CHAPTER 3

The All American Team

Before telling the story of the jump itself, I should fill in with a picture of the part played by other services; for like almost every mission in the Southwest Pacific and Asiatic theaters, this was distinctly a "combined operation". Individually, we none of us know what the other fellow is doing, and possibly each of us thinks that his unit is fighting the whole war; but behind us all there is a complex master plan which weaves us, separately into a beautiful pattern of victory. To any soldier who can sense this, there will come an immense thrill of satisfaction when he realizes that he is playing a part as one of an all-star cast with each of the other services outdoing itself to support him. His pride will even reach beyond the armed services, and will include the superb and irresistible machine behind him; the ships, the planes, and vessels: the weapons, motors and tools with which he is equipped. American industry--the intelligence, ingenuity and productive power of the whole American nation stands beside us and go with us on every move we make.

This is the inspiring "All-American Team" of today's sport page--now that "sport" has become serious, grim, deadly, in a game with Freedom for its goal lines. We are here, together, as a team, and when Peace returns, we shall all feel the pride of team mates who, side by side, have won the most fearful and the most astounding championship in History.

While we were waiting at our base camp in Mindoro, the other services had already moved out upon their objectives. The Air Force, of course, had struck again and again. Some of our officers managed to get in on these flights. They came back enthusiastic over their experiences. It is always a pleasure for infantrymen, even parachute infantrymen, to rise out of the grime and dirt of a mud war into the "deep blue yonder" of air combat. The pleasure is heightened when you can sit comfortably with the air crews amongst the amazingly intricate fighting compartments of "Liberators" and "Mitchell" bombers. Of course our men were anxious to handle the machine guns, to sit in the co-pilot seats, to study the dials of the panel board, and to learn the principles of the bombsights. But the climax was reached over Corregidor itself when the bombardier had pointed out the exact target he wanted to destroy. The bomb-bay doors opened magically, revealing the emplacements beneath--then the release was thrown, and a deadly string of bombs tumbled joyously out of their racks. "Bombs away!"

We could watch their slow flight downward, watch the terrific burst where they struck, watch the flashes of destruction spout upward, and then see the heavy, dark pall of smoke draw its blanket over the area. From this height, Corregidor itself looked like a tiny Acropolis, crowned, as in Greece, with the stark skeletons of broken buildings. One of our officers remarked, "I thought I was glancing into a history book when I looked down at it. Nothing there but ruins. Not a living soul in sight!" But of course, as we knew well, the Japs were still there, deeply hidden within the rock-cut tunnels which our own engineers had built before the war;-- and it would take foot soldiers with grenades and flame-throwers and demolition charges to blast them out.

Perhaps the work of the Air Corps should be described in a little more detail for in a sense this entire operation was "their baby." It is reported that while Gen. MacArthur was still pondering how to recapture Corregidor with the smallest possible losses, his brillant air-lieutenant, Gen. Kenney, remarked, "Let me take it from the air!" "AII right, George, go to it," MacArthur is said to have replied, thus subjecting air attack to a test never before attempted by American arms.

The softening-up process began three weeks in advance of the main attack. On Jan. 23, Liberators of the 307th Bomb Group loosed their loads of 500 lb and 1,000 lb bombs from an altitude of 17,000 feet, with such accuracy that they scored 88% hits on the tiny island below. The Jap garrison could scarcely have seen the high- flying planes, but the steady drone of their motors must have warned them that vengeance had taken wing .

The 13th Air Force was followed by the 5th -- old friends of ours whose veteran squadrons we had known for the past 2�  years as we camped beside their airstrips in Australia and New Guinea during the long months while American armies were tediously "climbing up the map." Here were the "Red Raiders", and "Ken's Men", and the "Jolly Rogers" with their Death's Head and Crossed Bombs insignia which we so often watched, flying out on fateful missions from Port Moresby. Their intensive attacks continued for a full two weeks, supplemented by still a third Air Force, the 7th, which had been doing such splendid work from their Central Pacific bases. In rotation, these great air forces "poured it on" with a schedule which left the Japs no time to rest. Here is their report: "7th Air Force Libs in the morning, 13th Air Force B-24's [Note: a B-24 is a Liberator] at noon, 5th Air Force A-20's in the afternoon, and 5th Air Force Libs just before evening chow." The A-20's came from the 3rd Attack Group,--also old friends of ours, known as "The Grim Reapers" because of their insignia of a skeleton wielding a scythe. To complete the preparation, squadrons of fighters were added: P-38's, P-47's, and the beautiful new P-51's with 1,000 lb- bombs under each wing, and with .50 caliber machine guns hurling their fire into cave mouths, tunnel entrances, ravines, and gun pits. In a total of 134 sorties, these swift fighters dropped 135 tons of bombs on targets which were inaccessible from higher altitudes. The total tonnage now reached the record breaking figure of 3,128 tons during the 25 days, --the largest amount ever expended in the pacific theater on so small an area. Finally, to ensure success, the intensity of the attack was continued up to the very moment of the parachute attack; and even while the jumpers were dropping in mid air, A-20's carried on continuous strafing runs over the Malinta Hill section of the island. It can certainly be said that when Kenney offered "to take the island by air", he made good his word. Our Air Force had not only warded off the possibility of any Jap air interference during the parachute attack, they had also eliminated the possibility of serious ground defense.

The part the Navy played in preparing the way for us was, of course, a major one-- in fact, this Asiatic-Pacific war has seemed to be largely a Navy show, to use the Australian phrase, with the Army as an auxiliary force and the Air Corps, land based or ocean borne, as a dominant element of naval power. The main strategy of the Corregidor operation was aimed at deception up to the last minute--a deception which would keep the Japs at their sea-wall defense until the sabre-stroke of a parachute attack could sweep down upon their heads. It was therefore planned that D Day (15 February) should be devoted to an amphibious landing at Marivales, a little village on the tip of the Bataan peninsular, only three miles across the bay from the guns of Corregidor. The 34th Infantry Regiment was selected to make the landing. No opposition was expected at Marivales, and none did occur, except for a little fire from five-inch guns in Corregidor's few remaining batteries. These were soon silenced.

Five cruisers, The Denver, The Cleveland, The Phoenix, The Montpelier, and the valiant Boise, stood off several miles in the bay with eight-inch guns which could out-argue any chatter from Japanese shore emplacements. In addition, there were a goodly number of destroyers from Destroyer Squadron 21, who came in to close quarters for point-blank fire down the very throats of the Jap caves. Then, of course, there were the lesser craft--if you can call them that�the glorious little ships and barges whose heroic work we tend to take for granted. Each one of them saw its share of excitement and more than its share of danger. Let me record a few notes about some of their doings. Most of what I write is hearsay--possibly inaccurate--but true in the sense that it outlines the general character of the action. There were the minesweepers, for instance--the foster-mothers of naval victories. Intrepid and anonymous, these vessels clear the path for every operation, slightly ahead of the first wave.

It was known that the waters around here were thickly sewn with mines; and, in fact, no area was safe until the "scrub-ladies"[1] had brushed them clear.[2]

Then there were the P.T. boats. Though this service was immortalized by Commander Bulkeley's narrative, "They Were Expendable," few people, even now, realize the tremendous part the "motor boats" (as big-ship naval men jokingly call the little fellows) are playing. Most of their work, as was the case in this operation, is hidden; but much of it has proven so decisively that it has actually turned the scale on many occasions. We knew enough of their achievements in preliminary patrols, in scouting and feeling out this area, and in intercepting Jap troop movements by night, to realize the importance of the job they had done. For weeks they had been waging a surreptitious, blacked-out war of their own, even including some private beach landings which never got into papers. They must, and I hope they will some day tell their own incomparable story. Let it suffice here to say that they not only shepherded these waters, but also stood ready during our jump to pick up stranded paratroopers who might be blown into the sea.

The beach craft played their unique part as successfully as they always do on such operations. Not until I met some of their officers after the mission was ended did I realize how large a share of this work is carried out by Coast Guard personnel. Here, too, is material for a book as thrilling as any that has yet been written about this war; and here is much that none of us realize or imagine. At first I had assumed that the real action at Corregidor began on the morning when we got into our transport planes for the jump. Actually, an exciting and disastrous combat had already been fought the night before. I did not learn of it until a month later, when a young naval officer who took part in it told me the story. Let me record it more or less as I heard it from him.

He explained that this D Day landing, as he watched it at Marivales, had been uneventful, except for the stirring novelty of such scenes to a twenty-one-year-old "recruit" like himself. He was serving on his maiden voyage and had never before seen the stage set for serious combat. For the morrow he was expecting real action --the more so since the Landing Craft on which he served was one of a flotilla of six which was scheduled to push home the attack on Corregidor's beachhead two hours after the paratroops should land. Although his vessel was one of the typical beaching and supply ships, it had been intensively armed for just this sort of support operation. In fact, as I understand, it had more fire power per square inch than do any of our other vessels: more even than a cruiser or full-scale "battle-wagon."

Like all others who have time to look ahead and think on the night before their first battle engagement, this Lieutenant and his comrades wondered how they would measure up to the critical test. He and another officer his own age discussed it while they were munching their supper. The thought of death seems so unreal to fellows like them, so recently emerged from peace-loving American homes, and from nor mal, cheerful, neighbourly environment that goes with the lives they had led. Now, with little preparation, they are suddenly plunged into stern companionship of danger and death. More of a veteran in experience, but only two years older, their skipper had told them that everyone feels the same before the first action,  "and lot of us never get over it," he added. Five of the six vessels were ordered to anchor in a semi-circle off shore, more or less screening the other craft which were still on the beach. There was little to fear in the way of air attack as the Jap air force had been virtually knocked out. "We were warned, though, that the suicide motor craft the Japs were supposed to have," the Lieutenant explained. These deadly little ships had been a great source of worry to our Navy, and for weeks the P.T. boats had been seeking to destroy them in their bases. In size they were no larger than a dory--very cheaply built, and poorly motored. Their sole purpose is to creep up on larger vessels at night and ram them, thus detonating the terrific explosive charge they in the bow. If detected, they could be destroyed without difficulty, but it is surprising how close they often approach at night before our look-outs can spot them. Their motors are relatively silent and they lie extremely low in the water. If the sea is kept illuminated with star shells they might be observed, but for some reason, this precaution was not taken that night, though it was well known that the Japs maintained a base for craft on Corregidor. If we were neglectful or over-confident in this matter, the Japs were not.

When conditions favored them most, during the darkest hours, they dispatched twenty-five of their marine assassins who passed out of their haven, under Corregidor's sea walls, and crept stealthily upon our flotilla.

The Lieutenant told me that at nightfall he lounged restlessly on deck for an hour or two, sometimes checking the watch, and sometimes retiring to a more comfortable vantage point from which he could peer out into the mysterious sea-darkness enveloping them. Words cannot describe the eerie suspense of such hours, the thought of the great, silent fortress where the battle would rage in the morning, of the hidden dangers which might at the moment be surrounding them, and of the grim contrast between the tranquillity of the ocean's slow, gentle swells, and the terrible power of destruction which slept within the holds and magazines of these vessels while the sea rocked them so softly.

He was roused by a roar from the vessel which lay close to a point of land on the port side, and by the immediate clamour which broke out on other ships. Machine gun tracers burned long red tracks blindly out into the darkness. "There! There!" a sailor cried. The Lieutenant jumped to a gun himself and deflected it as much as possible, pouring fire into the deadly little motor boat which was crashing head on toward the after part of the ship's hull. It was too late, and a moment later the vessel shook from end to end. The Lieutenant was blown from the deck with two small shrapnel wounds, of which he was unaware, in arm and leg. A brother officer floated nearby, and debris was strewn across the water's surface. Just what followed in the confusion no one knew at the time. Of other ships damaged or sunk in the attack, one managed to strand itself on a beach where it burned fiercely until morning.

Among the men floating near him in the water, the Lieutenant found that none of their wounds seemed to be serious. They managed to swim to a small raft, but had great difficulty getting onto it. Being a good distance off shore, it seemed best to lie out here until morning, though some machine guns were still hissing aimlessly over their heads, fired by the excited gun crews of vessels near the beach. The blaze from the beached ship cast a brilliant, but fitful light far across the waters of the bay. This was accompanied by irregular rumbles and bursts from the hull as machinery fell through the decks, or ammunition blew up. Like the agony of a dying giant, these reverberations thundered through the final throes of destruction.

While they were floating precariously in this way, the survivors talked but little. As always, there was one of the number who found a humorous angle, though he himself suffered the worst of the lot with a fractured ankle. He had been staring for some time at the burning ship, when a minor explosion hurled a fountain of fiery fragments curving upward in flaming parabolas which dropped at last into the sea. "That'd make a great finale for Billy Rose's Aquacade at the next World's Fair," he remarked. There were no comments, so, after a pause, he mused, "Billy Rose, be damned. It pretty near made a finale for us."

During the long waiting hours someone started the subject of sharks--not merely for the sake of conversation, but from a practical stand-point. Though sharks do infest these waters, they are not as numerous as is imagined; yet, the thought of them adds considerably to everyone's anxiety. In a few moments, however, an unexpected incident occurred which reminded those men that there was something worse than sharks to fear. They noticed a dim outline in the haze some distance beyond them, where the flickering glow of the fire-light half dissolved and half melted into night's blackness. "A submarine!" one of them suddenly exclaimed. Realizing that if the Japs saw them, they would be machine-gunned, the forlorn little group immediately slid from their raft. Still clinging to its side, they ducked from view as much as possible and waited anxiously for fifteen minutes or so. By good luck the Nips had failed to notice them; and the sub, which was evidently bent on a more serious mission, nosed away from the fire-scene on into Manila Harbor. The following day, as I under- stood (from hearsay), a Jap sub, whether this one or another, was sunk by one of our craft.

16 February 1945. In disregard of the casualties of the previous night, the re-enforced battalion of the 34th Infantry Regiment put out under escort from Marivales. According to plan, they were to pass in full sight of the Japs but out of range of Corregidor's lighter weapons, describing a great, half-circle around the Island. This would win a double advantage for it would induce the Japs more than ever to neglect Top Side and to man their beach defenses for a final assault; and it would poise our amphibious force in perfectly timed position to make their landing at H plus 2 hours (two hours after the Paratroopers had come down from the sky). Thus matters stood at the time the Paratroopers were making their take-off, some hundred and fifty miles away, for the final plunge on Corregidor.

This much, then, of our team mates and the fine work they performed. One of my associates had expressed a little jealousy that any other Unit should share in the honors of taking Corregidor, but in the end we realize that honor can never be individualized. It belongs to none of us, or to all of us. Perhaps our chiefest honor is that we Americans have learned from childhood the art of playing together . Almost all our sports, and certainly those we love best as a people, are "combined operations." Fritz Kreisler phrased the thought best in a musical analogy which every task force could use as a motive:

"Sometime when the orchestra is playing,

You will note as the music begins,

That the secret is in the combination

And we can't all be first violins."

There may still be a few First Violins of the "I have returned variety," but most of us realize that Americans by the thousands and hundred thousands returned together in a combination that proved irresistible.  

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