From Howard
Sachs' Memoirs
In an
earlier
entry
about my
experiences
in
WW II,
I recall
ending
with
our landing
on Okinawa
as
replacements
in
the
96th Infantry
division,
who by
now had
lost
half
their
men
to
a fanatical
Japanese
combat
force,
who were
well
trained
and
equipped
and
skilled.
Armored
trucks
met
us as
we emerged
from the
LSTs that
brought
us
to
shore,
and
they
then
brought
us
to the
front lines,
now about halfway
down the
island,
but still a bit
more
to
go
in
order
to
clear the
island
of
Japanese
forces.
The positions
that
we
took
up consisted
of a
line of
empty
foxholes,
once
occupied
by
now dead
or
wounded
96th
infantrymen.
The foxholes
lined
a ridge
of a small
cliff
facing
a tract of
grassland
to
the
base
of Oboe
Hill.
Beyond
Oboe Hill
lay
a vast
prairie
over
which
our tanks
could then
roll.
But Oboe
Hill would
be our
next
objective,
the
battle
for
which
took
the
lives of
90%
of our
company.
As I
slid
into
my
hole,
I
saw
who was
to
be
my
companion,
a young
Greek
boy,
known as
?the
Greek?
He
was
already
reading
his
bible.
From the
opposite
corner,
I yelled
to
him,
?Hi Greek, pray
for me,
too.?
None too
soon, because
the
Japs
must
have
learned
of
our arrival
and began
artillery?
mortar
bombardment,
something we
had
ever
experienced
before.
We were
both
scared
to
death
and
clung
to
the
ground
as
each shell
exploded
feet from our
hole.
After
about
a half
hour
of continuous
shelling
and
the reek?s
furious
praying,
Sgt
Beester
slid
into
our hole,
to
calm
and reassure
us, the
green,
virginous
combat
replacements.
He looked
calmly
at
us and
said
softly,
?its
okay
men, we
weren?t
made
for
this,
but remember,
we
still got
to
take
Oboe
Hill,
tomorrow.?
His
presence
was
certainly
reassuring,
as the
bombardment
slowed
and
then
discontinued
about
the
time
the
sun set.
I guess they
too
were
also
getting
hungry
and
wanted
some
rice
and
whatever
else
they
ate.
We
heaved
a sigh of
relief,
opened
our C
rations,
and leaned
back
against
the
mud
wall
of
our hole.
The
Sgt
now
left,
but not
before
warning
us that
the
worst
was
yet
to
come
in
the
form
of
one
of their
nightly
Banzai
attacks.
Shortly
before
midnight,
our flares
began
to
light
the
sky
and
the
world
about
us. And we
could
hear
them
below
chanting,
?Banzai,
Banzai,
Banzai,
melican sonomobitch
die
tonight,?
eventually,
the
screaming
of
?Banzai?
? Glory
to
our emperor --
came
closer,
as
they
charged
our positions,
carrying
rifles
and
concussion
grenades that
they
activated
by
banging
the
grenade
against
their
helmets,
and
then
flinging
themselves
into
one of
our foxholes
to
blow
themselves
up along
with
the
other
occupants
of the
hole. Our
automatic
BARs
were
blasting
away,
along
with
our rifle
fire
to
keep
those
maniacal,
screaming
Japanese
soldiers
away
from our
hole. One
came
from nowhere
to
within a
few feet of
us; I
emptied
my
M1
rifle
into
his
chest,
which
stopped
him,
but I
recall
his
face
looking
down at
us. It
looked
frozen
in
the
act
of screaming,
surprised,
quizzical,
what
now in
death??
That
face
is
engraved
in
my
brain;
a youth
I killed.
Do those
idiots
in
Washington or
the
media
have
any
notion
of what
they?re
shouting
about
with
the
threat
of
making
war,
something
I hope
no more
American
youth
will
have
to
experience?