The Beach Approach

The latest U.S. amphibious landing at Angaur was made ten months after the first heavily opposed landing in the Pacific, at Tarawa. This dispatch from TIME Correspondent John Walker shows what Americans have learned, in those ten months, about such ugly jobs:

Up ahead the bulky, unmistakable shape of a battleship winks a bright orange light. Then the soft thudding slap comes over the water: that blinker was a 14-inch salvo. Cruisers, battlewagons and tin cans are standing in amazingly close to the shore, pounding away with all their guns. We knew the island was to catch some 12,000 rounds of projectiles, 5-inch or bigger. But that was just a statistic; now we see it. We hear the blast of the big guns and the ripping-silk sound of the heavy shells sailing to their targets. We see the warships with halos of yellow smoke and the bursts of fire and black smoke back of the beach.

Other boats are pulling into position. Soon the LST bow-gates yawn open and amphtracks and amphtanks pop out like young sea horses. All around the rim of sea you can see nothing but our ships while overhead spotter planes dip, circle and mark fire for the big guns.

Rockets and Planes. Through glasses we can see every detail of Red Beach. A line of LCLs has now moved up nearer, to deliver rocket fire. As the minutes tick by, the warship barrage is rising to a steady drumming. The concussions are uncomfortable. A very young, very redheaded ensign staring at the beach mutters: "If I was a Jap in there and I wasn't scared, I'd get scared now."

Suddenly the surface fire slackens as the air strike begins. Flights of carrier planes swoop in from the north: dive bombers circle in the sun and plunge down almost vertically to drop their crumps. Avengers roar in low and you can see strings of slim black bombs drop out of their bellies. They make fat, black mushroom patterns along the length of the target. Then Hell cats flash over, tearing the sky with heavy machine-gun strafing.

Big Guns. Now the planes are gone. The warships have moved in closer, firing a crescendo of destruction that makes anything before seem mild. We are only minutes away from starting the run. Now the LCLs ahead start to move in slowly, just ahead and to the left of the first wave of amphibious tanks. Those LCLs are firing like coked-up gangsters in a grade-B movie. Rockets go thump, thump, thumping out of them and bursting along the shore. The big rockets, taking off with a coughing roar, scorch the beach and plow up vegetation behind them. Many 20-mm. autoguns are hammering like runaway riveters and weaving red lines of tracer shells alongshore like thin angry fingers prying and poking into every patch that might shelter an enemy.

Now the LCLs have reached their prescribed point and halt in the water while we in our own rolling craft move on. We pass right through their line, reforming on the other side while they continue to pour fire over our heads.

Opposition. There is nothing between us and Red Beach now and the twinkling, flaring, dancing explosions alongshore seem like an insane fireworks show. Two white fountains spring up in the water ahead and the commander snaps: "Here it comes. Mortars. Get down, dammit!" We duck hastily but nothing seems to drop close. Then there is the mean pinging of machine-gun fire and we duck again. Everything is firing now. Amphtanks are cracking vicious bursts. Our twin .50-cal. guns go off right over my head, almost knocking me flat. The .50-cal. at six inches is more impressive than the 16-incher at 100 yards.

We are within 200 yards of the beach. The bluff is pitted at the water's edge with limestone caves. We are getting sniper fire from there. Amphtanks roll on the final hundred yards with what seems maddening slowness. Then deliberately, clumsily, one of them chuffs up on the beach, swings and throws a shot to the left. The landing is made just one minute behind the schedule drawn up weeks or months ago.

Other iron turtles waddle up on the beach. Next in are amphtracks, and then the landing boats, loaded with troops who jump out, flatten themselves on the sand and start crawling up to take cover beside the shattered trees at the top of the beach. Mortar shells burst on the beach.

The ships' gunfire has been lifted now except for heavy salvos fired well inland, but a flight of Navy fighters zooms in, strafing back in the tangled undergrowth, and the mortars apparently go out of business, but the Japs still fire small arms.

For a moment the beach seems quiet as a line of men in greenish drab, herring bone-twill jungle uniforms moves over a rise in the background. Then a Jap pillbox at the extreme left of the beach coughs machine-gun fire. Two Americans drop, riddled, and other troops are pinned down momentarily. But an amphtank rolls into position 30 yards away, pumps shells into the pillbox, then stands guard.

Making Sure. Soldiers creep out along a coral limestone bluff at the left and shoot a Jap sniper in a cave. A few moments later a boat reports another in the cave. Our tender ghosts right up to the entrance and a young sailor in a skivvy shirt rips in three bursts from a Tommy gun, then yells back, "I think he was dead but I made sure." A young lieutenant from our portside tender had been hit. He stands very straight but he is streaming blood. A wounded soldier drags himself painfully along at the water's edge, trailing a shattered leg. An Army doctor gets a machine gun burst in the arm. Evacuated, he curses. For two years he had been getting ready to care for the wounded.

At the far left in an elaborate pillbox a Jap officer lay, half buried in rubble, naked without a visible mark on his body. But not all the dead were Japs. Curled behind a stump above and back of the beach was a young American. His uniform and pack were very neat and trim. Someone must have picked up his rifle. He was shot squarely between the eyes.

The official reports described the Angaur landings as without opposition, which I suppose is quite correct in a military sense, but I think the point is that the tremendous preparation never gave the opposition a chance. The landing is not the battle of course, and the dirtiest fighting just starts when the troops get ashore. But the technique U.S. forces have worked out for making landings good is an awesome thing to see.

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