WAR STORIES: Ten Days on Iwo Jima
By February 1945, Captain Frederic A. “Fireball” Stott was one of the better-known individuals in the First Battalion. A gifted liaison officer, Stott earned the Navy Cross on Saipan for coordinating tank-infantry operations and for personal bravery under action; he also was entrusted with temporary command of Charlie Company during the Mariana Islands campaigns. He would lead them again for a few days on Iwo Jima, before a mortar round smashed his legs and ended his combat career on 1 March 1945.
Stott wrote “Ten Days on Iwo Jima” from a hospital ship en route to Hawaii. Like his earlier work Saipan Under Fire, the article is replete with vibrant, graphic anecdotes that were still fresh in his mind. It is sobering to note that, with all the chaos and horror Stott describes, he witnessed only about a third of the battalon’s total time in action on Iwo.
Editor's note: This article orinally appeared in the May 1945 edition of Leatherneck Magazine.
Ten Days on Iwo Jima
by Capt. F. A. Stott
The small island looked easy from shipboard, but once on shore the pre-invasion optimism was blasted.
[Leatherneck] Editor’s Note: The author has fought with the Fourth Division in all its operations. The Navy Cross was awarded to him for action on Saipan.
Save for Mount Suribachi at the southern tip, Iwo was an unimpressive-looking island. It had no height comparable to Mt. Tapotchau.[1] We could see no terrain that looked as rugged as Saipan’s, or which possessed such defensive possibilities. So it seemed almost impossible to prevent optimism in the pre-invasion speculation.
This was the fourth invasion in 14 months for the Fourth Marine Division, and the First Battalion, Twenty-Fourth Marines was in division reserve again – fortunately. At Roi-Namur on Kwajalein we’d feared a late arrival, but landed in time to catch our share of the fighting. At Saipan, we drew reserve again and by nightfall of that “D” day, heavy artillery fire was dropping on our too-shallow holes. Here on Iwo we waited it out aboard ship as the assault waves successfully hit the beach and began working inland.
The signal bridge of our transport was jammed with Marine and naval officers.[2] Someone had set up a map and was penciling the moving lines. We listened to reports, and turned our glasses on the beaches where the Fourth and Fifth Marine Divisions’ leading waves were landing on a stretch of sand extending from the volcanic Suribachi north to a group of destroyed Nip supply ships rusting on the shore just below the rising ground spreading out at the northern end. We picked out the black dots which were men, and the larger spots which were tanks.
The radio told of good progress in the Fifth Division sector, with indications that shortly the island would be split in two, isolating Mt. Suribachi. And it also told of flanking fire of increasing intensity driving in from both ends of the beachhead.
Casualty reports were slower in arrival, but we heard and could see that our own division lines were inching forward, if not halted, only a couple of hundred yards in from the beach
By noontime the Jap mortar and artillery crews were emerging from their hiding places into which they had been forced by the pre “H” hour bombardment. And they were laying down fire on areas preciously registered upon. Optimism vanished quickly when you saw a large cluster of black dots one moment, and in the next the dots were blotted out by the smoke from exploding shells.
In the early afternoon, indications of casualties started trickling in, mainly from the 3rd Battalion, 25th Marines, commanded by Lt. Col. J. C. “Jumping Joe” Chambers. One of his companies had lost all seven officers in a matter of five hours, all the battalion’s artillery forward observers were hit, and the effectiveness of the battalion had been cut to a third of their landing strength. Such reports put us to tightening gear and stomachs, for we knew our call was coming and that it would be a hurry call.
Clambering into the small boats we spent less than two hours in circling and headed straight in for the beach, barely pausing at the control craft to acquire sufficient interval. Two hours was the briefest time we had ever spend in the boats in the transition from ship to shore, and the brevity meant we were urgently needed.
Shells explode on Beach Blue 2, while more Marines come ashore. This was the area Stott and the First Battalion had to cross. US Navy photos.
Blue Beach was as confused as all invasion beaches are, and for the moment untroubled by enemy fire which was falling further south. Almost without casualties, the rifle companies pushed up across the beach terrace in behind Chambers’ depleted lines. At dusk and even during the early hours of night we were busy filling in gaps and strengthening the defense.
Jap doctrine had been known to switch, but it was our expectation that a heavy counterattack would materialize that first night as at Tinian. And if if failed to crack the fragile toehold, then, as at Peleliu, the Nips could be expected to retire to their caves and pillboxes until rooted out. We dug deeper than ever before, and the digging was easy in the sandy soil already pocked with innumerable bomb and shell craters.
Evidently we guessed wrong as to current Jap strategy, or the brilliant illumination and drumfire from the warships close offshore forced a change in strategy, for the uncertain lines were not challenged throughout the night. The small arms fire which we had expected to be unceasing in the early dawn was sporadic or non-existent, and there were no new gaps needing repair in the morning.
Within our battalion, it proved necessary to move “B” and “A” Companies after dark. The former had occupied the dominant terrain above the northern (Blue) beaches, taking over several gigantic concrete fortifications where the Nips had housed five-inch coast defense guns. The tenants had been killed or driven out by the 14- and 16-inch shells which ripped gaps through solid masonry walls ten feet thick. This bare ridge above the quarry with its four destroyed pillboxes atop, was a key to the protection of the troops and supplies pouring into the Blue beach area. And while the advance northward was minuscule in the coming days, the ridge’s retention was important and “B” company remained solidly entrenched upon it.
With daylight on “D plus 1” we soon felt the artillery, mortar, and rocket power still possessed by the Japs despite more than 60 consecutive days of land-based bombing, followed by four days of the most intense naval bombardment. Barrages began falling on areas throughout the entire beachhead. These barrages were carefully calculated, ranged, and observed, in contrast to the hit-or-miss artillery tactics often practiced by the Japs. Our holdings on Iwo presented a concentrated target subjected to battery fire which scarcely could miss. On Saipan, we received occasional salvos, but never the concentrations now dropping. Shortly after noon I counted more than 250 missiles falling within a 600-square-yard area in one 15-minute period.
Such fire was tearing up men and supplies. In more than two days the beach dumps were destroyed almost as rapidly as the gear could be ferried ashore. Infantry battalions are accustomed to speak contemptuously of beach party personnel as rear echelon, but that contempt vanished immediately as we saw the bursting hell through which these parties were striving to bring in our needed gear. As late as “D+2” our division dump was fired with all its precious stores of mortar and artillery ammunition.
Meanwhile, as this pounding continued, the riflemen at the front were meeting infantry and mortar opposition which made all gains meager and limited. Protecting tanks were smacked with heavy anti-tank fire which knocked out many more than had fallen to such fire on Saipan. Unbelievable exploits transpired about these damaged tanks, as some that were overturned and caved in by explosions, still yielded up two, three, or four living crewmen.
On the Fifth Division front a hand-planted land mine blasted away the side of one tank after the “planter” had withdrawn 20 yards into the brush to snipe off any who might emerge alive. Up flew the turret and then the head and shoulders of the tank commander, massive 2nd Lt. Will Jarvis. It seems incredible, but Jarvis spotted the sighted rifle of the hidden Nip, and before the latter could fire, Jarvis had whipped his .45 out of a shoulder holster and neatly drilled a slug through the middle of the Jap’s skull.
Gradually, from experience on the lines, at the beach, and with the tanks, the pattern of the Jap defense was taking form. There would be no grand, wild initial effort which would spend most of the defensive strength in one great burst. The Japs had done well with their period of grace which followed the Marianas campaign. They had emphasized giant mortars, artillery, and their new rocket—all high-angle fire weapons which could be sited safely in the tangled, cave-covered high ground in the north. They had de-emphasized the infantry attack force which could be mowed down so easily by the waiting Marine machine gunners. Their defense appeared to be one of depth, soundly based on heavy weapons which would whittle away attacking troops at tremendous cost for small yardage, and which might eventually force a virtual stalemate due to the excessive casualties. The Japs were out to buy time by raising the price.
The Jap diggings were as extensive as anything encountered at Peleliu; they were bomb proof and shell proof, and all lined with plentiful foodstuffs and ammunition. Thus the Nips had contrived to deny us the effective use of our supporting weapons of air, sea, and land; the tools which previously had proved the big margin of victory. We could bomb, strafe, and shell the enemy in their fortresses, and it would do little more than disrupt communications, prevent gatherings, and stun some of the less fortunate defenders.
It left the main burden up to the Marines on the line to squirm, inch, and hack their way into the prepared defenses to where hand-carried weapons could be used at short range. This war has provided no clearer illustration of the military adage that physical occupancy by infantry is the seal of victory.
The sector which fell to the 1st Battalion, 24th Marines was on the Corps’ right flank touching the sea along the eastern beaches. At the water’s edge were giant rocks which, after a short space of level terrain, rose in a cliff-line to the table land on top. This lower shore area was sufficiently rugged with a plentiful supply of caves, small canyons and fixed fortifications. But atop the cliff the terrain almost defied passage. Trees and vines twisted in confused fashion over an area in which erosion and excavation had created cuts, dips, rises and pinnacles which made direct line progress impossible. Rock piles and dirt mounts jutted everywhere, and no man could be certain that the ground ten feet to his front was devoid of Japs. It was into this area that we drove throughout our first week on Iwo Jima.
“A” and “C” Companies took turns in moving along the shoreline two to three hundred yards as supporting gunboats (with Marine spotters aboard) laid 40 millimeter fire on the cliff. Twice heavy casualties forced retirement from exposed positions whose value was nil until the troops on top advanced. A third attempt was moderately successful, yet when relieved in the afternoon of “D plus 6,” “C” Company was no more than 400 yards forward from where “A” Company had dug in on that first uneasy night.
Concurrently atop the cliff the switching companies were alternating in trying to push ahead into the tangle. Daily were these pushes which netter scant yardage and always casualties from knee mortars or invisible pointblank rifle and machine gun fire. On only one day were “A” and “B” Companies able to reach the higher ground to the front, not more than 600 yards from the ridge “B” Company occupied “D” night. And once there, increasing fire, 50 casualties, and no supplies all combined to force a withdrawal.[3]
Nor could passed-over caves be neglected. They lined the route up which we carried supplies by hand and on which we evacuated the wounded. Demolition charges blocked up many, but Japs popped out of other unknown entrances. Late one afternoon a Nip flung a grenade out of one hole and received a flurry of rifle fire and grenades in return. Undamaged, he popped up again shortly and got a squirt from a flamethrower which backed him down a second time. Still unhurt he appeared a third time with a bayonet which he hurled with a “banzai” cry at the closest Marine. This time the bullets and flamethrower caught him squarely and he sizzled in death.
Sometimes the wounded were stretcher cases, and many hard-working bearers didn’t escape the hidden guns as they sought to evacuate the helpless casualties. Others managed to walk or stagger back to the aid station, suffering from shock or minor wounds. I recall one small and youthful 18-year-old private from New Orleans who was stumbling back unaided. He was dazed from concussion, carrying small bits of shrapnel in his skin, and in his hand was his prize possession — a Jap rifle! His own weapon had been discarded, and he would accept no help, nor allow anyone to lay a hand on his own prized souvenir.[4] His action was typical and the kind which prompted a flushed Jap soldier in a Roi Island shell hole to yell, “Come in and get me you goddam souvenir-happy Marine!”
Another enemy soldier on Iwo with a flair for the humorous must once have worked the butts of some Honshu rifle range. Having caught a glimpse of his helmet behind some rocks, a couple of patient Marine marksmen waited and sniped at him whenever he reappeared. Three times after their firing he slowly waved a board to and fro over the top of his rock – his improvised version of “Maggie’s drawers.”[5]
Through the day we struggled against unseen death until night drew down a blanket which isolated the front from any supporting troops in the rear. There were the defense advantages that the foe could not muster a sizable counterattack in such land, and that any movement was bound to be detected by its noise. But at the same time illumination was of small help, machine gun protective lines were impossible, and a hand grenade could be looped easily into a foxhole without chance of locating the thrower. Further, we knew that some caves within our lines undoubtedly held Japs back in their recesses who waited on darkness to come out.
It was on one of these first nights that three Nips were killed in the “C” Company CP. In a nearby foxhole, a PFC, Kye Harris, received a scare which kept him awake for the balance of the night. Shortly before midnight he awoke with a start to see a large Jap silhouetted against the light of a flare and running towards him, bayonetted rifle extended. Lacking time to use his own weapon, without pulling the pin he threw a grenade which landed squarely on the Jap’s chest two steps away. It must have bewildered the Nip, for he stopped short, threw his rifle at Harris, wheeled and fled.[6]
Another “A” Company Marine had a Nip even closer as he jumped suddenly into the middle of the foxhole. Having nothing but his hands, the Marine used them to grab the Nip’s neck, which he started to throttle. Whereupon the Nip let out such a weird unearthly screech that the startled Marine loosened his grip and the Nip made off.
That was how the nights passed, with occasional encounters, few casualties, and no real enemy forays. But the tension from the unknown of such nights was wearing and a strain. It was with joy that we saw relieving troops coming into the line on “D plus 6” afternoon. Neither on the lower flank nor on the clifftop had we advanced more than a quarter of a mile. The strain had tired us, the casualties were steady, and moreover it was extremely disheartening to morale to strive so hard with so little apparent success.[7]
For three unbelievable days and nights we rested in reserve. It was unbelievable because all former reserve experience on Saipan and Tinian was temporary, and we would be fortunate to remain so situated for one full day. The recently vacated, pre-dug foxholes were pleasant. We were plentifully supplied with water for washing, drinking, and even shaving, and with quantities of appetizing “10 in 1” rations. We lazed around, ate, slept, ducked an occasional sniper bullet, and by the end of the third day were in better shape than when we landed.[8]
Rare moments of quiet for First Battalion Marines on Iwo Jima. Photos from the John C. Pope collection.
The real “chow hounds,” whose appetites demanded more than was provided, raided the beach supplies which were assuming sizable proportions. Balked on one attempt by MPs, Corp. [Franklin] Robbins of “C” Company merely turned his back, pulled out a pencil and notebook, and then turned about again presenting a slip which read: “Issue two cases of ’10 in 1′ rations to the bearer. Signed: Franklin C. Robbins.” He got the rations without a question.[9]
Such a state of relaxation couldn’t be prolonged indefinitely, nor was it desired. We realized we would have to return to the line, and further delay would bring no new benefits. So in a way we welcomed the orders which came after dark on “D plus 9,” and which called for a pre-dawn relief of another battalion near the center of the Marine lines on the highest ground.
By this point in the campaign the lines had consolidated from east to west across the island with the Fourth Division on the east, the Fifth on the west, and two regiments of the Third Division filling in the center. Both airfields were in Marine hands, and the southern one was supporting a few observation planes. Mt. Suribachi, too, had been secured for several days, and all our strength was concentrated on the one remaining sector. Nonetheless, the progress while we were in reserve was just as painfully slow as it had been when we were on the line.
The holes into which we filed just prior to dawn of “D plus 10” were in terrain which had more level space, fewer woods and caves. Two hundred yards to the front was a wooded area which contained all the varieties of defensive emplacements with which we were familiar. Here, as in our former zone, troops had pushed forward more than once, only to be thrust back. The outgoing troops cautioned us about certain known enemy gun locations, telling us that daylight would be sure to bring Jap fire. Then they left.[10]
Their prophecy was correct, for we ducked from a mortar salvo shortly after sunrise, and incautious exposed Marines drew immediate small arms fire. Using tanks as flanking forts, and supported by mortar and artillery preparations, Company “C” jumped off and by the rapid movement of small groups, two platoons managed to cross the open ground to the nearest woods without casualty.
Once there, it was the same old story of knee mortars, rifles, and machine guns, all unseen, and within half an hour we had ten men hit. It was then that Corp. Robbins voluntarily led a tank up into position to protect some wounded men from a machine gun. He put the tank in position, and then went back to the battalion aid station with the wounded men.[11]
At that point a knee mortar landed too close to me and I dropped with a fractured legbone and shortly was carried from the fighting scene. I thought our advance had carried us to a spot from which a successful penetration of the enemy line could be effected. But back aboard the hospital ship the next day, later casualties told of being forced to drop back at nightfall with a total cost of close to 40 men in the one company alone.[12]
That is the last I know directly of the Iwo Jima campaign, though as I write on “D plus 20,” all reports show that the pattern is the same painful one.
1. The highest peak on the island of Saipan, where Stott campaigned the previous summer.
2. Stott and the rest of the First Battalion sailed aboard USS Hendry (APA-118).
3. Likely referring to the action of D-plus-6, 25 February 1945. A promising start quickly turned into a protracted firefight, and ultimately heavy shelling from the Japanese. First Battalion suffered 11 KIA and 39 wounded & evacuated – a total of fifty casualties.
4. Stott may have seen 18-year-old PFC Valentine Ulakovits, Jr. Although Ulakovits was from Tampa, not New Orleans, he suffered shrapnel wounds on Iwo – and his “prize souvenir” of a Japanese rifle was remarked upon by the Tampa Times in April 1945.
5. “Maggie’s Drawers” conjured up memories of boot camp for almost every Marine. At the rifle range when shooting for qualification, a poor shot who completely missed his target was embarrassed by a bright red flag waving from “the butts” where other men were marking the results. “Maggie’s Drawers” never failed to attract the attention (and the ire) of the range instructor.
6. Kye Harris was a scout with the battalion’s intelligence section, and also one of the youngest Marines in the unit; he enlisted at fifteen and was still just 17 during the battle of Iwo Jima. Harris was badly wounded in action on D+3, 22 February 1945.
7. Stott neglects to mention that on this date he took command of Company C. The previous commander, Major William C. Esterline, was reassigned to serve as operations officer for 3/24.
8. In addition to the welcome rest period, First Battalion also received nearly 150 replacements for its combat losses.
9. Stott was fond of Corporal Robbins, who was something of a battalion character. The two men served together in previous battles. Robbins appears in Stott’s narrative Saipan Under Fire, where he is also depicted as something of a swashbuckling chow-hound — as a former quartermaster, he knew how to game the system.
10. The Marines being relieved were the Second Battalion, 23rd Marines. The terrain Stott describes is probably one of the approaches to Iwo Jima’s Hill 382, part of the infamous “Meat Grinder” complex.
11. Robbins “went back to the aid station” because he himself was wounded. His actions on 1 March would earn him the Navy Cross in addition to his second Purple Heart. He wore these decorations alongside the Silver Star Medal received for gallantry at Roi-Namur.
12. March was disastrous for Company C; over the next week they would lose so many men that the company would be disbanded. Stott probably caught up with the “later casualties” on March 2, by which time twelve Charlie Marines had been killed and a further 29 wounded. Command of the company changed three times on March 1 alone.