It Took More Than Guts… Iwo Jima

U.S. Marines of the Second Battalion, Twenty-Seventh Regiment, wait to move inland on Iwo Jima, soon after going ashore on 19 February 1945. An LVT(A)-5 amphibious tractor is in the background. Red Beach One.

by C. L. Morehead

For every nation there is a standard of bravery in battle. For the French, perhaps the defense of Verdun in World War I is the standard. For the British, perhaps the stubborn, orderly evacuation of Dunkirk. For the American, there can be little doubt.

It was Iwo Jima.

On Iwo Jima the American standard reached a peak. That is why the immortal photo of the “Flag Raising On Mt. Suribachi” touched the heart of every American.

On the black sands of Iwo Jima, early in 1945, 4,300 United States Marines died, and 15,308 were wounded in frontal assaults on a solid mass of hidden forts. The Marines killed 23,000 fanatical Japanese defenders, who fought to the death, there. Less than one hundred prisoners were taken, and they were almost all stunned or wounded men.

Surely Americans do not want to die. Life in the U.S.A. is good. Yet, when they are challenged, they seem to fight with deadly efficiency. It may be that the Marine motto, simple as it is, expresses the real reason why.

Semper Fidelis means “Al­ways Faithful.” Faithful to what? To the American dream. To freedom, to justice, to the dignity of the individual.

And there it is—the dignity of the individual. If a man is to have self-respect and dignity, he must be ready to fight for his principles.

And to die for them.

At Iwo Jima it was all “in­divi­duals.” No mass “banzai charges,” no “human sea,” no cattle-like charges, for Americans. Each man advanced against concrete pillboxes, through storms of flying steel and flame, as an individual, because of ideals and because of pride.

That is how it is with most Americans, especially in the Marines. They are not supermen. They know the sweating fear of combat. They too shrink from the tearing, ripping steel and shattering explosions of battle. But they choke down their fear, and go forward, because a free man must.

Take Private Mike Morse, of New York City, for example. He was not a hardened veteran when he landed on Iwo Jima. Less than six months before he had joined up. After boot training he was shipped right out to Guam, for a few weeks more of training. Then, off he went, with the 21^st Marines, in the 3^rd Marine Division, to the most brutal fight in American history.

In the murderous, face to face clawing of “Cushman’s Pocket,” Mike fought his first battle. In a rocky, stand-strewn space not much bigger than a football field, he inched his way with his buddies, through a crazy network of pillboxes and blockhouses. From three-foot-thick concrete walls, almost invisible muzzles of Nambu machine guns and cannon spat death at him. From skillfully hidden cave holes, darting Japanese hurled grenades that smashed the black rubber near him. The ground seemed to heave and convulse. Roaring noise and smoke enveloped him.

Mike crawled and slithered through the shattered earth and debris. When he saw a flitting Japanese figure he fired his carbine, or flung a grenade. The hours melted into days of thundering chaos, dead bodies, blood, and cold sweat. Over it all rain beat down, soaking and chilling him.

When his battalion was ordered back for a brief rest, Mike lay on the wet sand in the “rear,” exhausted like the other men. The “rear” was a grim joke. Shell, mortar, and machine gun fire slammed down into the “rest area.”

That was why he was almost glad when he was called to help carry the wounded back to the beach for evacuation. It was better to be doing something. Almost tenderly he picked his way over the broken ground, carrying a stretcher with a still, gray-faced man on it.

The shell burst that hit him struck while he was carrying a particularly badly wounded Marine. Flying shrapnel smashed into Mike’s face, around his eyes. Blood spurted, cascading into his eyes, and running warmly down his cheek.

Blinking, he peered through the red mist, and wiped the back of one grimy hand across his face. But stubbornly he held onto the stretcher. He would not let the wounded man fall.

Staggering, half-blinded, his face streaming with gore, Mike kept going, until he delivered his wounded charge to the evacuation point. Only then would he think of his own wounds.

Mike would have been surprised and embarrassed to be called a hero.

A man did what he had to do, on Iwo Jima.

Almost every inch of the black, ugly island was torn up by shell bursts. Volcanic grit blew into men’s faces, when the rain was not soaking it. Dead bodies littered the barren ground, and drifts of black sand piled up in dunes half-covering them. The dunes blended with the hundreds of slight mounds that dotted the island. Each tiny mound marked one of the hundreds of buried, tunnel-connected fortress pillboxes.

Sergeant Robert P. Fowler, of Washington, D.C., met a Japanese, almost face to face, as both crawled towards each other. The Japanese flung a grenade, and then dodged behind a rock as Fowler first ducked under the burst, then fired at the edge of the rock. The Japanese slithered back behind another rock.

After him came Fowler, crawling with his carbine cradled in his arms. When he caught a glimpse of the slithering legs or helmet of his enemy, he fired quickly. Around the broken rocks the deadly duel went on. Shot after shot spanged low across the ground.

It was the American who won.

The moment came when the target was visible for a split second. In that moment the American’s trigger squeeze was an eye-wink surer and quicker, and his bullet snuffed out the life of his enemy.

It was kill or be killed on Iwo. All over the hellish island these murderous little duels swirled and crackled.

PFC John MacElroy, of Williamsport, Pennsylvania, had teamed up with another rifleman to smash a pillbox with grenades and satchel charges. Then he scraped a hole in the sand nearby, and slept in it through the night.

At dawn his partner awoke and began to clean his gun. From the shattered pillbox a shot rang out. MacElroy’s buddy fell dead. One of the pillbox crew, still alive, was determined to die fighting. He did too, burned to a horrible cinder by a flame-thrower in the renewed attack on his broken little fortress.

Insanely tenacious, almost every single one of the island’s garrison had to be killed in close combat. Sometimes it seemed that each one had to be killed twice. Repeatedly, areas that were thought to be solidly secured, even in the rear, burst into renewed and venomous life. Through a maze of underground tunnels the defenders filtered back and forth throughout the island.

Second Lieutenant Frank J. Wright, of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, hit the beach with sixty men in his platoon. In one and a half hours of fighting, only two men remained able to move with him. They were PFC Remo Bechelli, of Detroit, Michigan, and PFC Lee Zuck, of Scranton, Pennsylvania. He had been ordered to rush across the narrow neck of the island next to Mt. Suribachi, and isolate the hill, and he did just that. Four of his company’s officers, including his company commander, were killed as they followed him. When he reached the other side, Wright was the company commander.

“We weren’t trying to run a foot race,” he said, “but our orders were to get across the island as fast as possible, and that’s what we did.”

A very matter-of-fact point of view. But that is the Yank’s point of view about war. It is just a dirty, nasty job, that has to be done. So he does it as quickly and efficiently as he can—to get it over with.

When Second Lieutenant Norman Brueggman, of Akron, Ohio, leaped to lead a charge of his platoon up a slope, he put this viewpoint into words. His men were momentarily paralyzed by the smashing, raking fire from above. His exasperation bellowed out: “If you want to win this war you’d better get the hell up here.”

Lieutenant Colonel Charles E. Shepard, of La Jolla, California, commanding officer of a battalion of the 28^th Marines, put it this way. He explained the mission to his men as a double job: “One, to secure this lousy piece of real estate so we can get the hell off it. Two, to help as many Nips as possible to keep their oath to die for the Emperor.”

Typical was the American zest for collecting souvenirs. Many a Yank risked his life for a souvenir.

PFC Leo Jez, of Chicago, Illinois, collected his trophy, a Samurai sword, the hard way. When a Japanese officer came charging out, swinging his sword, Jez leaped forward and grappled with him. As the sword swung down toward him, Jez stopped the glittering blade with his bare hand. Then he wrenched the weapon out of the Japanese’s hands, and with one terrific swing, slashed the Japanese’s head off.

His own hand was split deeply, but Jez had the sword—a perfect souvenir.

Scouts and patrols were useless. The lines of attackers and defenders were locked in close contact from the beginning until the end. For almost four weeks the deadly grenade, flame, gun-butt, and knife fighting went on under a deluge of crashing, smashing mortar and shell bursts. Surely, no vision of hell could have matched this awful panorama, where thousands of merciless men tore at each other’s throats in a landscape like that of a dead planet.

Here and there, on the rocky, scarred ground, squat tanks of the Third Tank Battalion slid and ground slowly forward. Volleys of anti-tank gun fire smashed into them, and from their turrets streams of flame belched out, into cave entrances and pillbox slits. Major Holly H. Evans, of Oil City, Texas, their commander, admitted grimly, “They knocked the hell out of us for a while.” By the second day only nineteen of his forty-six tanks were still usable.

But the fear and hatred of the Japanese for the tanks was very real. Many a Nipponese was roasted alive by their flame-throwers, or buried alive as the big tank guns smashed the caves into sealed tombs.

As the inferno roared, day after day, and night after night, it consumed the units. Cooks and clerks, legal officers and MPs, volunteered, or were sent to fill the gaping holes in the slowly advancing lines. PFC Waren K. Gray, of Ewing, Kentucky, a cook, pleaded for a chance to fight.

“He had to be allowed into the lines when it looked for a while as if there would be no one left to cook for.” For two days and nights Gray served as mortar fire spotter. At least two dozen Japanese were seen to fall under the mortar bursts he directed.

Battle madness grew among the men. Things that would have sickened them at home became matters for bellowing laughter here. When they saw a terrified Japanese running out of the door of a pillbox, with a Marine thrusting a bayonet at his backside, the roar of laughter was like that of demons. And when another Marine shot the fleeing Nipponese, thus depriving the pursuer of his game, the black field rang with hysterical laughter.

The same insane kind of humor came from the Japanese. When a charging Marine, holding a grenade in his hand, was hit on the edge of a trench, he stood swaying for an instant before he fell. When he fell upon his own grenade, and was blown to pieces, the screaming cackles of the invisible Japanese told of their enjoyment of the sight.

In the bedlam, many men lost much of their ordinary sense of caution. First Lieutenant Felix Edico, of the Bronx, New York, ran up to a Japanese tank and rolled grenades down its gun barrel.

Second Lieutenant Charles Little, of Arcadia, California, set up an artillery forward observer post in a shell hole surrounded by dead bodies. But the bodies were not dead and grenades suddenly began to fly into his hole. As fast as they came in, he pitched them out again. For half an hour the weird ball game continued, until all the Japanese really were dead bodies.

The journal of Major Frank Garretson, of Seattle, Washington, recorded his battalion’s moves like the play-by-play story of a mad game. Garretson had starred on the Washington University football team, and he wrote as the companies moved: “We have moved up one touchdown” (one hundred yards); or “one first down” (ten yards).

Second Lieutenant Richard Reich, of Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, had joined Company E of the 24^th Regiment just before it moved out for the Iwo invasion. After two days of battle he was a company commander—all the other officers were dead. Promotion was very quick on Iwo. So was the mortality rate.

Battle fatigue became common as nerves broke under the endless strain. Jitters and uncontrollable shaking seized many men. For no special reason a man would begin to retch and vomit. Diarrhea racked the men, leaving them weak and sick. By the third week casualties had become appalling. Each man felt that he would be the next. One company commander lasted just six minutes before he was killed. Buck sergeants were in command of what was left of platoons.

On 16 March, twenty-five days after the first landing, the Americans reached the far end of the island at Kitano Point. It was just in time. They could not have stood much more.

Organized, coordinated resistance was ended. But it was to be several days more before the stubborn pockets of trapped Nipponese were to be finally wiped out.

Methodically, the Marines sealed shut every cave and tunnel entrance with flame throwers and dynamite. Canyons were flooded with gasoline, and set aflame. Bulldozers buried pillboxes. Bitter-end resistance continued from isolated nests and single survivors, who had to be killed one by one. Many an American died in this process, after the island had been officially declared “secure.”

In many underground caves, the defeated Japanese blew themselves up, or solemnly committed hara-kiri.

Among the exhausted, grim Marines there was no jubilation. They respected the courage of the fighting men whom they had conquered. Besides, it was hard to rejoice when so many friends had fallen in the battle. The dull eyes and lined faces of the survivors told how they felt.

It had been a hard, bitter job. Thank God, it was done and over.

Only gradually did the realization of what they had done come over the tired men. As they walked about the desolate island, the enormity of its strength became apparent.

In a typical area about six hundred by one thousand yards in size, there were fifteen hundred forts, including 225 pillboxes and 268 caves, honeycombed with connecting tunnels. In many places the underground galleries were in three levels, with interlocking tunnels running at all angles from one to another.

The old young men looked at each other in silent wonder. They had conquered this enormous fortress. It was almost incredible.

It began to dawn upon them that they had set a new standard for Americans at war. Beside this, the proud standards of Bunker Hill, Gettysburg, the Argonne, and Normandy became not lower—but surpassed. They had made history. With their blood.

In the days and years to come Americans will always remember Iwo Jima. They will never forget.

Iwo was not in vain. It helped to end the second great World War. But, far more important, it showed what Americans can do, when they have to.

The invasion beach of Iwo Jima is littered with American equipment and Marines as Japanese fire rakes the area. In the background are wrecked hulls and vehicles. In the foreground, Marines dig in for shelter from the blistering Japanese barrage. Marines killed on the beach were buried in the sand as the tide came in.

Landing craft on the beach at Iwo Jima. Navy and Coast Guard landing craft of all types crowd onto the assault beach at Iwo Jima to bring the 4th and 5th Marine Divisions ashore. US National Archives photo USN 48302. (Naval History & Heritage Command U.S. Navy 483202)

An LSM, with its bow open to the beach, disgorges its cargo of supplies on the Iwo Jima beachhead on 21 February 1945. Amtracs and DUKWs swim in alongside and then climb up on shore, while Marines aid in the unloading process or rest in foxholes. (US National Archives photo 80-G-412499)

This squad of Marines, 2nd Separate Engineer Battalion, Co. B, unloads supplies on Red Beach, Iwo Jima. To the left, (beneath the “807”) balancing two wooden boxes is Malinowski. Louis Hill, with “USMC” across his back, is to the left of Malinowski and directly across from Hill is his buddy Harry Lee Jones. Nearer the surf is Staff Sergeant Ingram lifting a box (seen as a white diagonal line). George “Frank” Hoyt is partially visible to the left of a carbine stock slung over the shoulder of an unknown Marine. To the right of the unknown Marine, is Fink, in profile. Martini, with the moustache, stands alert. The half-hidden face at the very end of the “bucket-brigade” is Cpl. Leonard W. Pojunas, Sr., just below the doors of the open LSM 201. Standing to the far right and facing away is Staff Sergeant Stubby Green. Sitting next to Green is Shirley tightening his gaiter. The 2nd Eng. Battalion had sailed from APRA Harbor, Guam February 16, 1945 on LST 725, LST 247, and LSM 143. February 20, 1945 the battalion was off Iwo Jima. February 21, at 18:30, LST 725 was beached on Iwo Jima at Red Two and LST 247 at Yellow One. Both LSTs were retracted February 22 for a more suitable ramp on Red One, where unloading continued under mortar fire from the Japanese.

Landing ships unloading near Mt. Suribachi, February 25, 1945. Ships seen include LSM-264, LST-724, LST-760, LST-788, and LST-808. (Naval History and Heritage Command S-139-A.02)

A U.S. Marine driving an ambulance jeep struggles in the sandy beach at Iwo Jima during the American advance on the strategic Japanese Volcano Island stronghold on February 26, 1945.

Wreckage on the beach, February 1945. (U.S. National Archives photo 80-G-304851)

Wrecked LVTs, Iwo Jima.

Marines landing on Iwo Jima, 1945.

Black members of a Marine unit on Iwo Jima. Note the Japanese hand grenade on the ground in front of the middle man kneeling.

USS LSM-238 (landing ship, medium) unloading equipment during the Battle of Iwo Jima, February 1945. (Naval History and Heritage Command NH 104212)

United States Coast Guard personnel resting on a volcanic ash beach during the Battle of Iwo Jima, 1945.

Marines re-embark on the U.S. Navy–manned LST-247 and the U.S. Coast Guard–manned LST-764 on March 14, 1945. LST-247 had been damaged in a collision off Iwo Jima with attack cargo ship Selinur (AKA-41) twelve days earlier. (Naval History and Heritage Command UA 18.02.26)

Amid the vapors of the steam heat and sulphur pits in the background, Marines (left to right) PFC David H. Christopher and Corporal Charles F. Parker radioman and flame thrower, work on their equipment in their foxhole on Iwo Jima.

Two amphibious tractors and a jeep, victims of Japanese mortar fire on the Iwo Jima beachhead, burn furiously. In the early battle, most of the heavy equipment became bogged down in the soft earth and were easily crippled by enemy fire.

With a burst of flame a direct hit smashed a Marine amtrac as Japanese mortarmen get the range during the battle for Iwo Jima on D-day.

An amphibious tractor, hit by enemy mortar fire, burns fiercely, adding its smoke and flame to the scene of battle on Iwo Jima.

American amphibious tractors burn fiercely at the foot of Mount Suribachi on Iwo Jima, hit by Japanese mortar fire. In the foreground is a Marine 75 mm pack howitzer in a partially sandbagged emplacement.

Marines keep a low profile, February 1945.

Advancing inland, February 1945.

Marines take a break, February 1945.

Planning the next advance, February 1945.

Sighting in with BAR, Iwo Jima, February 1945.

Marines on Iwo Jima, February 1945.

Scouting positions, February 1945.

Marines take cover, February 1945.

Marines inspect machine gun, February 1945.

Machine gunner takes aim, February 1945.

Mortars find their targets, February 1945.

Marine alerts his comrades, February 1945.

BGen Franklin A. Hart (left) and MGen Clifton B. Cates study a map, February 1945.

BGen Franklin A. Hart (left) and MGen Clifton B. Cates (center), February 1945.

Mortar team, February 1945.

Taking cover, February 1945.

Cautious Marine, February 1945.

Marines cleaning their rifles, February 1945.

Moving out, February 1945.

Marines take a break, February 1945.

While a gigantic artillery and tank battle rages in front of them on the Iwo Jima beachhead, Marines (left to right) PFC Joseph de Blanc and PFC Frank Hall faithfully wait for orders in a shell hole.

The lines of Marines struggling to increase their hold on the island of Iwo Jima in the Volcano group, on D-day. After 26 days the Marines had subdued the island but with a loss of 4,000 men.

Two Marine wiremen on Iwo Jima run across an open field under heavy enemy fire to establish telephone contact with the front lines. Communication with the beach paddies, had to function while constantly under heavy enemy fire.

Shell craters and rubble dot the landscape as the forward lines of the green-clad Fourth and Fifth Division Marines meet in the inland push over the black volcanic sand of Iwo Jima.

A Marine infantry battalion from the Third Division moving up to the relief of another battalion during the fierce struggle for Iwo Jima.

The uniform of the Marines blends into the surrounding foliage as by one’s and two’s they struggle forward in the face of desperate Japanese fire during the battle for Iwo Jima.

Iwo Jima’s military defenses were a closely guarded secret as early as 1937, as indicated by an order which was conspicuously promulgated on this wooden tablet. Marines who took the island also took the sign for an historical souvenir. Published both in the English and Japanese language, the notice warned that: ‘Trespassing, surveying, photographing, sketching, modeling, etc., upon or of these premises, without previous official permission, are prohibited by the Military Secret Law. Any offender in this regard will be punished by (two words stricken out) law.”

On the sun-blistered island of Iwo Jima, the question of water was vital to both the Marines and the Japanese. The enemy had prepared himself with the construction of these five storage tanks which now show evidence of shelling.

The highest ranking Marine in the Iwo Jima battle, Lieutenant General Holland M. Smith, (right), and Major General Clifton B. Cates, Commanding General of the Fourth Marine Division, were within sight of their goal - the northern tip of Iwo - at this meeting to plan the final drive.

This debris-littered culvert at the approach to the Motoyama Airfield Number One on Iwo Jima, serves as a headquarters command post for the 23rd Regiment of the famed Fourth Marine Division.

Symbolic of the power and muscle that finally wrenched Iwo Jima from the grasp of the Japanese, are the Marines who push their Jeep forward through the sand when the machine failed to make headway by its’ own power.

Burdened with heavy packs and equipment Marine communicators dash for cover during the inland drive from the Iwo beachhead.

Officers of the Fifth Marine Division direct the operation of their unit from a sandbagged position on Iwo Jima. They are (left to right in the foreground): Brigadier General Leo D. Hermle, Assistant Division Commander; Major General Keller E. Rockey (with phone), Division Commander; Colonel James F. Shaw, operations officer, and Colonel Ray Robinson, Division Chief of Staff.

Supported by tanks and halftracks, battle-tried Marines of the Fourth Division inch forward over the Volcanic sand of Iwo Jima. The man on the left is Sergeant Genaust. Genaust made the movie of the flag raising at Mount Suribachi. He was killed just a couple of days later so this must have been quite early on in the campaign.

Struggling forward by the yard, the Marines are held up by Japanese machine gunners. An American Marine immediately opens fire on the Japanese with his .30 caliber machine gun.

Three Marines of the "Fighting Fourth Division" move across Iwo Jima in tried and true style—foxhole to foxhole. As two of the Leathernecks use their rifles to pick off any of the enemy they can see, a third prepares to toss a hand grenade at an enemy position. Note the bayonets on their rifles... fighting on Iwo Jima could become close quarters at any minute.

Holland Smith on the front lines of Iwo Jima, 1945.

Holland Smith and Graves Erskine on the front lines of Iwo Jima, 1945.

Lieutenant R.A. Tilghman, of F. Co., 2nd Battalion, 27th Marines holds battlefield briefing under fire. He and his men are advancing up the west coast of Iwo Jima, time 1040. February 20, 1945.

Marines slowly advance on Iwo.

Marine demolition team blasting out a cave on Hill 382, Iwo Jima, March 1945.

Marines using a captured Japanese machine gun.

Advancing under fire, past a Japanese body, February 1945.

Organized and formed for the assault, Leathernecks of the 24th Marines of the  Fourth Marine Division under Major General Clifton B. Cates, USMC, are ready to attack the enemy-held Motoyama Airfield Number One, on Iwo Jima on D+1, 500 yards inland from the beach.

Using a shell crater as an observation post, Marines spot artillery fire during a tank battle at the north end of the airfield on Iwo Jima. In the background are wrecked Japanese planes.

From a foxhole in the foreground, Marines fire at Japanese snipers in the wreckage of their planes on the Motoyama Airstrip Number One on Iwo Jima.

American soldiers taking a break and eating amongst wreckage of aircraft during lull in the fierce battle against the Japanese for Iwo Jima.

Japanese aircraft wreckage on Motoyama Airstrip Number One.

Japanese aircraft wreckage on Motoyama Airstrip Number One.

Marine photographers on Iwo Jima. The Marine in the middle is using a camera.

LIFE combat photographer W. Eugene Smith wearing Marine Corps garb while studying unseen action in distance during the battle for Iwo Jima.

Marine reporters camp on Iwo Jima.

Marines now occupy this enemy machine gun emplacement which defended the Motoyama Airfield Number One on Iwo Jima.

Men with the 31st Naval Construction Battalion use a bulldozer and a towed cable rooter or “ripper” to open a cave at the end of Airstrip Number One on Iwo Jima. (U.S. Navy photo)

Earth movers in action, February 1945.

C-46 flies over Motoyama airfield number one, February 1945.

Airdrop of mail from C-46, February 1945.

Airdrop of mail from C-46, February 1945.

Consolidated PB4Y-2 Privateer on Motoyama Airfield Number One, February 1945.

In addition to three P-61 Black Widow night fighters in the foreground are a C-47, P-51’s and three PBY’s on Motoyama Airfield Number One, March 1945.

Looking out to sea, ships and craft of the large convoy that landed the Marines on Iwo Jima, are framed by the wreckage of Japanese planes on the rim of the Motoyama Airfield Number One.

Motoyama Airfield Number One on Iwo Jima is now Marine Corps property, having fallen to the Leathernecks when they invaded the Volcano group island. Work is in progress on the field.

While Mount Suribachi frowns down upon them, U.S. Marines, before the battle for Iwo Jima has hardly begun, more than cleared Motoyama Airfield Number One, commence reconstruction work on the field.

Preparing the field for immediate use by American planes, Japanese equipment is used on the former enemy Motoyama Airfield Number One on Iwo Jima.

Jubilant Marines gather parapacks of mail dropped by a transport plane for Leatherneck troops on the American-held portion of Iwo Jima. Large quantities of blood plasma was delivered in a similar ‘raid’.

Having pushed the Japanese back from Motoyama Airfield Number One, the U.S. Marines commence immediate construction work on the Iwo Jima bomber strip. In the background is Mt. Suribachi, volcano mountain at the tip of the island.

In the early morning hours of 26 March 1945 the 21st Fighter Group Officers' tent area was hit by a Japanese "Banzai" attack on Iwo Jima, this being the first phase of the battle. Soon, members of many other nearby units were involved, including a Signal Air Warning Company, a Negro Aviation Squadron, a Nightfighter Squadron, a Navy Construction Battalion, and a Marine Pioneer Unit. It is estimated that approximately 300 Japanese, the remnants of three units, participated in this charge, attacking the different areas simultaneously. The Marines closed in on them from behind with flame throwers, Tommy guns and grenades until the last Japanese was exterminated. The scene that remained caused many a sleepless night for those who looked upon the residue.

Another view of the aftermath of the early morning hours banzai attack.

Another view of the aftermath of the early morning hours banzai attack.

Here, just west of the 21st Fighter Group area is the 49th Signal Heavy Construction Battalion where another encounter took place. In the area to the right of the line of tents about twenty Japanese have been removed before this photograph was taken.

Another view of the aftermath of the early morning hours banzai attack.

This is a general view of the 21st Fighter Group Officers' tent area showing Japanese and American dead lying where they fell. After the battle 150 Japanese dead were found in the 21st Group Area.

Another view of the aftermath of the early morning hours banzai attack.

Another view of the aftermath of the early morning hours banzai attack.

Another view of the aftermath of the early morning hours banzai attack.

Another view of the aftermath of the early morning hours banzai attack.

Another view of the aftermath of the early morning hours banzai attack.

Another view of the aftermath of the early morning hours banzai attack.

Another view of the aftermath of the early morning hours banzai attack.

Another view of the aftermath of the early morning hours banzai attack.

Lt. Joseph D. Goons holding two hand grenades picked up after Japanese banzai raid on Iwo Jima. The one in his left hand is of Japanese make and the other is American.

Six men of the 549th Night Fighter Squadron look from a slit in the side of their tent. The Japanese cut the tent and tossed in grenades till the men organized and started fighting back.

Services for men killed during a Banzai attack on 21st Fighter Group, VII Fighter Command, are held in the 4th Marine Division Cemetery, Iwo Jima. 1 April 1945.

Services for men killed during a Banzai attack on 21st Fighter Group, VII Fighter Command, are held in the 4th Marine Division Cemetery, Iwo Jima. 1 April 1945.

First decoration ceremony on Iwo was held in the 21st Fighter Group area following the Japanese banzai attack of 26 March 1945. 34 Purple Hearts were awarded, principally for wounds received during the attack, and six Air Medals to P-51 fighter pilots. 14 April 1945.