Black Sands of Hell (Part 1)

The Old Man is taking a several day break from tales of the misdeeds of my childhood. I want to spend some time with you remembering and commemorating an event that occurred 64 years ago today, February 19, 1945. Even though I was only a very young child, it did occur during my lifetime. Those generations that follow me will study the event and I believe there is value in having a connection with someone who was alive at the time. Through these posts, I hope you will gain a deeper sense of our country's history, and the debt we owe to what Tom Brokaw has dubbed "The Greatest Generation". It happened on a small 8 1/2 square mile hunk of volcanic rock, roughly 1/3 the size of Manhattan just 600 miles off the coast of Japan. Shaped like a pork chop, Iwo Jima sits in an incredibly strategic position. It's capture was vital to prepare for the continued campaign against the Japanese. Not only would it neutralize the anti-aircraft fire that was costing scores of American lives, but Iwo Jima would provide a place for allied bombers to refuel so that they could continue on to bomb the Japanese mainland and bring World War II to a close.


I've know 3 people who have been to Iwo Jima; two who fought there and one who served there later after the war. Some of what you will read here has come from their first-hand accounts. Through these posts, you will have an opportunity to see, hear, and feel what these and others have experienced. I begin this project with humility and respect, and with the fervent hope that what I write will paint "word pictures" that will enable you to gain a deeper perspective on their sacrifices. So, gather now for your "briefing".


Iwo Jima means "Sulphur Island" in Japanese. Large deposits of sulphur just under the surface give rise to the name. At the south end of the island, stands Suribachi, a 556 foot "mountain", far and away the highest point on the island.

Although Iwo Jima is now a Japanese shrine and military outpost, for a number of years after the war, it was manned by American forces. My friend Stuart served there as part of the USAF in the late 1950's. He recalls how the island stunk of hot sulphur every minute of every day. Even though it was during peacetime, men kept calendars beside their bunks, crossing off with a big "X" each day as it passed. With a fairly constant air temperature of 110 degrees and no air conditioning, you wore misery like it was a second skin. When he first arrived, he went to the motor pool and requisitioned a Jeep to tour the island. The Sergeant in charge said, "See you in 10 minutes". Sure enough, he was back in 10 minutes. Stuart also recalls an incident that happened late one night. The Air Force had set up an outdoor movie to provide some degree of diversion to the men. After one of the showings, Stuart set the remains of a bag of popcorn beside his bunk. During the night, he heard rustling and when he looked down, the bag was slowly moving across the floor. He picked it up and discovered that it was being carried by a team of four cockroaches. On a darker note, because of the deplorable surroundings, the suicide rate among personnel was abnormally high. As well, many who went to Japan on liberty opted not to return; willing to risk arrest and prosecution rather than suffer further in a place even sea birds shun.


So, it was into this environment of stink, oppressive heat, and a complete absence of fresh water anywhere on the island that our Marines took a road trip; headlong and full speed into hell.


Watch any documentary about the battle of Iwo Jima and the survivors seem not to be men who faced what they faced. They are members of the crocheted afghan and heated lap robe platoon, now. They seem so frail and arthritic, some barely able to move. They're most all in their '80's hampered by the normal maladies of aging. They do, though, share many common traits; they become emotional when they remember, so they try not to, they almost universally feel some degree of survivors' guilt, and they love their country with a passion that's so sadly missing in many today. To a man, they agree that if called now by their country, they would gladly serve.



For 72 days, the Allied Forces relentlessly pounded Iwo Jima from the air and from ships setting just off the coast. The day in and day out shelling and bombing turned the already sparse island into a pockmarked lunar landscape. As a result, the 4th and 5th Marine Divisions anticipated a "cake walk" when they went ashore. As one veteran put it, "We expected a 5 day campaign....we got 50". Unbeknownst at the time, the Japanese had built a network of tunnels throughout Suribachi, so other than disturbing sleep, the 72 day bombardment had virtually no effect on the defenders. One observed, "The Marines were on Iwo Jima, the Japanese were inside of Iwo Jima". 21,ooo Japanese soldiers were ready.


Early on the morning of February 19th, after the traditional pre-invasion breakfast of steak and eggs, as the Marines huddled in the invasion LSTs and prepared for the ramp to go down, the order was given, "Buckle your chin straps and take your weapon off safety". Another of those veterans I knew and worked with for many years was Lou. Lou was in the Navy and drove one of the LSTs. I remember him telling me that he was under orders to man the 50 caliber machine gun mounted at the rear of his boat and train it on the Marines so none would refuse to go. He had direct orders to shoot should there be "slackers". As the men tumbled down the ramps and onto the beach, they became acquainted with another of Iwo Jima's features. The black volcanic sand was so loose they sank down into it, over their boots. Running was virtually impossible, so every step they slogged exposed them to greater danger. But, surprisingly, none came. For 3 hours there was calm as the concealed Japanese patiently waited for the beach to be filled with men and equipment, and then.....


The gates to hell itself opened and Death in all its arrogance strode the beach and reaped souls at will. The Japanese had spent the time leading up to the battle mapping out every square yard of the anticipated invasion area and had arranged their weapons so that no matter where you were, you were caught in a crossfire. You couldn't dig much of a foxhole because if you went down in the sand little more than a foot, you encountered hot sulphur. Protection and cover were non-existent. One Marine told of his buddy beside him raising up to see and was instantly cut in half by machine gun fire. We lost a man every 45 seconds. One vet reported, "We thought we were young and invincible, but then the shit hit the fan and we grew up quick." One recalled thinking, "Oh my God, they're real bullets!"


Men crawled over the bodies of the dead and sometimes sought cover behind them. They learned to cover their eyes, their logic being as one put it, "You could give up an arm or a leg, but not your eyes." There were very few whole bodies, just pieces. One medic was asked by a wounded Marine, "Am I gonna make it?" "No", said the medic (the soldier's leg was gone and he was bleeding out). "Then would you light me a cigarette?", replied the man. "OK". He was gone in 15 minutes. All this to a group of 18 and 19 year old "boys". At 24 you were considered an old man.


Of most poignancy to me was the account given by one of the veterans on "Lest They Be Forgotten", a PBS special. He told of how he and his twin brother were fighting side by side. After a shell exploded near them, he saw his brother's helmet. He crawled over to it and when he picked it up his head came with it. He gathered up as much of his twin as he could find and lovingly put the pieces in a poncho. Slinging the poncho over his shoulder like an obscene Santa Claus pack, he made his way back to an aid station.There a medic asked, "Whatcha got in the poncho?" "My brother" the Marine replied. "No, really?" said the medic. "Look", said the Marine as he gently unfolded the poncho. "Can I have some water so I can clean him up a little bit before I put him in the ground?" he said. Later, his commanding officer got a message to him that said, "Come on down here, you're going home. You've paid the price." "No sir", said the Marine, "He has."


As he related this horrible memory, he wept unashamedly. And as I watched in the sanctity of late night quiet in my den, so did I.




Part II will continue tomorrow