Battle Field Angels by Scott Mcgaugh Page B

with the smell of sweat and vomit. The vibrations from a slightly unbalanced propeller rumbled throughout the ship. Ammunition lay in stacks a few feet from Duffee’s bunk. Death in a dimly lit compartment filled with putrid air would be quick if a Japanese submarine found the Harry Lee in its sights.
    The Marines conducted two landing rehearsals at Efate. They were less than realistic as their support aircraft had been excused from participating. Veterans of previous island campaigns knew that coordination with air cover was critical to a successful amphibious assault. The Marines’ armada did not turn back for Wellington. The massive assault force set a northerly course as clusters of men tightened and voices hushed when talk turned to what lay ahead.
    As Task Force 53 approached Tarawa, the troops spent their days reviewing maps and plans. The Marines learned that the most concentrated bombing in history would precede their landing. Nearly three thousand tons of shells would be lobbed onto 291 acres. They wondered whether there would be an enemy to fight after that. The men around Duffee grew silent. Some never seemed to stop sharpening their knives, oblivious to the rhythmic grate of metal. Others endlessly disassembled and cleaned their rifles. Many wrote their last letters home or watched a second-rate movie, Marry the Boss’s Daughter . Some worried more about suffering a crippling injury than death.
    Men wilted under the pressure. On the eve of battle, corpsman Duffee saw how fear drove some Marines to desperation. A number of soldiers had avoided battle on Guadalcanal by not taking their Atabrine in the hopes of getting malaria. As the invasion force approached Tarawa, Duffee learned to smell the armpits of men reporting to sick bay. He knew a man sometimes put lye-laden soap under his arm to raise his temperature. A first offense prompted a stern warning from the corpsman and a promise to report it if it happened again.
    On November 19, a blazing tropical sunset on Betio reddened the sky. As the twilight air cooled, Admiral Shibasaki looked out across the mine-studded reef. The promised Japanese scout planes had failed to arrive. Military intelligence on what might be approaching was limited to his instincts and imagination. “I feel it in my bones … in a day, maybe less, we will be fighting for our lives,” he said before he issued the final battle order to his troops:
    “I order you, in the emperor’s name, to defend to the last man all vital areas. Should the enemy attempt a landing, destroy him at water’s edge. I know you will not fail our emperor, Hirohito, the Son of Heaven! Banzai! Long live Japan!” 24
     
    Hours earlier, just over the horizon, a message from the command ship USS Maryland had been flashed to the American task force: “It is not the Navy’s intention to wreck Betio. We do not intend to destroy it. We will obliterate it from the face of the earth.” 25
    Ray Duffee jerked awake to reveille at forty-five minutes past midnight on November 20. Tradition held that Marines eat steak and scrambled eggs as a last meal before battle. Duffee never saw it. Instead “shit on a shingle”—chipped beef on bread—landed on his tray. He encouraged everyone to eat lightly. Corpsmen didn’t want full intestines emptying out onto the sand in a few hours after bullets ripped open a man’s abdomen.
    After landing craft came alongside the troop transports, Duffee and thousands of others climbed down the cargo nets hanging over the side of the ships and jumped into their amphibious craft. Duffee heard four things as he climbed down the rope ladders: sloshing water, a periodic muttered prayer, the landing craft’s engine, and Marines retching onto the deck.
    At 0500 hours, Betio exploded. Dozens of American warships simultaneously opened fire. Within seconds, a curtain of smoke, sand, and coral dust hung over Betio. The entire island disappeared in balls of fire as spasmodic volcano-like