> 
> 
>                      "We Took That Mountain"
>                                 
>                                by
>                                 
>                          John E. Trumane
>                        all rights reserved
>                                 
> 
>      I often  wonder what  it was like.  You have trained hard at
> Parris Island,  slogged through  mud on  your belly,  50 calibers
> whizzing two  feet overhead.  Some guys just lost it, went crazy,
> sent home.  I often wonder.
>      What would  be going  through  your  mind  as  you  see  Mt.
> Surabachi approaching  in the  smokey distance,  a narrow slit on
> the horizon  framed by  your helmet  and the  lip of  the landing
> craft.
>      Your eyes  turn left,  just as a shell takes a direct hit on
> the next  craft over,  bodies and  body parts  go flying in every
> which direction.   You  close your  eyes and  ask yourself:  they
> were no different from us.
>      The Navy  behind  you  is  pouring  in  12-inch  guns  at  a
> ferocious pace;   they  scream through  the air near the speed of
> sound, and  echo back  delayed  destruction.    You  trust  those
> gunners;  their aim is awesome, always near the mark.
>      The waves  are changing shape, the water is getting shallow.
> More fifty  calibers are  whizzing by,  this time getting closer.
> Some ping off the craft, a metal wash tub with twin diesels.
>      You reach  the crest  of a wave, and then surf into hell, as
> the ramp falls and it's the moment of truth.
>      You don't  have time  to ask,  what am I doing here, because
> you are  running for  dear life.  You recognize the sound of your
> captain yelling,  hit the  sand and crawl in, men.  Dig in beyond
> the water line.
>      The Japs  are ferocious  too.   This is  their last air base
> before the  mainland.   Two runways,  actually.  One at each end.
> These fascists will stop at nothing to defend their Emperor.
>      We huddle  in our makeshift sand castles, trying to keep our
> powder dry.   My job:  get the machine gun close in, take out all
> buildings, and secure the first runway.
>      We sit  while the  Navy pours  it on,  big guns now, every 5
> seconds.   The roar  is deafening.   Men  are  dying,  screaming,
> bleeding.  What am I doing here?
>      The captain over there loses it, goes crazy.  A GI yanks him
> in a  trench and  knocks him cold, our new squad commander, ok by
> me.   The Navy is relentless, big guns every second now.  How can
> they reload  so fast?   American engineering:  we machinists know
> all about it -- the best ever, bar none.
>      The smoke  is choking  us alive, thick and black, sulfurous,
> hot ashen coral raised to plasma temperatures.  Why would anybody
> want to work here?
>      The Navy  waits, to  let the smoke clear, assay the damages.
> Eerie silence.  There is nothing in front of us except black sand
> with huge  meteor craters,  freshly made.  Move out, we hear, and
> our training kicks in.  No time to think, just keep moving.
>      My buddy  comes near.  We take  inventory:  one water cooled
> machine gun,  one thousand  rounds, more  for the asking, tripod,
> carbine, back  pack, portable  shovel, pick,  what we're wearing.
> That's it.  Move out.
>      We come upon bodies, lots of them, still, mangled, lifeless.
> Don't look down;  just look forward.  We drag heavy loads through
> black sand and ash.  No color anywhere;  just black and white and
> grey, lots of it.
>      A shot  from behind,  a Marine down, killed in action, right
> in the  back.  So, they lay there feigning injury, only to pop up
> as we  pass by.   Ok,  that's it.   No  prisoners.   We pull  our
> butcher knives  and go  for throats.   Grisly,  effective.  Every
> Marine is  priceless, every  one expendable.   Like  Lawrence, of
> Arabia.
>      Time starts  to fade  into slow motion.  We inch along, take
> this tree, that palm, this bunker.  Charlie gets a flame thrower,
> we watch  in muted  shock.   Nothing is too terrible now;  we are
> going to TAKE that runway.
>      Night falls,  sleep impossible.  Charlie screams his insults
> in strange  Jap accents.   Almost  funny, almost.   We  count our
> losses:   Billy, Johnny,  Efraim, Christopher, Sassy Brooks, Zeb,
> Mack and Danny.  All gone, all dead, going home now.
>      The sun  rises in  front of  us, framing  another rising sun
> flapping in  the breeze.   The  runway, not far ahead, beckons to
> our instincts, the killer kind.
>      We creep  in silently,  no resistance.   Japs are gone, only
> snipers high  up in  the  palms,  sitting  ducks.    Stupid  too.
> Kamikazes with no planes, brain washed.
>      We take  turns, it's  a shooting  gallery.   This isn't even
> funny.  We take their guns, worthless rounds, and break 'em.
>      The eerie  silence is  broken now  by fading  gun shots.   A
> moment of calm descends upon this seething smoking inferno.
>      We hear  the faint drone of a Jap Zero, headed for home.  He
> never got  word:   this runway  is history.  He glides in, bouncy
> landing, taxies  to one  end.   Marines watch, reload quietly, no
> orders this time.  We all know what we're going to do.
>      Pilot cuts his engine, opens the canopy, we open up.  Shells
> pour in  again, this  time from  M-1's and  machine guns, dozens,
> hundreds, thousands  of rounds  shred  the  Zero  into  bits  and
> pieces, glass,  rubber and aluminum flying every which direction.
> That plane  is history  too.   We revel,  leave it  to block  the
> runway.   Some take  souvenirs.   The rest  reload.  I pee in the
> barrel jacket again.
>      One down.  One to go.
>      Time again  slows down.  How many days now?  Two?  Three?  I
> can't remember.   We trudge along.  More ammo arrives.  Food too.
> C-rations.   Yumm.   We urinate  into the  barrel to  save water.
> This place  is hot,  very hot,  almost too  hot.    Too  hot  for
> comfort, for sure.
>      We set our sites for runway two, in that clearing, up ahead.
> Mortar fire,  first  scattered,  then  regular,  now  a  frequent
> problem.   My buddy and I move in, stake out a position, start to
> dig, his  shovel worthless  against the  hard-packed coral.  They
> rolled this runway, very hard, asphalt nowhere.
>      My pick  is working,  thank God.   I dig, he removes debris.
> It's still slow going.  We dig for our lives.
>      More mortars. Oh, no.  They've zeroed our position.  You can
> tell as blasts come closer, faster.  This one, right now, you can
> hear, is coming right in.  Billy, take cover, I yell.
>      He dives  in one  direction, I in another.  The blast almost
> takes his hands off, the ring in my ears unbearable.  Through the
> smoke, I see Billy's hit, hit bad, motionless, moaning.
>      I crawl  to him,  he's still alive.  Japs figure our machine
> gun's out, they re-target.  Billy goes over my left shoulder, and
> two carbines  over my right.  Forget the machine gun;  too heavy;
> takes two anyway.  We're now one and a half, Marines that is.
>      Billy breathes,  but barely,  can't talk,  bleeding bad.   I
> trudge through  deep sand,  echoes of  smoke  fill  the  air,  me
> yelling Medic!   Medic!   Billy  needs help,  OVER HERE.   Nobody
> hears, too much chaos.  I trudge, I trudge.
>      Something is  hot, liquid,  near my jaw.  I been too busy to
> check myself.   I  raise my right hand to feel my pulse, blood is
> pouring down  by wrist.   I  am hit.  I don't even know it.  What
> gives?  Is this some bad dream?
>      I realize,  that's IT.   I'm  OUT OF  HERE.   Next stop, the
> hospital ship.   Medics  near now.   I  collapse in  their  arms,
> totally, completely,  utterly exhausted,  and pass out, and dream
> of my  beautiful bride,  Anna Marie,  slender,  loving,  chestnut
> hair, sea blue eyes.  This must be heaven, at long last.
>      That was  my birthday, 1945.  Billy made it, docs worked two
> miracles, one  on each  hand.   We ran  into each  other  on  the
> hospital ship.   First  time, he  didn't recognize me, my face so
> heavily bandaged, after several surgeries.  The shrapnel had just
> missed my spine.  God's little miracles, for sure.
>      Everything got  mixed up  -- time,  space, where, when, how?
> It didn't matter.  We were alive, and we were on our way home.
>      The commander  wanted me  back.   You can  wear your  Purple
> Heart on  your lapel,  he said.   I  told him, I'd rather take it
> home and show it to my son.  Thank you anyway.
>      I later saw that photo, 4 "Gyrines" raising old Glory, right
> atop Mt.  Surabachi.   I knew  those red  stripes were  soaked in
> blood, the  whites were  stained as  well.  4 guys, just like me,
> their names forever written on the wind.
>      Next stop  for them,  the Japanese  mainland.  Next stop for
> me, a farm in Oregon, cows, chickens, dogs and geese.  And a time
> to recuperate  from shell shock, and a time to thank God for this
> country.   We left  fascism behind  when we  came back from hell,
> where it belongs, where it should stay.
> 
> 
> 
>                              #  #  #
> 
> ===========================================================
> Paul Andrew, Mitchell, B.A., M.S.:  pmitch@primenet.com                  
> ship to: c/o 2509 N. Campbell, #1776, Tucson, Arizona state
> ===========================================================
> 
> 


