a U.S. Marine, my family back home proudly displayed my photo in dress blues—a symbol of honor and achievement. Yet behind that confident pose lay a teenager who had been pushed to his limits, a young man whose heart was still aching from the loss of his brother, and whose life had been irrevocably changed by the war.

After Parris Island, I was sent to advanced infantry training—a stark, even harsher environment where the stakes were even higher. Here, under the tutelage of combat veterans fresh from Guadalcanal, we learned small-unit tactics, bayonet fighting, hand-to-hand combat, and the intricate procedures for amphibious landings. These veterans drilled into us every hard-learned lesson from the brutal battles against the Japanese: never take anything for granted and never, ever underestimate your enemy.

By early 1943, I was assigned to a newly formed unit preparing for deployment. The war was raging on multiple fronts, but the Pacific theater was particularly fierce—the Japanese were still on the offensive. I longed to get into the fight, to do my part not just for my country but also to avenge Hugh’s death. That opportunity arrived mid-1943 when volunteers were urgently needed for a dangerous mission in the remote, frozen Aleutian Islands of Alaska. The Japanese had seized two islands—Attu and Kiska—in 1942, the only American soil, apart from Hawaii, under enemy occupation. Driven by duty and by a personal thirst for retribution, I volunteered without hesitation.

Assignment to Grove City, Pennsylvania: Electronics School and Life in the Signal Battalion

After the grind of boot camp, Grove City, Pennsylvania, was an unexpected turn. I had been sent there, along with a group of other Marines, to study electronics as part of the Signal Battalion. We arrived with little idea of what to expect, only knowing it had to be better than Parris Island. The town itself was quiet—maybe too quiet. No alcohol, no salons, and not much in the way of entertainment. There were thirteen churches, though, which told you everything you needed to know about Grove City’s idea of recreation.

The first few days were consumed with training, but in the back of our minds, we all longed for some kind of respite. Mac McDonald, a sharp-witted Marine from Boston, voiced what we were all thinking. “Fellas,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead, “can you even imagine how good a cold beer would taste right now?” After two months in the relentless Southern heat, it was a thought that stuck with us like an itch we couldn’t scratch.

Unlikely Fellowship and an Impromptu “Church” Meeting

On Saturday, Mac had an idea. “We may as well go to confession,” he said. “Clean the slate.” None of us were particularly devout, but in a town with little else to do, confession seemed as good an excuse as any to get out.

We found the church easily enough, but when we arrived, the doors were locked. We stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do next, when a woman passing by pointed us toward the house next door. “The folks who live there go to this church,” she said. “If anyone knows when it’s open, it’ll be them.”

So we knocked, and sure enough, the man who answered the door welcomed us in without hesitation. “I have a son in the Navy,” he said, leading us downstairs to a large recreation room. Then he opened a refrigerator—a big one, packed to the brim with cold beer. “Care for one?” he asked.

We hesitated for all of half a second before accepting. We sat there for hours, talking, drinking, and eating sandwiches, grateful for the unexpected hospitality. By the time we returned to the barracks, we were relaxed—maybe too relaxed. When someone asked where we had been, Mac smirked. “Church,” he said. That got a few laughs.

Eventually, we confessed the truth, much to the envy of the other Marines. That was the last time any of us associated Grove City with strict rules and somber reflection.

Further Training and Early Bonds: The Story of Frank and Gary

From Grove City, I was sent to communications school in North Carolina, where military life settled into a strange rhythm—long hours of training punctuated by moments of absurdity. One of those moments belonged to Gary.

Gary had a habit of taking shortcuts where none existed. One morning, a Marine barked, “Who took my clean shirt?” After a few moments of searching, the culprit was obvious. Gary, grinning like a kid caught stealing cookies, shrugged. “Mine were dirty,” he said, as if that settled the matter. Somehow, he always got away with things like that.

But his luck didn’t hold out forever. Gary got married, and the wedding night became the stuff of legend. He had booked a nice hotel in New York City, planning for an elegant start to married life. His wife, famished after the long day, asked for a sandwich. That’s when things went wrong.

Gary went downstairs, ran into a few fellow servicemen, and was immediately roped into a celebratory drink. “Just one,” he told himself. Then came another. Then another, as the Army boys joined in. Then the Navy. Then the Air Force. By the time Gary realized what had happened, he was blackout drunk and being carried to his hotel room by his friends. His bride took one look at him, kicked him black and blue, and left by morning.

“That,” Gary admitted later, rubbing his ribs, “was the shortest marriage in history.”

In the midst of all these misadventures, I met Frank. He was different—quieter, steadier. Where Gary saw an opportunity for trouble, Frank saw the weight of what lay ahead. We became close, though I didn’t yet realize how deeply his story would mark me.

Deployment Overseas and the First Taste of Combat

Training could only prepare us for so much. Eventually, orders came, and we were shipped out. The war was waiting.

In those first months overseas, rules were bent and sometimes outright broken. Gary, ever the opportunist, smuggled a camera with him, convinced that capturing battlefield photographs would earn him a promotion. Instead, it earned him a demotion. He proudly showed his pictures to the first sergeant, who showed them to the lieutenant, who passed them to the captain. “Get me the man who took these,” the captain said. Gary straightened his uniform, expecting a stripe. Instead, he returned to us looking like a kicked dog. “They busted me down to private,” he muttered.

Then came the day I still remember with absolute clarity. After an intense night of bombardment, a bomber radioed in, requesting an emergency landing. It was a fighter strip—not built for bombers—but the pilot had wounded aboard. He wasn’t asking for permission; he was coming down.

We watched as he skimmed the ocean, barely touching down at the strip’s edge, his tail still hanging over the water. He rolled fast, too fast, and we all thought he wouldn’t make it. But somehow, by some miracle, he stopped just short of the end. They unloaded the wounded, and a few days later, he prepared to take off the same way. Again, we held our breath. Again, we were sure he wouldn’t make it. Inch by inch, he lifted that plane into the sky, barely clearing the water. As he flew over the island, he tipped his wings in salute.

“That,” I remember saying, “was the greatest piece of flying I’ve ever seen.”

First Major Combat: Seizing Japanese Territory

Our first real operation was brutal. The Japanese had held the island for years, and they weren’t going to give it up easily. The trenches were dug into coral, the kind of terrain that shattered men’s bodies before bullets even reached them. The air was thick with artillery fire, and one bomb landed with such force that it left a crater big enough to be a swimming pool.

And then there was Frank.

The night before we landed, he pulled me aside. His voice was steady, but there was something in his eyes. “I’m dying tomorrow,” he said.

I tried to brush it off. “We all feel that way before an operation.”

He shook his head. “No. I know it.” He handed me an extra set of dog tags. “Take these to my mother. Tell her I loved her.”

I promised, even as I told myself he was wrong.

The next day, the barrage started. When it stopped, we advanced, crawling through smoke and chaos. As I passed a foxhole, a Marine looked up at me. “Your buddy got hit in the last barrage,” he said.

I turned.

Frank was there, still, covered, already gone.

Later, I kept my promise. I delivered his dog tags. I told his mother what he had asked me to say. But to this day, I still hear his voice—calm, certain, accepting.

War took so much from us, but that moment, that promise—I’ve carried it ever since.

Aleutian Outpost: Kiska in the Fog of War (Summer 1943)

After months of grueling training at Fort Ord under the legendary General Holland “Howlin’ Mad” Smith—whose amphibious warfare strategies would later shape modern military tactics—I found myself aboard a transport ship once again, this time sailing through the unforgiving North Pacific seas in July 1943. The destination remained a mystery at first, but the rumors were strong. Then, the orders came: Kiska.

Kiska, a remote, wind-lashed island in the Aleutians, had been occupied by the Japanese since June 1942. Alongside Attu, it was one of the few pieces of American soil seized by the enemy, and high command was determined to reclaim it. The operation would be a joint effort—the U.S. Army’s 7th Infantry Division and Canadian forces would spearhead the invasion, while a detachment of Marines, including myself, was attached to assist in amphibious landings and provide security. It was one of the rare moments of direct Allied cooperation in the Pacific.

The Aleutian weather was unlike anything we had trained for—howling winds, impenetrable fog, and freezing rain that seeped into your bones. Intelligence estimated that as many as 5,000 Japanese troops were still dug into Kiska’s ridges and trenches, having endured months of American bombardment. We braced for a brutal fight.

On August 15, 1943, under the cover of thick gray fog, the Allied fleet began its assault. Battleships and cruisers rained shells onto the island, targeting suspected enemy positions. Planes screamed overhead, dropping payloads on the ridges. Then came the order:

“Land the landing force!”

Bundled in thick wool uniforms, gripping our M1 rifles, we clambered down cargo nets into the landing craft, muscles straining against the rough seas. My heart pounded as we approached the shore. I thought of my brother, hoping I would make him proud.

The landing craft scraped against the rocky beach. We leapt into the frigid water, rifles ready. But no gunfire met us. No mortar rounds, no machine guns—nothing.

We moved cautiously inland, expecting an ambush. Trenches lay empty. Foxholes, abandoned. The scattered remains of rations and supplies gave the impression that the Japanese had only just vanished. And in truth, they had.

Unbeknownst to us, the Japanese had secretly evacuated Kiska just two weeks earlier, slipping away under the cover of night on July 28. The enemy had disappeared, leaving only booby traps, unexploded ordnance, and eerie reminders of their occupation—empty huts, discarded rifles, even a small Shinto shrine.

At first, we didn’t believe it. We waited for gunfire to break the silence. But none came. Then, someone laughed, and a cheer broke out. We had taken Kiska without firing a shot.

Our relief was premature. The fog, confusion, and nerves soon turned deadly.

That first night, in the suffocating mist, some Canadian and American units mistook each other for the enemy. Gunfire erupted between friendly forces, echoing through the desolate terrain. In the aftermath, 28 Allied troops were dead or wounded—not at the hands of the Japanese, but by their own comrades.

The sea carried its own dangers. As our Navy ships patrolled Kiska’s harbor, the destroyer USS Abner Read struck a Japanese mine. The explosion tore the stern from the ship, killing 71 American sailors and wounding 47 more. Even an unopposed landing could turn into tragedy.

But Kiska wasn’t just another assignment for me. It was where my role in the war shifted.

Working with the 13th Canadian Brigade and the Birth of Modern Air-Ground Coordination

Following the initial landing, my unit was detached and assigned to work alongside the 13th Canadian Brigade. It was an unusual arrangement—now, instead of serving strictly under Marine command, I found myself paired with both a naval officer and an army officer. Our job? Direct naval gunfire and coordinate air strikes to support the advancing infantry.

This wasn’t standard operating procedure at the time. In fact, it was one of the first instances of integrating close air support with ground forces—a tactic that would later become a pillar of modern warfare, from Korea to Desert Storm. At the time, though, it was simply necessity. The terrain was brutal, visibility often nonexistent, and the risk of friendly fire was all too real. With boots on the ground, a radio in my hands, and enemy positions marked on a rough map, I relayed coordinates to ships and aircraft, guiding artillery and bombing runs with growing precision.

But innovation didn’t erase the daily hardships. Kiska’s weather was relentless—freezing rain, gale-force winds, and endless mud. Digging foxholes was pointless; they filled with icy water as soon as they were carved. At night, the wind shrieked like a banshee, making sleep nearly impossible.

Even basic needs, like food, became a struggle. One afternoon, my two officers went scouting for rations while I parked my tank—a light amphibious Stuart I had affectionately named “The Sweet Bea,” after my mother—near a supply depot. While they foraged, I turned the tank into a makeshift mess hall, rummaging through crates for anything edible. It wasn’t exactly standard procedure, but after weeks of endless rations, a warm meal—however improvised—was a victory in itself.

After months of occupation duty, we finally received orders to leave Kiska. We were sent back to San Diego, a brief but much-needed respite. But war doesn’t pause for long. Within weeks, new orders came through. We were shipping out again, bound for another front.

By the end of 1943, the Aleutian campaign was over—the first piece of American soil taken back from Japan. It wasn’t a battle filled with dramatic heroics or Hollywood-style firefights. Many called it a “forgotten campaign” because we never actually faced the enemy. But for those of us who endured Kiska’s bitter cold, the endless fog, and the eerie silence of an empty battlefield, it was anything but forgettable. It was a lesson in war’s unpredictability—that sometimes, the fight you prepare for never comes, yet the dangers remain just as real.

First Combat in the Central Pacific: Roi-Namur, Marshall Islands (February 1944)

After the Aleutians, my unit was folded into the newly formed 4th Marine Division as it geared up for the next major offensive. We sailed to Hawaii and trained intensively for amphibious assaults in tropical climes – a far cry from Kiska’s cold. By late January 1944, I was a Marine squad leader aboard a troop transport in a massive convoy steaming toward the Marshall Islands. Our objective: Kwajalein Atoll, a ring of coral islands that the Japanese had turned into a fortress. This would be the first American offensive into the heart of the Japanese defensive perimeter in the Central Pacific.

On the morning of January 31, 1944, I got my first look at the invasion fleet gathered off Kwajalein – and it took my breath away. The horizon was filled with ships: rows of gray hulking battleships and cruisers lined up to bombard the shore, and dozens of troop transports and landing ships mustered for the assault. Nearly every type of naval vessel was present. I spotted the familiar silhouettes of seven old battleships (like the USS Tennessee and Pennsylvania, raised from the mud of Pearl Harbor and out for revenge) and a host of newer fast battleships. There were carriers and escort carriers whose aircraft roared overhead, cruisers and destroyersracing about. The amount of firepower was staggering – a testament to how far the U.S. Navy had come since Pearl Harbor.

The plan, dubbed Operation Flintlock, was for Army troops (the 7th Infantry Division) to assault Kwajalein Island at the south of the atoll, while we Marines of the 4th Division would hit the twin islands of Roi and Namur at the northern end. These two small islets were connected by a shallow causeway and together hosted a major Japanese airbase. Roi had airstrips and hangars; Namur was covered with warehouses, blockhouses, and barracks. Japanese strength was estimated at roughly 3,500 personnel, mainly naval troops, defending Roi-Namur. This was to be the 4th Marine Division’s baptism by fire – our first combat operation. We were determined to prove ourselves.

After a night of nervous anticipation in the transport’s cramped bunks, D-Day dawned on February 1, 1944. The naval bombardment began before first light. I was on deck and watched as massive 16-inch shells from the battleships thundered over our heads, crashing onto Roi-Namur. The ground shook with each hit. Cruisers and destroyers moved in to pound specific targets along the beaches. Wave after wave of carrier aircraft swooped in, dropping bombs and strafing. The lagoon waters around us were churning from the concussion. It was total war in full display – a symphony of destruction meant to soften up the defenses before we landed. “Hit ’em hard, Marines, you’ll have a picnic!” one salty gunner’s mate yelled to us with a grin. We could only hope he was right.

As H-hour approached, we loaded into our amphibious tractors (LVTs) – tracked landing vehicles that would carry us from ship to shore. I clambered into the bobbing amtrac with my squad, heart pounding. Then the signal came and our wave roared toward the beach of Namur. Spray flew as our LVT lurched over the reef. I gripped my rifle tightly, recalling our drills. Suddenly, the naval gunfire lifted and enemy fire began zipping toward us. Tracers from Japanese machine guns stitched across the water. A shell landed nearby, rocking our amtrac. This is it, I thought – my first real battle.

Our LVT lurched onto the coral sand of Namur and dropped its ramp. “Go! Go! Go!” I yelled, and out we went, splashing into knee-deep surf and rushing ashore. Immediately I was hit by the deafening noise – explosions, gunfire, men shouting. The Japanese, though battered, were resisting. They had camouflaged pillboxes and bunkers that survived the bombardment, now pouring fire on us.

We dashed for cover behind a sandbank as Japanese bullets whipped by. I saw a Marine from another squad go down, hit by a sniper. Return fire from our M1 rifles and Browning automatic rifles pinged off Japanese steel pillboxes. Step by step, crouching low, we began to advance inland as more waves of Marines landed behind us, adding to our numbers. The plan was for two of our regiments to take Namur, while another took adjacent Roi. Fighting on Namur was brutal, a mix of small firefights and isolated strongpoints. We flanked and silenced one pillbox with grenades. Then our engineers brought up flamethrowers to torch out a bunker that was holding us up. The Japanese fought tenaciously, but we steadily pushed them back into the north end of the island.

By the afternoon, Namur was nearly secured – and then came a moment I will never forget. We had surrounded a substantial Japanese concrete blockhouse. A team of Marines set charges to blast it. I was about 100 yards away, crouched in a shell crater, watching as they detonated the explosives. BOOM! The blockhouse erupted – and then whooOOOOSH! an earth-shattering secondary explosion obliterated the entire structure in a gigantic fireball. The blast knocked me flat on my back. Everything within sight vanished in one catastrophic eruption; it was as if a volcano had erupted on the flat island. Chunks of coral, metal, and body parts rained down. A dark, gritty mushroom cloud climbed over 1,000 feet into the sky. We later learned our charges had ignited a Japanese torpedo warhead stockpile or ammunition magazine beneath the blockhouse, causing a chain reaction. Dozens of Marines were killed or maimed in that instant. Stunned by the shockwave, I staggered to my feet, ears ringing, to see utter devastation where the enemy bunker (and several nearby Marine positions) had been.

That horrific explosion effectively ended organized resistance on Namur. By nightfall on February 2, 1944, both Namur and neighboring Roi Island were firmly in Marine hands. We had accomplished our mission, though at a sobering cost. In just 2–3 days of fighting, the 4th Marine Division suffered over 300 killed and around 500 wounded taking Roi-Namur (Breaking the Outer Ring: Marine Landings in the Marshall Islands (The Marine Attack: Roi-Namur)). I saw stretchers bearing our wounded being carried to the landing craft, and rows of still bodies covered by ponchos on the beach. But the Japanese garrison was virtually wiped out – of an estimated 3,563 enemy troops, almost every single one had fought to the death (Breaking the Outer Ring: Marine Landings in the Marshall Islands (The Marine Attack: Roi-Namur)). Only a handful of dazed Japanese prisoners were taken, mostly laborers or badly wounded survivors. For the first time, I understood the ferocity of our foe: they rarely surrendered, choosing death over capture.

Roi-Namur was considered a textbook victory in many ways. The Marines had executed a difficult amphibious assault and seized a heavily defended objective in short order. At the time, we were elated by our success – it was the first major offensive victory for the Marine Corps in 1944, coming on the heels of the earlier Gilberts campaign at Tarawa. We felt we had avenged Pearl Harbor a little more. Personally, I was proud that I’d held up under fire in my first battle. But I also felt the weight of loss; good friends of mine were among the casualties. That night, as I cleaned my rifle by the light of a flickering lantern on Namur’s beach, I quietly thanked my brother for giving me strength. In my heart I told him, “Hugh, we got one back for you today.”

The Marianas Campaign: Saipan and Tinian (June–August 1944)

Flush with the success in the Marshalls, American forces pushed further across the Pacific in 1944. Next on the target list were the Mariana Islands, a strategic chain 1,500 miles south of Tokyo that included Saipan, Tinian, and Guam. These islands were part of Japan’s inner defensive ring – capturing them would put U.S. heavy bombers within range of the Japanese home islands. We knew the Japanese would defend the Marianas ferociously. After a few months back in Hawaii refitting and training replacements, the 4th Marine Division (including me, now a seasoned corporal) embarked for the Marianas in May 1944 as part of Operation Forager.

Invasion of Saipan (June 15, 1944)

On June 15, 1944, I found myself once again crowded into an amtrac with my squad, this time bouncing in the waves off Saipan, the largest of the Marianas. The invasion fleet here was even bigger than at Roi-Namur. We had 15 battleships and cruisers bombarding Saipan, and 8 carriers providing air support. The air and naval bombardment hammered the island for two days, raising huge plumes of smoke. Yet, as we approached in our LVT, we could see Saipan’s mountainous terrain looming – jagged cliffs and a volcanic peak named Mount Tapochau inland. The Japanese had been fortifying Saipan for nearly 20 years (it had been their mandate territory since World War I). Waiting for us were well over 30,000 Japanese Army and Navy troops with hundreds of artillery pieces, mortars, and tanks. This was to be the largest and costliest battle yet in the Pacific war.

At 0840 on D-Day, my LVT lurched forward with the first wave of the 4th Marine Division, heading for the western coast of Saipan. We had been told to expect heavy resistance, but initially as we neared the beach, it was strangely quiet except for our own shelling. The Navy’s big guns had been blasting the landing zone since dawn, trying to suppress enemy beach defenses. I remember the sun blazing hot overhead and the water around us foaming from shell bursts. We gripped the sides of the amtrac, nerves on edge, knuckles white.

Suddenly, when we were a couple hundred yards out, all hell broke loose. A deafening roar of Japanese artillery opened up from the heights overlooking the shore. The preparatory bombardment hadn’t knocked out all their guns – not by a long shot. Shells whistled in and exploded amidst our waves of LVTs. Water geysered. The Marine-laden tractor to our right took a direct hit and disappeared in an explosion, men and pieces of track flying. Machine gun and mortar fire swept the lagoon shallows. Shrapnel pinged off our amtrac’s hull. The Japanese had cleverly hidden their artillery and mortars in caves and defilades on high ground. Now they unleashed them with deadly accuracy. I realized with a sick feeling that Saipan was going to be a far bloodier proposition than Roi-Namur.

My LVT lurched onto Blue Beach 2 on Saipan’s west coast and dropped its ramp. I plunged forward, stumbling over the black volcanic sand. Immediately I was met with chaos. The beach was under furious enemy fire. I dashed past a knocked-out amphibious tank that was burning fiercely. Men were shouting and ducking for cover wherever they could – behind landing craft wreckage or in shell craters. The noise was overwhelming, a cacophony of gunfire, explosions, and the buzzing scream of incoming rounds. Just ahead of me, I saw a Marine from our company suddenly crumple – killed instantly by a sniper’s bullet. Another Marine dragged his body aside to clear our path inland. The Japanese had zeroed in on the congested beach and we were taking heavy casualties in those first minutes.

Still, we pressed on. “Off the beach! Move off the beach!” our platoon leader yelled, knowing staying in the killing zone meant annihilation. My boots sank into the soft sand, making every step laborious. For every two steps forward, I slid one step back in the loose volcanic grit – it was like running in place. We desperately tried to find some cover. The beach itself offered little shelter, so we pushed inland toward the tree line and a low rise of ground.

At one point I dove into a bomb crater next to a young Marine private. His face was ashen. “Keep it together, we’ll get through this,” I shouted over the din, trying to encourage him (and myself). In that crater I noticed something that still haunts me: the body of a Marine, half-buried in sand, slumped over his light machine gun with his finger still on the trigger. He was dead, likely since the first moments of the landing. It was a sobering sight – my first up-close view of a fallen comrade in this battle. The brutal reality of Saipan hit me right then and there.

After a few moments, we rallied and continued forward. All along the beachhead similar scenes played out. LVTs were burning; supply jeeps were overturned. “Where’s the rest of the squad?!” I shouted. In the confusion I had gotten separated from a couple of my men. Eventually we reassembled with five of our original thirteen – the rest were wounded or pinned down elsewhere. Somehow, by sheer grit, enough of us Marines made it off the open beach and began pushing into the scrub and treeline beyond. Behind us, Navy LSTs (landing ships) were disgorging Sherman tanks and more waves of troops. The beachmasters – those brave souls who organize the chaos of the landing – were already at work, bulldozing wreckage and directing traffic even under fire. How they managed to straighten out that carnage on the beach, I’ll never know; it was absolute confusion – bodies, equipment, and wrecked landing craft everywhere.

As the hours passed, we advanced yard by yard. Saipan’s interior was a patchwork of sugar cane fields, small villages, and rocky high ground. Japanese resistance was deeply organized. They had interlocking fields of fire, sniper nests in palm trees, and well-concealed bunkers. Every few yards we’d hit a pocket of enemy soldiers that had to be flushed out. We learned to work in fire teams: one squad would pin the Japanese down with rifle and BAR fire, another would maneuver to toss grenades or bring up a flamethrower. The enemy fought savagely, often to the last man.

That first night on Saipan was harrowing. We dug in as best we could (not easy in that loose sand that kept caving in) and endured Japanese mortar bombardments after dusk. There were also terrifying banzai charges in isolated spots – small groups of screaming enemy soldiers charging our lines in the darkness, wielding rifles with bayonets or even samurai swords. We repelled a few such probes on our sector with concentrated rifle and machine-gun fire. Adrenaline kept us awake and alert.

Daylight brought only a brief respite. Over the next days, the 2nd Marine Division on our left and our 4th Marine Division gradually linked up beachheads and pushed inland. The heat was punishing and water was scarce until supplies got organized. Moving through ten-foot-tall cane fields under sniper fire was nerve-racking; the stalks would suddenly rustle, and a hidden Japanese soldier would pop up. We learned to advance by fire and movement: one group covering while the other moved forward a few yards. Flamethrower teams systematically burned patches of cane to flush out snipers. The air often smelled of smoke, burning foliage, and the sickly-sweet odor of decaying bodies in the tropical sun.

A few days in, we encountered something new: civilians. Saipan had a large population of Japanese and native Chamorro and Carolinian civilians. As we secured villages, terrified locals emerged – women, children, and old men who had been hiding in bomb shelters. Many were crying, some screamed in fear thinking we would harm them. It was the first time in the war we’d dealt with a significant civilian presence right on the battlefield. Our officers had briefed us on this and even taught us a few Japanese phrases like “Come out” and “We won’t hurt you”. Still, it was a wrenching sight. We did what we could: gave them water, signaled them to head to the rear where our interpreters and civil affairs teams processed refugees. But seeing civilian mothers clutching babies amid the carnage of battle added a new layer of horror to the war. I recall one elderly Chamorro man grasping my hand and saying “tank you, tank you” in broken English – grateful the fighting had passed his village. Those small human moments in the midst of war stuck with me.

The battle raged for over three weeks. The Japanese gradually fell back into Saipan’s mountainous northern end. We had to root them out of caves and ridges. Mount Tapotchau, “Death Valley,” “Purple Heart Ridge” – these became names etched in Marine Corps history for the ferocity of the fighting there. We blasted caves with explosives or called in flamethrowing tanks to seal the enemy in. Each yard was paid for in blood. By early July, the remaining Japanese were cornered on the island’s northernmost cliffs. That’s when, on July 7, 1944, they launched one of the largest banzai attacks of the Pacific War.

I was a few hundred yards away from the epicenter of that charge, but even from our position we heard it – a rising swell of guttural yells and battle cries echoing in the pre-dawn darkness. Suddenly flares illuminated a nightmare scene: waves of Japanese soldiers – later we learned it was around 3,000 men – charging wildly forward. Many were wounded, bandaged, or even on crutches, but they all came screaming down from the hills in a last suicidal eruption. They smashed into the front lines held by the Army’s 27th Infantry Division (which had been fighting alongside us on Saipan) and some Marines. I grabbed my rifle and all of us in the vicinity opened up at the dark silhouettes rushing towards the American lines. The volume of gunfire was earsplitting. Tracers crisscrossed. Flares cast eerie flickering light on the melee.

For a terrifying hour or two, chaos reigned. Part of the Army’s 105th Infantry Regiment was virtually overrun in the onslaught – isolated pockets of GIs were engulfed by sword-wielding fanatics, fighting hand-to-hand. Some American machine-gun crews fired until their barrels melted, literally mowing down the onrushing enemy in heaps. The Japanese officers carried swords with red flags, urging their men onward over their own dead. Our lines bent but, miraculously, held. By sunrise, the ground was carpeted with bodies. Over 4,300 Japanese lay dead in front of the 105th Regiment’s shattered positions. That final banzai attack was ghastly, but it effectively destroyed the last organized Japanese force on Saipan. The next day, July 9, Saipan was declared secure.

I stood on a ridge that morning looking down at the beaches and across the island we had fought over. I was utterly exhausted, my uniform in tatters, my body lean from weeks of combat rations and stress. We had paid a high price for Saipan. Of the roughly 71,000 Americans who landed, nearly 3,000 had been killed and over 10,000 wounded. Many of my friends were among them. We later learned that almost 29,000 Japanese troops died in the battle – virtually the entire garrison. Saipan was a graveyard.

Tragically, the civilian population also suffered. In the final days, hundreds of Japanese civilians, misled by propaganda, committed suicide rather than surrender. I will never forget witnessing families at Marpi Point – mothers jumping off cliffs with children in their arms into the sea. We tried to stop them, shouting that they would be safe, but fear drove them. Those are images I can’t erase.

Strategically, the victory at Saipan was immense. It broke the back of Japan’s defensive line; even Japanese Prime Minister Hideki Tojo resigned as a result of the Saipan debacle. Soon, American B-29 bombers would be able to use Saipan’s airfields to strike the Japanese mainland. But for me and my comrades, Saipan’s legacy was written in the names of friends who would never go home. As I packed up my gear to move on, I thought about my brother – and felt that in securing Saipan, we had taken another important step toward the end of the war he never got to see.

Securing Tinian – “The Perfect Amphibious Operation” (July–August 1944)

Barely had the gunfire on Saipan ceased when our commanders turned their attention to the smaller island just 5 miles to the south: Tinian. Tinian was Saipan’s neighbor, separated by a narrow strait, and it was our next objective. After what we endured on Saipan, none of us looked forward to another assault so soon. But orders were orders. We had a brief respite – I got a hot meal for the first time in weeks and wrote a quick letter to my parents (careful not to describe the full horrors we’d seen) – and then we prepared to attack Tinian.

On July 24, 1944, the 4th Marine Division (along with the 2nd Marine Division) landed on Tinian. This time, however, our generals used ingenuity to save lives. Tinian’s beaches were mostly cliff-lined and heavily defended on the obvious north and west shores. So the Marines staged a diversionary feint at the expected landing beaches, but then landed on two small, lightly defended beaches on Tinian’s northwest coast that the Japanese thought were too narrow for an invasion. Thanks to brilliant planning by V Amphibious Corps and the incredible Seabee engineers, we proved them wrong. Before dawn, underwater demolition teams cleared obstacles. Then we crowded aboard LVTs once more and dashed toward those tiny beaches code-named White 1 and White 2. The Japanese were caught off guard. By 0800 that morning, the Marines had put three battalions ashore in just 20 minutes, establishing a secure beachhead with relatively minimal casualties. I came in on the second wave, running off the ramp onto sand that was already firmly in Marine hands. What a difference from Saipan! We were all amazed at how well the landing had gone.

The Japanese on Tinian – around 6,000 troops – fought back, but they were outmatched and outmaneuvered. Over the next week, we pushed southward systematically, squeezing the enemy into the southern tip of the island. The terrain on Tinian was flatter than Saipan, mostly scrub and small farms, which made it easier to bring our tanks and artillery to bear. There were firefights and occasional banzai attempts, but nothing like Saipan’s scale. One night, the Japanese launched a significant counterattack on our lines, but we were ready and broke it up with machine guns and artillery. By August 1, 1944, just nine days after landing, Tinian was declared secure.

The Battle of Tinian turned out to be one of the most brilliantly executed operations of the Pacific War. Lieutenant General Holland “Howlin’ Mad” Smith, our overall Marine commander, called it “the perfect amphibious operation in the Pacific War.” It was hard to argue – our commanders’ clever deception and planning had saved us from a costly frontal assault. We suffered around 389 Marines and soldiers killed and 1,816 wounded on Tinian, far fewer than on Saipan. Virtually the entire Japanese garrison of about 5,500 was wiped out, with only a couple hundred taken prisoner. Once again, many enemy chose death over surrender; in one instance, a group of cornered Japanese troops detonated a make-shift bomb to kill themselves and any Marines nearby.

After the battle, I got a good look at Tinian’s airfields and understood why we wanted this island. The Seabees (Naval Construction Battalions) wasted no time – within days they were expanding the Japanese airstrip and starting to build additional runways. Eventually, Tinian would host six enormous runways for the Army Air Forces’ new B-29 Superfortress bombers. It became the busiest airfield of the war. We heard talk that from Tinian’s runways, B-29s would be able to bomb the Japanese home islands (Tokyo was now within range). Indeed, a year later, in 1945, the B-29s that firebombed Tokyo and the ones named Enola Gay and Bockscar that carried the atomic bombs to Hiroshima and Nagasaki would take off from North Field, Tinian. Standing there in August 1944, of course, we couldn’t imagine the apocalyptic missions that would originate from this quiet coral island. All we knew was that we had seized another crucial stepping stone toward victory.

For me personally, the Marianas campaign (Saipan and Tinian) was the turning point of the war. We had now been in continuous combat for nearly two months. I was physically exhausted, had lost weight, and bore the mental scars of what we had seen – but I was also a seasoned veteran at age 19. The survivors of our company were as tight as brothers after enduring those battles together. We had a saying that the “Marianas Turkey Shoot” (a naval air battle concurrent with Saipan) might have been an easy win in the air, but on the ground it had been anything but a turkey shoot. We earned our rest. In August 1944, the 4th Marine Division was pulled back to Pearl Harbor and then to Maui for refit. We had a few months to rest, assimilate replacements for our fallen, and train for the next – and what we assumed would be the final – campaign against Japan.

Little did we know there would be one more island – a sulfuric speck of volcanic rock – that would dwarf even Saipan in ferocity. That island’s name was Iwo Jima.

Into Hell: The Battle of Iwo Jima (February–March 1945)

By early 1945, the war in the Pacific had reached Japan’s doorstep. Allied forces had leapfrogged across the Pacific, and after the Marianas, only a few island groups stood between us and Japan’s Home Islands. One was the Volcano-Bonin chain, which included a place that would become infamous: Iwo Jima. This tiny island (only 8 square miles of volcanic rock) was strategic for two reasons: it housed Japanese radar stations that warned Tokyo of incoming B-29 raids, and it had airfields that Japanese fighters used to intercept our bombers. Capturing Iwo Jima would eliminate those threats and provide an emergency landing site for crippled B-29s returning from Japan. So the decision was made to invade Iwo Jima.

After months of training and planning, our 4th Marine Division, alongside the 3rd and 5th Marine Divisions (collectively the V Amphibious Corps), sailed from Hawaii in January 1945. I was now a platoon sergeant – battle-hardened and leading younger new Marines who looked to me for guidance. I tried to prepare them as best I could: “It’s going to be rough, but stick together and look out for the man next to you,” I’d say, hiding my own gnawing apprehension. We had heard intelligence reports that Iwo Jima was crisscrossed with bunkers, underground tunnels, and artillery positions. The Japanese commander, General Tadamichi Kuribayashi, was allegedly forbidding the usual costly banzai charges and instead ordering his troops to fight from their fortifications to maximize American losses. We knew this battle would be different – possibly the toughest fight of the war.

The naval bombardment of Iwo Jima began on February 16, 1945, three days before the landing. We expected something similar to previous landings, only bigger – after all, by now the U.S. Navy had assembled an awe-inspiring bombardment fleet. Indeed, battleships and cruisers shelled Iwo Jima for 72 hours straight, and carrier aircraft bombed and strafed continuously. The landscape of Iwo (which was dominated by Mount Suribachi, a 556-foot volcanic cone at the southern end, and a plateau of rough ground to the north) was pounded into grey dust and smoke. From our transport ships offshore, we could actually see massive craters pockmarking the island and huge plumes from exploding magazines. Many of us believed nothing could survive that kind of preparatory fire. But Marines who had fought on Tarawa and Peleliu muttered under their breath that no bombardment is ever enough.

D-Day – February 19, 1945. The final approach to Iwo’s beach was nerve-wracking. I was in an amphibious tractor once more, in the first wave of the 4th Marine Division hitting the southeast beach zone (Blue Beaches) of Iwo Jima. As our amtrac chugged toward shore, I braced myself for the enemy onslaught. But as we hit the beach around 9 AM, there was an odd stillness. We scrambled out onto the sand unopposed at first – an eerie echo of my Kiska landing. Iwo’s beach was made of coarse, black volcanic sand that gave way underfoot. It was hard to move quickly in it. But we encountered only sporadic small-arms fire initially. Could it be the bombardment actually neutralized the defenses? Marines around me were cautiously advancing, taking cover where they could behind the low terraces of ash. I saw our first waves moving inland past the beach in columns. A sense of relief started to creep in.

It was premature. After about 10–15 minutes, when our first waves were well ashore and the beach was crowded with troops, the Japanese sprung their trap. They had held fire until we were bunched on the beach and then unleashed everything. Suddenly, a storm of artillery, mortar, and machine gun fire engulfed us. It was as if the entire island erupted. The volume of Japanese fire was beyond anything we’d experienced before. Marines who had moved forward were being cut down from hidden pillboxes and blockhouses. Shells from pre-sighted heavy mortars and artillery rounds rained onto the beach, blowing men and equipment to pieces. I threw myself flat in the sand as a barrage screeched in. The concussion of a nearby shell left my ears ringing and mouth full of black grit.

I lifted my face and the sight was pure chaos and carnage. Bodies were everywhere – some moving, many still. Wounded Marines cried out for corpsmen over the din. Wrecked amtracs and landing craft littered the shore, twisted and smoking. The black sand was churned by explosions and stained with blood. Our carefully organized landing had devolved into desperate individual fights for survival. The Japanese had a network of pillboxes and fortified caves all along the base of Mount Suribachi to our right and the high ground to our front. These positions were pouring enfilade machine gun fire and sniper fire across the open areas. Getting off the exposed beach was the only way to survive, but moving even a few yards meant running a gauntlet of fire.

I saw a Marine about 20 feet from me get hit by a burst – he went down hard, not moving. Another man was hiding behind a disabled LVT, and as he tried to sprint to a shell crater, an explosion engulfed him. The living hugged any cover they could find – shell holes, demolished Japanese trenches, or behind the stricken amtracs that now formed a grotesque seawall. The volcanic sand made it impossible to dig a foxhole quickly; it just flowed back in as you frantically scooped it, offering no protection. We felt horribly exposed.

Despite the shock and confusion, Marines are trained to advance. Little by little, small groups of us began to push forward, assaulting the nearest Japanese positions. The only way was to take them out one by one. I rallied two of my squad members and we bounded towards a pillbox that was firing from our left. We covered each other – one Marine with a BAR laid down suppressive fire, while I inched forward with a grenade. I lobbed it through the pillbox slit and ducked; the grenade exploded, silencing the machine gun. We rushed in and found the occupants dead or dying. That was one down, but countless more bunkers remained, interlaced in a defensive grid that spanned the island.

By afternoon on D-Day, we had gained a toehold of a few hundred yards inland at horrific cost. The entire landscape was like a blackened moonscape, with sulphur vapor seeping from the ground (Iwo Jima literally means “Sulfur Island,” and the air smelled like rotten eggs in places). Mount Suribachi to our south was still active with Japanese artillery and snipers, pinning down the beaches long after landing. The 28th Marines (from the 5th Division) were tasked to isolate and capture Suribachi, while my 4th Division pushed northward into the island’s central and northern sector. Every step we took was paid for dearly. The Japanese had constructed a defensive labyrinth: concrete bunkers connected by tunnels, minefields, anti-tank ditches, and natural caves fortified with steel doors. They were not on the beaches; they were under and above us, firing from caves on high ground or popping out of spider holes behind us. It was like fighting phantoms who would appear, fire, and disappear into the earth.

In the following days, the battle only intensified. Iwo Jima was a living hell. We fought tooth and nail for every yard, often literally blasting or burning Japanese defenders out of their positions. Flamethrower teams became heroes on Iwo – I saw Marines with flamethrowers crawl up under withering fire to spew jets of flaming napalm into bunker apertures. Our demolition men would then toss satchel charges to finish the job. The island was rocked day and night by constant explosions as we leveled one enemy strongpoint after another. The Japanese fought back ferociously, and they were expert at using the terrain. They’d wait for us to think an area was clear, then open up from a concealed hole behind us. Progress was measured in tens of yards per day.

One vivid memory: about four days into the battle, on February 23, 1945, I was in a shell crater near the base of Mount Suribachi, reloading my rifle, when suddenly a ripple of excitement spread down the line. Marines around me began standing up, pointing and cheering. I turned and looked up at Suribachi – on the summit, barely visible, was an American flag fluttering! Our buddies in the 28th Marines had reached the top and planted the Stars and Stripes (U.S. flag raised on Iwo Jima | February 23, 1945 | HISTORY). A tremendous cheer went up from all over the south end of Iwo. Ships offshore blew their horns. In that moment, grimy, exhausted Marines around me were jumping and whooping like schoolkids. I felt a surge of pride and emotion – that flag meant we would eventually prevail. (Little did I know, the famous photograph of the larger flag raising was being taken around that time, capturing an image that would forever symbolize the Marine Corps.) The flag on Suribachi was a huge morale boost, but we also knew it didn’t mean the end of the battle by a long shot. In fact, for most of us, the worst was yet to come in Iwo’s northern meatgrinder, among a warren of rocky ridges we dubbed “Hill 382,” “Turkey Knob,” and “The Amphitheater.”

Our division pushed northward slowly. It often took an entire day to destroy one blockhouse or advance from one ridge to the next. The Japanese had a terrifying weapon – 320mm spigot mortars, giant short-range mortar bombs nicknamed “buzz bombs” or “flying ashcans” – that would descend with a shrill whistle and explode with devastating effect (Closing In: Marines in the Seizure of Iwo Jima (Iwo Jima's Costs, Gains, and Legacies)). One of those took out a whole squad near me. We also faced kamikaze-like attacks at night, as small bands of Japanese infiltrated our lines under darkness to toss grenades or satchel charges. There was no rear area on Iwo Jima – the enemy was everywhere. I went without proper sleep for days on end; you’d catch an hour here or there in a foxhole, only to be awakened by a sudden mortar blast or a scream of “grenade!”

What sustained us was pure determination and Marine esprit de corps. No one wanted to concede an inch once won. Leaders at every level, from privates to captains, showed incredible valor. Frankly, heroism was a common occurrence on Iwo. You would hear stories of guys diving on grenades to save their buddies, or single-handedly charging a pillbox. Admiral Chester W. Nimitz later said of the Marines at Iwo Jima, “Uncommon valor was a common virtue”, and he was absolutely right. We witnessed acts of bravery every hour. More Medals of Honor would be awarded for Iwo Jima than any other battle in U.S. history – 27 in total (many posthumously). We didn’t know those details then, but we knew that to get off that island alive, we all had to give everything we had.

After about a month of slugging it out, by March 16 the island was officially declared secured, though scattered fighting continued for days. When the guns finally fell silent, Iwo Jima had earned a dark honor: it was the only battle in the Pacific where American casualties exceeded the Japanese. Out of roughly 70,000 Marines and Navy personnel who landed or supported ashore, we suffered about 26,000 casualties. Over 6,800 Americans were killed or later died of wounds (Battle of Iwo Jima), and more than 19,000 were wounded (Battle of Iwo Jima). One in every three Marines who set foot on Iwo Jima was killed or injured – a staggering ratio. Many of my closest friends were among those killed. We had started the battle as a tight-knit platoon of 40; by the end, only 18 of us were still able-bodied, and several of those had been wounded and returned to duty. In my company, every single officer had been killed or wounded, and battlefield promotions made sergeants into lieutenants, privates into squad leaders – it was that kind of fight. We also later found out the Japanese had fought almost to the last man. Of the roughly 21,000 Japanese defenders, about 22,000 were killed; only a few hundred prisoners, mostly wounded or unconscious, were captured. General Kuribayashi likely died leading a final sortie; he never surrendered.

When I finally walked off Iwo Jima onto a landing craft heading back to a ship, I felt ten years older. We were utterly drained. A Navy surgeon on the hospital ship examined my gaunt face and minor shrapnel wounds and simply said, “Son, get some rest.” I collapsed onto a stretcher and, safe at last, slept for 14 hours straight. Iwo Jima was secured, and it would soon serve its purpose as an emergency haven for B-29 bombers – indeed, I heard that in the months after, hundreds of airmen’s lives were saved because they could land their crippled planes on Iwo’s airfields. That thought gave me some solace: our sacrifice had tangible meaning. But the cost – oh, the cost – was seared into us. To this day, the black sands of Iwo Jima are hallowed ground to Marines. We left too many of our brothers there.

For the 4th Marine Division, Iwo Jima was its final campaign. Our division, bloodied and depleted, was withdrawn to Hawaii to regroup. By April 1945, the war was entering its final chapter. We expected that an invasion of Japan itself (codenamed “Operation Downfall”) might be necessary by late 1945, and we mentally steeled ourselves for the possibility. Many of us quietly believed an invasion of the Japanese home islands could make Iwo Jima look small by comparison. I certainly did not expect to survive an assault on Japan – after enduring three major campaigns, I felt my number might come up if we had to storm Honshu or Kyushu. Thankfully, fate had a different plan.

Occupation Duty in Japan: Sasebo and Nagasaki (Fall 1945)

While we recovered from Iwo Jima and awaited orders, the war took a dramatic turn. In early August 1945, news came that a new super-weapon, an atomic bomb, had been dropped on Hiroshima, Japan. We were astonished – a single bomb wiping out an entire city sounded like science fiction. A few days later, a second bomb was dropped on Nagasaki. The devastation was unimaginable, we were told. Shortly after, on August 15, 1945, Japan announced its surrender. The war was over. Just like that. We Marines, tough as we were, cheered, laughed, and some even cried when we heard Emperor Hirohito’s surrender broadcast scratch over the loudspeaker. We had fought for so long and lost so much – it was almost hard to comprehend that it truly ended. No invasion of the Japanese mainland would be needed. In a sense, it felt like we’d been reprieved from a death sentence.

Our 4th Marine Division was subsequently deactivated (after so many combat losses, it was decided to disband the division). I was transferred into the 5th Marine Division, which had also fought on Iwo. The 5th Division was chosen as part of the occupation force to land in Japan and secure various sites. Though hostilities had ceased, we approached this mission seriously – we didn’t know how Japanese citizens or remaining military hardliners might react to occupying troops on their soil.

In September 1945, I sailed with the 5th Marine Division from the Marianas to the Japanese home islands. Our destination was Sasebo, a large port city on Kyushu (the southernmost main island of Japan) that housed a major Imperial Japanese Navy base. The sight as we entered Sasebo harbor on September 22, 1945, was surreal. Instead of gunfire and chaos, we were met by an eerie quiet. The harbor was ringed with hills, and I could see Japanese naval vessels – some scuttled, some intact – moored silently. Under the terms of surrender, the Japanese were expecting us and had been ordered not to resist. As our transport ship eased in, Japanese harbor pilots came aboard to guide us to our berths – imagine that! (Securing the Surrender: Marines in the Occupation of Japan (Sasebo-Nagasaki Landings)) (Securing the Surrender: Marines in the Occupation of Japan (Sasebo-Nagasaki Landings)) Just weeks before, we’d been mortal enemies. Now Japanese officers in their uniforms (polite and unarmed) were directing our landing craft to the docks.

We came ashore in force, rifles ready but no round in the chamber. I stepped onto Japanese soil feeling a strange mix of triumph and empathy. Many of us had lost friends to this enemy, and now we stood in their homeland as victors. But looking around Sasebo, I saw civilians in simple clothes looking at us with cautious faces, and I realized they were human beings not so different from the people we’d liberated elsewhere.

Our occupation went smoothly from the start. The Japanese military personnel followed their superiors’ orders to cooperate. Unarmed Japanese naval guards stood by respectfully as we took over their posts (Securing the Surrender: Marines in the Occupation of Japan (Sasebo-Nagasaki Landings)). They led us to ammunition depots and helped us inventory and secure weapons. We quickly disarmed any remnants of military resistance (there was none apparent) and established checkpoints. My platoon was tasked with securing a section of the Sasebo Naval Base, including a large dry dock and warehouse area. We raised the Stars and Stripes over the base command center that day – no enemy fire, no struggle, just the flutter of our flag now flying on Japanese soil. It was a profound moment.

In the days that followed, we settled into a routine of occupation duty. We patrolled the city of Sasebo and surrounding towns, but encountered no hostility – mostly just curious stares. The city had been bombed during the war, so some areas were rubble, but other parts were intact. I was surprised at the resilience of the people; markets soon reopened, and children began smiling and waving at us when they realized we weren’t going to harm them. We distributed some of our C-ration food to hungry locals and medical supplies to the hospitals. The gratitude from some townsfolk was genuine. One elderly Japanese man bowed deeply to me after I gave him a can of fruit, repeating “Arigato, arigato” (thank you).

One of our tasks was to assist in the repatriation of Allied prisoners of war. Near Sasebo, we discovered a POW camp where British and American prisoners had been held; by the time we arrived, the prisoners had been evacuated to rear areas, but seeing the conditions – skeletal men, makeshift graves – reminded us why we fought. We also supervised the destruction of any remaining Japanese weapon stockpiles. Huge caches of rifles, machine guns, and even artillery were collected and either dumped at sea or destroyed.

During those occupation weeks, I had a chance to travel a short distance to Nagasaki, the city devastated by the second atomic bomb on August 9. Nagasaki was about 30 miles from Sasebo. What I saw there was sobering and indescribable. The heart of Nagasaki was flattened – a plain of ashes. Steel girders twisted like pretzels, concrete buildings charred and hollow. Even as a combat veteran who had seen terrible destruction, I was stunned. A few weeks after the blast, the scene was still one of utter ruin. It struck me that if the war hadn’t ended, this level of destruction might have been the fate of many Japanese cities – and potentially American cities too if the war had gone differently. As Marines in Nagasaki, we mostly provided security and helped where we could with the ongoing relief efforts by Army occupation authorities. The civilians there were in dire straits – those who survived the bomb were injured or irradiated. We gave out what rations we could and tried to offer basic compassion. Nagasaki’s ruins made me reflect deeply: in our quest to end the war, we had unleashed unimaginable suffering. It was a somber realization, and even though it probably saved both American and Japanese lives in the long run by obviating an invasion, standing in that atomic wasteland left me with conflicted emotions.

Back in Sasebo, the occupation continued without incident. By late November 1945, the Marines began drawing down our presence as Army occupation units took over long-term duties. My number came up for rotation home. I had enough points from combat service to be among the early waves heading back to the States. I’ll admit, as much as I was fascinated by Japan and its people now that I wasn’t shooting at them, I was eager to go home. It had been over two years since I’d set foot in the United States.

On December 15, 1945, I boarded a transport ship in Nagasaki harbor (the same harbor that had seen Portuguese traders centuries ago and now a departing point for U.S. Marines) bound for San Francisco. We pulled away as a Marine band on deck struck up a tune. I leaned on the rail, watching the green hills of Kyushu recede, thinking of the journey that had brought me here – from Pearl Harbor’s flames to Japan’s shores. I thought of my brother, Hugh, whose death had spurred me into uniform. I hoped that somehow he knew that we had finished the job. We had avenged him and all those lost at Pearl Harbor, and we had helped bring peace.

Coming Home: Reflections on Service and Sacrifice

Steaming under the Golden Gate Bridge into San Francisco Bay in January 1946 was a moment of overwhelming emotion for me. We crowded the deck, cheering and waving at the famous orange span. We were home. The city’s hills, the cars and buildings – it was almost strange to see civilian life going on normally after the intensity of the past years. As we disembarked, Red Cross workers handed us coffee and donuts, and grateful Americans lined the docks to clap us on the back. A pretty young woman even rushed up and planted a kiss on my cheek, to much hooting from my buddies. I grinned, probably blushing bright red. After so long at war, those simple acts of welcome meant the world.

Soon I was on a train bound for the East Coast, my duffel bag at my feet and an honorable discharge in my hands. Gazing out the window at the passing towns and farms of America, I felt a profound sense of relief and also displacement. I was 20 years old and had fought in five major campaigns. The boy who left home years ago was not the same man coming back. I thought of all the guys who would never get to see this sight – the green fields of home – because they lay in white graves on faraway islands or at the bottom of the sea. I remembered a phrase one of my platoon mates once muttered after a close call: “The real heroes are the ones who didn’t come back.” That rang true to me. My brother was one of those, as were countless Marines and soldiers I had served with. Every time folks called me a hero upon my return, I felt a twinge and made sure to say, “No, the heroes are those who never made it home.”

Reuniting with my family was joyous. My parents hugged me tighter than ever. I could see the pain in their eyes when I talked about Hugh, but also the pride. My mother said I looked so much older. In some ways I felt ancient beyond my years, carrying memories that would never fully fade. In other ways, I was just happy to be a young American with a future again – something not guaranteed in war.

Civilian life took some adjustment. Crowds and loud noises made me jumpy at first. I’d instinctively reach for a rifle that wasn’t there whenever a car backfired. Nights brought occasional nightmares of battle. But with time, those eased. I took advantage of the new GI Bill, enrolling in college in 1946. Studying in a classroom with fresh-faced students who only knew the war from newsreels was an odd experience. I often found myself gravitating to fellow veterans on campus – there was an unspoken understanding among us.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think of the war and my fallen comrades. I visit my brother’s grave on each Memorial Day, and I’ve attended reunions of my division, where old Marines – hair gone gray or white – embrace like the young warriors we once were. We reminisce about the funny moments (yes, there were some even in war – like the time on Tinian when a wild pig ran through our lines and startled a sentry into thinking it was a Japanese attack!). And we honor the solemn memories, laying wreaths and reading names of those who never returned.

In my home, I keep a shoebox of mementos: a tarnished Marine Corps emblem, some campaign ribbons, a piece of shrapnel I took out of my pack after Saipan, and a small flag. That flag traveled with me from Saipan to Iwo Jima tucked in my Bible. It has a hole through it (from shrapnel or a bullet, I’m not sure). To me it symbolizes what we fought for and the sacrifices that flag required.

Looking back on those World War II years, I feel immense pride and also sorrow. Pride in having answered my country’s call and done my duty alongside the finest group of Marines and sailors one could ever hope to know. Sorrow for the loss of my brother and so many others – the price of freedom. We were ordinary young Americans who found ourselves in extraordinary circumstances. We endured fear, pain, and loss, but also experienced incredible camaraderie and the triumph of seeing a war through to a just conclusion.

History books now recount the battles I lived through – Kiska, Roi-Namur, Saipan, Tinian, Iwo Jima – and the broader strategies and statistics. They note, for example, that Saipan’s capture was “the decisive battle of the Pacific war… the naval and military heart and brain of Japanese defense strategy,” as one general put it. They record that Admiral Nimitz praised the uncommon valor of the Marines on Iwo Jima. They tabulate the thousands of casualties (Battle of Iwo Jima). These facts and figures are important, but behind each number is a face, a story. I remember those faces: PFC Johnny Campbell, who bravely charged that bunker on Namur with me and didn’t make it back; Lt. Ramirez, who lost his life guiding his platoon on Saipan; Sgt. “Red” O’Hara, who miraculously survived Iwo and still writes me every Christmas. My own story is just one thread in that vast tapestry of World War II, but by sharing it I hope to honor all those threads – especially the ones cut short.

Now, decades later, I sometimes close my eyes and the scenes play back in my mind as if yesterday. The roar of the naval guns… the fog on Kiska… the explosion on Namur… the cheers at the flag on Suribachi… the silence of Sasebo’s harbor. It’s the journey of a young man forged by war. I’m often asked if it was worth it. I look at the life I was able to live afterward – the family I raised, the freedom we enjoy – and I answer, Yes. I think of a world in which we hadn’t stood up to tyranny, and I know the answer is Yes. The cost was ghastly, but we achieved something great and necessary.

In the years after, Japan and the United States became friends and allies. It’s something I marvel at: I’ve met Japanese veterans and we’ve shaken hands, both sides understanding the bravery of the other. Time has a way of healing and transforming bitter foes into partners. I take comfort in that as well.

In sum, my World War II service – from my brother’s death propelling me to enlist, through the hellish battles across the Pacific, to occupying the enemy’s homeland and finally coming home – was the defining chapter of my life. I carried my brother’s memory with me through it all as a guiding light. This memoir, with the help of historical records and the voices of my fellow Marines, captures those years as best as words can. It blends what I saw and felt with the larger context of what was happening around me: the strategies, the conditions, and corroborating accounts of those battles from official archives. I hope it gives a full sense of what we went through.

We were just a bunch of ordinary Americans, but together we did something extraordinary. We answered our country’s call in its darkest hour, we fought hard and sacrificed, and ultimately, we prevailed. Whenever I see the American flag waving – the same flag we hoisted over so many far-flung islands – I feel that pride swell again. And I whisper a thank you to Hugh and to all the fallen, the real heroes, who gave their all so that we could live in freedom. Semper Fidelis – always faithful. I have tried to live up to that motto ever since I earned the title of United States Marine.

(Attack on Pearl Harbor - Wikipedia) (Breaking the Outer Ring: Marine Landings in the Marshall Islands (The Marine Attack: Roi-Namur)) (Battle of Iwo Jima)