Above the Thunder (38 page)

In contrast to that luck, I was sent to adjust a 155 mm howitzer on a large corrugated metal warehouse located just north of the Naguilian-Baguio road and being used by the enemy. Although partially protected by having been built into the side of a slope, the building should have been very easy to hit and destroy. But I fired up all the ammunition they could spare for the mission and was never able to get a direct hit or any detectable damage to the target. Why? Don't ask me!

While actually engaged in one of the dangerous actions that occasionally involved us fair-haired boys, I seldom was conscious of fear or nervous tension, and I think that was true of all the boys. Nevertheless, the stress factor was pretty high much of the time. I can recall times after coming out of a dangerous situation when I would become conscious of an aching in my jaw muscles, and I'd realize then that my teeth were tightly clenched and must have been so for some time. While we were still in New Guinea, I developed a habit of opening my eyes quite wide at frequent intervals—the “nervous tic” that people joke about. And many times, when relieved from patrol over the mountains there in Luzon, I would get down into some narrow ravine and dive my L-4 down the mountain at its top speed, deliberately courting collision with the trees or the ground, while I'd shake the controls violently and yell and curse to relax myself. I don't know whether anyone else did such things.

About the middle of April, the 123d was closing in on the summit of Calugong, and the enemy was resisting with all he had. The rainy season was due, and our commanders wanted to get to Baguio before the mountain trails became slick with mud. Uncle Bud Carlson happened to be with Major Wolff when Wolff's advancing battalion of infantry ground to a halt in a heavy exchange of gunfire with well-covered Japanese defenders. Bypassing them in the steep and wooded terrain would be costly in time, while direct assault would cost many lives. The leaders were hesitant to use artillery, or even the infantry's mortars, the troops being in such close quarters and in great danger of being hit by tree bursts of our own shells. Withdrawal of the troops to a safe distance would also be difficult and time-consuming.

Uncle Bud discussed the problems with Wolff and offered to try to reduce the enemy position with artillery if he'd pull his troops back two hundred yards. Wolff agreed, and Uncle Bud called FDC and asked Major Hadfield to send Vineyard up. (Yes, incredibly, Uncle Bud asked for Vineyard, even though he knew that I was somewhere around.) Using a smoke grenade as a reference point, Uncle Bud described the problem and the general area involved, and while Vin was studying the target, the infantry pulled back about 150 yards. Uncle Bud, with Wolff and Capt. Raymond Rush, a company commander, remained out in front of the lead squad of Rush's company, communicating by SCR-609 radio.

Bud called Vin then, and Vin reported:

“OK, Bud, I see you. Have spotted four machine-gun positions and many spider holes around them. The one where the smoke grenade fell is in the center—one other emplacement west of it and two east. Where are our leading troops?”

That description tallied with what the infantry officers had observed, and they nodded their agreement.

“Foremost elements at this spot,” replied Uncle Bud. “Start shooting. Watch the tree bursts, we're mighty close.”

Vin objected that they were too close, but after consultation with Wolff, Uncle Bud told him to get going, they were not moving any more.

Vin said, “Roger. Kadi 3, this is Kadi 7. Fire mission: Jap strongpoint, machine guns emplaced, riflemen. Concentration 264 is two hundred left, four hundred short. Request battalion. Will adjust. Bud will designate volleys for effect. Over.”

Uncle Bud told Wolff that fire for effect would be five volleys, then a three-minute silence to let the Japs get their heads up again, then six more volleys. After the last six, Bud would call out, “Rounds complete,” and then the infantry should wait ten seconds for time of flight of the last round before jumping off.

When the first adjusting rounds burst, Number 4 was very close to Uncle Bud and party, so Vin moved it forward a hundred yards. After the next battery salvo, he reported:

“Effect excellent. Short rounds are getting the machine-gun positions, long rounds the spider holes behind. Are they safe, Bud?”

Uncle Bud, speaking directly to Hadfield at FDC, called for fire for effect as he had told Wolff to expect it, and he added, “Bill, tell the cannon eers to level the bubbles carefully. Anything short will hurt us badly.”

Uncle Bud knew that cannoneers in the 122d FA Bn did not have to be cautioned to level the bubbles carefully. They always did. But he was being extra careful. The fire from his eleven volleys stunned and decimated the enemy troops, and Wolff's men quickly overran their position. Only two Americans were hit by our own shell fragments. One of them was Uncle Bud—but it was only a scratch.

I told you before that Lt. Col. Roland “Bud” Carlson was a fine artilleryman, but did I mention Lt. Dolman Winston “Don” Vineyard? He was a pretty good one, too. And he was a lucky one, because also present up there on the slope of Mount Calugong that day was Col. Andrew T. McAnsh, chief of staff, 33d Infantry Division. McAnsh apparently took careful notes on all that went on, and he wrote a detailed account of it for the
Infantry Journal.
That account was later quoted in the division history. It was an excellent illustration of the close coordination that was needed and possible between artillery and its supported elements, and of the highly valuable contribution the L-4 pilot-observer made to the effort. Reading it, I can still hear the voices of those men, although today Uncle Bud, Don Vineyard, and most of the others have gone on to better worlds.
¹
But I still don't understand why Uncle Bud
called for Vineyard by name!

(Well, yeah, I do.)

From the top of Calugong, our path turned sharply eastward along the serrated ridge toward Mount Santo Tomas. On the south, deep, wooded ravines defined more thinly forested knolls and grassy slopes, while the north side dropped very steeply far down into the Asin Valley, offering no possibility of traverse even by foot soldiers.

The first terrain objective east of Calugong was a wide place in the main ridge that we called Machine-gun Hill. About a mile from the top of Calugong, Machine-gun Hill was separated by a hollow from Hill Charlie immediately to the south, and both hills were at about thirty-five hundred feet elevation.

Company L, commanded by Capt. William Crenshaw, walked onto
Machine-gun Hill to find it wide open, no enemy present at all, and I was overhead watching as they prepared it for defense, improving on old Japanese works. I was talking with our field observer, Keith Kirkbride, who was lying on his back in a shallow hole and had spread his handkerchief out on his chest so I could identify him. As I was telling Kirk I had spotted him, he suddenly was blotted out of my view by a shell explosion that appeared to me to be right on top of him.

“Kirk! Kirk! Are you OK?”

I honestly did not expect him to reply, but his voice came back, cool and unconcerned.

“Sure, I'm OK. Why?”

“Good Lord! It looked like that was a direct hit on you!”

“Oh, no,” he replied casually. “That was over in the next hole—a good six feet away.”

While I marveled at Kirkbride's composure, the Japanese batteries poured in on Company L a concentration of artillery that obviously had been preregistered. Casualties were light, but the company was withdrawn by higher command. The enemy reclaimed the position.

Cutting across the corner of the Mount Calugong summit route, two companies assaulted Hill Charlie. The situation developed to a point where one company had to hold position while the other made the final attack. I was overhead and adjusted their preparatory artillery fires as they twice attacked and twice were repulsed by machine guns and heavy rifle fire from a line of foxholes around the forward slope of the knoll. Each time, they withdrew behind the crest of a lower rise to the south. For the third assault, we fired a heavy preparation, ending it with smoke that signaled “rounds complete.” The infantrymen were immediately on their feet, charging across the ravine and up to the line of foxholes as fast as they could negotiate the steep terrain, firing as they ran.

This time the enemy's reaction was weak. Stunned by three heavy bombardments within the hour and partially blinded by thick white smoke, he began to withdraw in some disorder, running back across the unusually open hilltop, some halting occasionally to fire at the American riflemen who followed rapidly, ducking from cover to cover, firing as they came.

Two very courageous Japanese machine-gunners brought up the rear of the enemy retreat. They carried their weapon back a few yards at a time, halting to sweep the approaching Americans with its fire, then pulling farther back when threatened with being surrounded. They were the last to be seen on the hill when, their ammo gone, they removed the breech mechanism from their weapon, flung it far away into a gully, and ran after their already vanished comrades.

Colonel Carlson required each of his firing battery commanders to serve at least one tour of FO duty, and thus it was that Capt. Perry Jones, commander of Btry C, was the FO with the company that took Hill Charlie. Perry was a chunky, quiet Southerner with a large blonde mustache—a dangerous distinguishing feature in the presence of the enemy—and he was the only Regular Army officer in the 122d. As the victorious infantry company was digging in on Hill Charlie, Perry called me and asked if I would help him adjust the night protective concentrations around the new position. Of course, I told him I would, but that I would have to refuel first. Then I said:

“Perry, it looks as if there are lots of good souvenirs lying around down there. If you get a chance to pick up something for me, I'd appreciate it.”

“OK, Crash, I'll see what I can do.”

I made my usual dive down the mountain, and five minutes later I was on short final at the Pugo strip when I heard Captain Rowland, CO of the company on Hill Charlie, come on Perry's radio, call Kadi 3, and ask to speak to “Bud.” When Uncle Bud responded, Rowland said, “Bud, I hate to have to tell you this, but Perry just got it—right between the eyes.”

A few minutes later I was back over Hill Charlie, helping Rowland and Perry's radio operator adjust the night fires. While thus engaged, I noticed movement in a hole left by the roots of a large fallen tree in the middle of the position where our men were still busily digging in. Although I couldn't see him very well, I knew that the man there was Japanese, so I informed Captain Rowland. He sent two sergeants armed with tommy guns to take care of the matter. They approached along each side of the tree trunk, guns at the ready. When he realized that he had been discovered, the Japanese lieutenant—as he proved to be—leaped out of the hole and charged toward Sgt. Jack Van Assen, his sword in
one hand, his pistol in the other. Van Assen riddled him with .45-caliber slugs before he had taken half a dozen steps.

A few days later I received through message center a bullet-torn leather holster containing a small automatic pistol made in Herstal, Belgium, on a Browning patent. One ammo magazine was in the weapon, the other ruined and made fast in its pouch on the holster by the passage of a bullet. With this souvenir was a note that read:

THIS IS OFF THE BASTARD THAT WAS UNDER THE ROOTS OF THAT BIG TREE. THANKS.

Jack Van Assen

Sgt., Co. G, 123rd Inf.

Only one week later, Sergeant Van Assen, his face shot away, joined Perry Jones and the Japanese lieutenant in that long, long line of brave men who have given their lives for their respective flags. But I still have the pistol—probably the weapon that killed Perry Jones—and it's just as deadly as ever.

Back in the early days of our fighting on Luzon, two platoons had been sent out on patrols along separate routes. With one platoon went some mortars, and with the other went one of our artillery lieutenants as FO. During the course of their movements, the officer leading the patrol with the mortars saw the other patrol and, mistaking it for enemy troops, opened fire with the mortars. The FO saw where the mortar fire was coming from and, believing it to be enemy fire, brought an artillery concentration down on the other patrol. In this exchange, several infantry men were killed, including the lieutenant in charge of the mortars, and others were wounded, including our FO. Fortunately, our lieutenant was able to return to duty within about six weeks.

One night I happened to be in our battalion CP when one of our infantry positions far up in the mountains came under heavy enemy artillery fire. The FO at the position was that same lieutenant, and he again was able to spot the source of the incoming shells. He requested a fire mission and was told to send it, but as he began to transmit the
essential data he suddenly broke into weeping, his transmission unreadable. Uncle Bud got on the radio and, sounding like a father speaking to a small boy, said, “Now, son, get ahold of yourself. Calm down and give us the data and we'll soon get those people off your back.” But it was useless. The sensitive young officer had to be evacuated, and he never returned to combat duty, so far as I know.

But he was not by any means the only man who could not indefinitely endure the stresses of combat. They called it “combat fatigue,” and it got the best of many a strong man. Sometimes they were sent down to our strip to be evacuated in Stinson L-5s flown by some AAF unit. Other times their transport to the strip would be a three-quarter-ton truck with the muddy boots of two or three tarp-covered dead soldiers bouncing on the tailgate. And while they waited to be flown out, these haggard, dead-eyed men would stand in silence, gazing at the ground, giving no heed to those who might speak to them or offer them a cigarette.

Of all the dreadful, nerve-racking, heartbreaking tasks that fall to men in warfare, it seems to me that the duty of an infantry rifleman is the worst. He's been called “doughboy,” “gravel agitator,” “dogface,” and many other names, the latest being one that burns me with anger: “grunt.” The fact is that he is the very epitome of a soldier, the bravest of the brave, the toughest of the tough, the most miserable of the miserable. And no fighter is more to be admired than the one who is not brave, is not tough, but who overcomes his fears and weaknesses by sheer force of will and does the job anyway. Silver wings and crushed caps and the romance of the wild blue, gallant sea captains on flaming ships, the traditional heroes of the nation, all pale in my estimation before the tired, dirty, miserable infantry private with a rifle in his hand and no plans for tonight or tomorrow. He's the guy who does most of the dying for the country—and gets the least reward.