HQ Company was now digging in about thirty yards from the beach. We set up Battalion headquarters there, along with an aid (first aid) ­station. They set up a .50 caliber machinegun near my position at the jeep. In front of us, off to the right, less than thirty yards away was the ­entrance to ­Malinta Tunnel. Originally It had been built by the U.S. Army as part of the island’s defenses. We knew that it was now enemy ­occupied. The ­entrance of the tunnel was mostly blocked by a large amount of debris from the intensive bombing. Above the tunnel, ­slightly to our right, was the steep side of Malinta Hill. It was honeycombed with caves and ­tunnels, also occupied by the enemy. Companies K and L had already gone up the narrow trail to the reverse slope of Malinta Hill to cut the island in half. By this ­maneuver, the Japanese defenders could not shift troops to meet the paratroopers’ ­assault. Directly in front of us was a small footbridge over a gully; to the left, was high ground, with Topside, the large flat ­plateau on top of a high hill farther back.­

Soon we saw paratroopers gliding down in the distance over ­Topside. Some of them were machine-gunned while they were in the air, and we saw a few of them on the high ground, hanging limply from the trees, ­obviously dead. As the day wore on, we formed a more secure ­perimeter around the beach area, and the officers took a head count to see who was there and who was not. There was incessant firing and ­explosions all over the island. There were so many craters, and so much debris everywhere, that ­Corregidor was a wasteland that looked like the surface of the moon.

The Invasion beach, looking East - Caballo Island is in the distance, beyond South Dock

In the afternoon, there was a lull in the firing, and we received a ­visitor. A paratrooper from the 503^rd had heard that men of the 34^th were holding the beach. He had received permission to come down from ­Topside and say hello. He was a sergeant who had known us from ­training in the ­Carolina Maneuvers, and who had later transferred into the 503^rd. I ­remembered him, and we exchanged greetings and shook hands. It was then that I ­suddenly remembered: I had almost transferred into the 503^rd in 1941 in South ­Carolina when they were looking for volunteers. I had decided against it because it would have extended my 12-month hitch for another three years. Now it was over three years later; I was on this island in the middle of the Pacific with the 503^rd just as if I had joined them. ­Regardless of my ­decision in 1941, I would have been here anyway. Son of a gun! I thought: it was fate. I was meant to be on ­Corregidor at this time for some reason.

At dusk that day, I climbed into my foxhole, and we took turns ­staying awake. Battalion HQ requested flares from the Navy, and they sent up a few at various times throughout the night. They lit up the ­entire beach area as if it was daylight for several minutes. The flares were sent up to make sure that the Japs were not attempting a night attack. It was risky, however, ­because the light also exposed our positions. The Navy was ­reluctant for their own reasons; they feared enemy artillery fire directed at their ships. There was no fighting on the beach that night, however, and I tried to sleep.

We were always surrounded by the sounds of fighting—gunfire and ­explosions—that reverberated from all over the island, at all hours, day and night. There were lulls, and the fighting tended to decrease at night, but it was not easy trying to sleep.

About 5:00 am that morning I was awakened by a racket, There was firing and explosions on the beach nearby for a few minutes. What the hell was that? Later on that day, I saw the bodies of a platoon of ­Japanese Imperial Marines on the beach who had tried to infiltrate our position by swimming in from around the island. They had been wiped out. I ­noticed that they were much bigger men than the average ­Japanese ­soldier. We’re fighting elite troops, I thought.

By daylight of the 17^th the sounds of fighting on the island picked up as the paratroopers renewed their assaults to flush out and destroy the ­Japanese garrison.

That afternoon, the paratroopers’ assaults began to force some Japs out of their caves and tunnels on the side of Malinta Hill that faced us. ­Suddenly, we saw about half a dozen of them scurrying out of the caves, like a bunch of monkeys, trying to move to the right. They looked ­confused and disorganized, as though they had taken a wrong turn. They panicked when they discovered they had suddenly become targets on the side of the hill facing us. Almost everyone on the beach immediately opened up on them. One sergeant next to me pulled out his .45, which was only good at point blank range, and began firing at them. I told this jerk, “Put that thing away! You can’t hit anything at this range.” I didn’t fire either, because my grease-gun was only accurate up to 100 yards, and I might have hit our own men in front of me. After a few moments, the Japs disappeared back into the caves, and we ceased firing. I don’t know if we even hit any of them.

That night there were more flares, and around 11:00 pm, we heard ­tremendous firing from the top of Malinta Hill that lasted for two or more hours. At daybreak on the 18^th we got word that the Japs had made a ­fanatical counterattack during the night on Companies K and L which were ­holding the top of Malinta Hill. They had been hit hard and there were many ­casualties. That morning the medics began to transport the wounded down the trail on the side of Malinta Hill to the aid station at our beach ­position in ­preparation for evacuation from the island. The trail was a steep, narrow, twisting ­pathway.

By the second day of our landing, a short section of the trail had come ­under sporadic fire from a Jap machinegun nest. The Japs still held ­positions in the nearby high ground that was full of caves and tunnels. They had ­managed to place a machinegun that could hit the trail at one point from far range. On the morning of the 18^th, four medics were bringing down a wounded man on a stretcher—a casualty from the night attack on Malinta Hill. Suddenly, they came under machinegun fire at the vulnerable point. They panicked, dropped the stretcher with the casualty, and made a run for it down the hill. Col. Postelthwait pointed to the wounded man and ­shouted, “Someone get that man!” I was closest, so I ran up the trail. It wasn’t a ­conscious decision to take a risk or to do something heroic.

The Colonel had ordered something to be done, and I was in the ­position to do it. As I reached the wounded man on the stretcher, ­machinegun ­bullets dusted up near my left boot. Even though he had certainly already been treated, my training automatically kicked in.  I turned the man over. There was a gaping bloody wound in his chest. I pulled out a sulfa packet, ripped it open and poured the powder on the wound. A few other men, including Frank Alvarez had followed me up the trail. We all grabbed the stretcher and brought the wounded man down to the aid ­station. All the while, we were under fire, but no one else was hit.

Decades later, Frank said that one of the medics had been hit, which had caused the panic, and that we also rescued him as well. It could have ­happened that way, although I don’t remember seeing the other wounded man. After we got down, I heard that the medics wanted our names ­because they were going to put all of us in for decorations. “Hey, Russ,” said the ­adjutant, “I’m putting you in for a Silver Star.” “Okay,” I replied. I didn’t think much of it at the time, because it ­really didn’t mean much to me one way or the other, and I soon forgot about the whole incident. For me it was just another day of following orders and ­trying to stay alive at the same time. I later heard that the stretcher ­casualty didn’t make it.

Every day on Corregidor was the same now. I was on the surface of the moon and I lost track of time. Gunfire and explosions reverberated all around the island, at all hours day and night; although it did seem to slack off somewhat at night. Flares were sent up occasionally at night, and I tried to catch some sleep. It was like that on the 21^st, when darkness fell, and I laid down near the jeep to try to catch some shut-eye. I was out for perhaps an hour and a half.

It was around 9:30 pm. Suddenly a massive explosion shook the ground, jolting me awake. Thoughts raced through my mind. What the hell was that? What had happened? It must be the signal for an attack! Maybe the Japs were trying to blow open the entrance to Malinta Tunnel and then come charging out in a banzai attack. We had been afraid of that. That must be it! It must be imminent, at any moment now. Everyone in HQ ­Company on the beach snapped into position. I thought, This is it, and slung my pack onto the jeep near my foxhole. It contained my extra ammo, and it was now where I could easily reach it when I needed to reload. I snapped open the ejector cover on my grease-gun and pointed it toward the entrance of Malinta Tunnel less than thirty yards away. I was ready to fire every last round at the charging Japanese. Then I would take out my .45 and fire at point blank range. I was not behind a screen of line companies this time. I was going to come face to face with the enemy. The Japs were going to make a suicidal charge directly at us, maybe hundreds of them. We were ready for them, but if they kept charging, no matter how many we killed, they would eventually swarm over us, and over me. Maybe they would wipe out the entire company. My entire war had come down to this ­moment. I thought that I was finished. So, this is how it ends, on this tiny, devastated island in the middle of nowhere. Well, I’ll take a lot of them with me. It was the only thing I had left. So I waited. The .50 caliber ­machinegun crew nearby waited with their weapon ready. All the other men of HQ Company waited with their weapons ready.

The explosion had sent large rock fragments hurtling through the air; two of them had struck Frank Alvarez on the leg, giving him a bruise and a gash. He was being patched up in the aid station. I also saw Col. ­Postelthwait on the field telephone asking for support from our troops on top of Malinta Hill. If the Japs charged at us on the beach, our guys could fire downward on their backs. At least we would have them in a cross-fire, but our men had to come to the edge of Malinta Hill to be in position.

We waited. Then we waited some more. It was now 10:00 pm, and still nothing had happened. We waited, and continued to wait. Five ­minutes seemed like five hours. Then more time passed. After an hour, I ­began to relax, just a little. After another half hour, I relaxed a little more. It became clearer and clearer there was not going to be a general attack on us. The night stretched on. Eventually, the sounds of firing and ­explosions picked up again.

Four days later on February 25^th, with the mop-up campaign still ­going on, the Third Battalion was withdrawn from Corregidor. We were glad and relieved, smiling for photos on the transport that had picked us up.  On board, I had a craving for a simple pleasure: a slice of white bread. After several weeks of K-rations, I thought I now had the ­opportunity. I went to the galley and asked the first cook I saw: “Get outta here,” he growled. This is not the way to talk to a man who is carrying a sub-­machinegun and who has just come out of combat, I thought. But it wasn’t worth making trouble over, so I left.

The Third Battalion was sent back to Mariveles, and then a short time later to Mindoro to rejoin the rest of the 34^th, which had been sent there previously.