Gray Monday: A World War Ii Man's Novel

By Phillip F. Enger

A young Marine in the Second Marine Regiment is followed from August 10, 1942 to the end of World War II. He participates in action on the Solomon Islands, the Tarawa Atoll and the Mariana Island of Saipan.
In addition to the campaigns, events at rest areas in New Zealand and Hawaii are described.
The Novel is fiction based on fact. Actual battle and battle conditions were similar to the action in the novel. However, all characters are fictional.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 12, 2004
• ISBN: 9781465332677

Phillip F. Enger

Phil Enger is a retired engineer. He received university degrees after World War II by taking advantage of the G.I. Bill. As a young man during World War II, he served with the Second Marine Division, where he experienced action on different islands. One saying that he encountered during that period was, “Say it like it is.” That is what he has attempted to do in this fiction book based on fact. Characters and events in Gray Monday are fictitious. However, portions of the book are based on truth and involve the author’s experiences during the war.

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Copyright © 2004 by Phillip F. Enger.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage

and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the

copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used

fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or

dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

SYNOPSIS

BACKGROUND

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

DEFINITIONS

This book is dedicated to the Marine Corps, past and present,

and especially to the marines of Company I,

and the scout-sniper platoon of the Second Regiment,

who served in World War II.

SYNOPSIS

Fiction based on facts

World War II: Another time. Another mind-set. Before the development of exotic technical equipment, such as radio-controlled airplanes; before the death of one soldier was immediately spread over world news; before Rambo types wiped out complete armies; when reality faced the United States; when troops met on equal terms, and sometimes U.S. troops had a disadvantage in equipment and position; when thousands of troops killed in two days hardly made the news; when units fought as teams, supported and depended on each other, and became closer than brothers.

Every veteran of WWII has witnessed a story through his own eyes, and every story is different. Most never tell their tales. It may be because of the violence associated with them. The vet may feel a bit guilty. Or it may be that in their own eyes they are heroes, and telling the story would be too much like blowing their own horn. Gray Monday is the story of one veteran. The fiction novel is based on truth. Sometimes events are changed or moved to a different location to make the story more readable and interesting or for other reasons. Names are, of course, fictional.

The story follows a marine in the Second Division through World War II.

Following the attack on Pearl Harbor, Frank Dander, raised on a ranch in northeastern Utah and a 1941 high school graduate, enlists in the U.S. Marine Corps. After boot camp he is assigned to I Company, Third Battalion Second Regiment. This company participates in the invasion of the Solomon Islands, the first sustained ground action of the war, by landing on Tanambogo.

After a disastrous start, when ships leave with all their supplies and backup units, the company helps to win the six-month battle, and somewhere in the hot, stinking jungle, Frank turns from a frightened teenager into a killer.

While resting and obtaining replacements in New Zealand, the veterans of the third platoon become irritated and disgusted with their new, unproven second lieutenant. As a result, the platoon sergeant is thrown into the brig, and Frank, the acting sergeant guide, suffering from a hangover, ignores the lieutenant’s order to pick up a cigarette butt, receives a summary court-martial, and loses his rank. As part of his punishment, Frank is assigned to driver’s school and later to unloading ships. After finally returning to the company, he participates in stealing a tank during a training exercise, which helps his side win the mock combat and regains Frank his rank.

Their next campaign, Betio, is a bloodbath, and in two days two regiments are shot to pieces but still manage to take control of the island. Frank, a member of the assault team, is surprised to still be alive. Most of his friends from the Solomon’s campaign are either killed or seriously wounded.

In Hawaii for rest and replacements, Frank, who has no desire to help train another platoon that may be mostly killed, as had happened to his last platoon on Betio, joins the regimental scout-sniper platoon.

During their next campaign, on the island of Saipan, Frank participates in night patrols and general activities, including cleaning enemy troops from volcanic caves. He develops a hatred for the war and participates in his last action a few days before the island is secure.

BACKGROUND

Most people probably think of the Guadalcanal campaign, the first offensive ground action of WWII, as an invasion of one island, a pleasant, tropical island with an airfield and coconut groves. Actually, there were also invasions of other nearby sweltering, stinking, tropical islands—Florida, Tulagi, Gavutu, and Tanambogo.

The campaign started on August 7, 1942, when the First Battalion, Second Marine Regiment landed on Florida Island. There was no resistance. The First Marine Division landed on Guadalcanal, about twenty miles across the channel, against light resistance. The First Raider Battalion found heavy resistance on Tulagi, and the Second Battalion, Second Regiment, which was one of the battalions being held in reserve, was released to them. The First Paratroopers, who landed from Higgins boats rather than parachutes, encountered heavy resistance on Gavutu and received flanking fire from Tanambogo, a small island a little over a hundred yards away and connected to Gavutu by a causeway. Intelligence had estimated that there were a total of fifteen soldiers on Tanambogo, and Company B, Second Marine Regiment, was sent to secure the island. Company B was repulsed, and flanking fire continued from Tanambogo.

The first failure of intelligence: there were hundreds of enemy soldiers on Tanambogo.

On Saturday, a new plan to secure Tanambogo was developed. K Company attacked across the causeway, and in a pincer movement, I Company, of which Frank Dander was a member, landed from Higgins boats on the other end of the island. Two light tanks from C Company supported the landing.

It was about five o’clock Saturday evening before the attack got under way. The two light tanks were immediately knocked out near the beach, but by nightfall I Company had secured a beachhead.

That night, while a bunch of eighteen-year-old kids and a few seasoned marines held the beachhead, flares and a brightness in the sky to the northwest, and the distant, rumbling sound of heavy naval guns indicated a vicious sea battle in progress, like a battle between two opposing groups in hell.

With no communications, the marines knew only what was happening in their immediate area—one version of the fog of war.

A terrible fight resulted for control of Tanambogo on Sunday. No Japanese soldier expected or desired to survive, and young American boys choked down their fears and started to become marines. No one could see the overall picture, and as a result, that Sunday, as they secured Tanambogo, many rumors floated around the company. Unfortunately, they were not nearly as bad as the facts.

While the marines landed Saturday evening, a Japanese air raid set fire to a transport, which was still burning Saturday night and providing light for a Japanese task force that engaged the United States warships protecting the transports. The thunder, flares, and brightness on the sea, from which marines had shuddered through during the frightful night, were four United States and Australian heavy cruisers going to Davy Jones’s locker, and a fifth cruiser being heavily damaged. For some reason, the Japanese warships failed to move into the transport area, where they could have sunk many transport ships, and thus ended the Solomon’s invasion. With few warships to protect them, and fearful that the Japanese would return, the transport command debated for a day and then decided to lift anchor and head for New Hebrides, hundreds of miles to the south.

Not knowing about the naval defeat, the disappearance of the ships seemed to the marines like desertion. Like turning tail and taking off.

CHAPTER 1

August 10, 1942: Tanambogo

Frank Dander inspected the empty, gray sea. Not one ship was visible in the mist. His stomach twisted and turned; his lungs felt like screaming, and in his mind he shook his fist at the emptiness where the umbilical cord to the friendly part of the outside world had been cut. Last night, at dark, the sea had been full of ships. Higgins boats chugged across the calm waters, taking wounded to the ships, moving marines, and bringing in a few supplies. Transports had raised anchor, but the rumors said they planned to move closer to shore to make unloading easier. Now there was nothing. Nothing but gray. The sea looked gray and empty. The morning mist looked gray. Even the water dripping from his helmet looked gray. The mist tasted and smelled gray. And the gray stunk.

His foxhole buddy, PFC Pat Latermier, slowly became more visible as the gray mist turned to daylight. Pat sat on a splintered case of stinking, canned Japanese fish. There was a streak on his face that looked suspiciously as if a tear had dribbled down his dirty, battle-weary cheek. His swollen left hand rested on his knee. A scab covered part of his nose, and there was dried blood visible on his leg through the tear in his dungarees.

By God, they’ve shagged ass, Pat stated, as he squinted through the early-morning mist at the empty sea. He used his injured left hand to pick up his World War I rifle from where it leaned against the splintered fish case and his right hand to finger empty pockets on his cartridge belt. Two days ago Pat had been a young, happy-go-lucky eighteen-year-old. Now, to Frank, he looked different: older, worried, nervous, maybe even a little frightened.

The ships had left without being unloaded, and Frank knew that with the ships went the marines’ food, hospitals for the wounded, headquarters staff, the operating tanks, the engineers, reserve troops, service battalions, ammunition, medicine, and other necessities.

Like a wounded lion with no way to escape, a beat-up I Company, Second Marine Regiment was by itself on a small island. Most people around Frank had a hollow, burned-out expression on their faces. It was a huge change for most of the young men, now standing in a loosely knit group, whose major concerns less than a year ago were girlfriends, starting college, or their first job. They were mostly 1941 high school graduates. Now, with the indelible imprint of killing their first man recorded in the permanent memory of most of them, they all stared at the gray sea in disbelief.

Bataan, all over again, a voice in the gray, early-morning mist mumbled.

To Frank, and probably every marine standing on the beach, it seemed obvious that a huge Japanese task force was on the way—just over the horizon. A task force so large that the navy felt it had no chance to survive and had deserted.

Wonder where they’ll hit first, Pat said, voicing the thought in front of Frank’s mind. Pat’s right hand still fumbled with the empty pockets on his cartridge belt. How many rounds do you have left? he asked Frank.

Frank’s stunned brain tried to evaluate the fuzzy, gray situation. At the edge of the trees behind Pat were the two knocked-out tanks. A couple of dead marines, part of the tank crew, sprawled near them, and many dead Japanese were visible beyond the tanks. He wondered if there were still live rounds in the tank’s machine gun belts, they’d be .30 caliber and would work in the World War I ’03 rifles the marines carried; only one of the tanks had burned. Maybe it’s lucky we didn’t have the modern, semiautomatic rifles, Frank thought. We’d probably all be out of ammunition if we could have shot faster.

They’d started fighting on Saturday, the second day, so their combat packs still contained about half of their seventy-two-hour rations. Several things were obvious: First, they were not going to be resupplied; second, those stinking crates of canned fish that Pat was sitting on were looking pretty good, and third, they would probably be staying on Tanambogo. There was no way to transport them to another island. Their company was trapped on a small island—a small graveyard.

The sun would soon be up, and dead bodies of men and pigs, with a million maggots crawling over and through them, would start bloating and smelling. Flies were already swarming around sweating heads, and mosquitoes carrying malaria competed with the flies for a landing spot on bare skin.

I wonder if any toilet paper or quinine got ashore, a shocked voice asked. Unlike past days, not one joke or smart remark came from the small group of the third platoon. They mostly stared at the open sea and their platoon sergeant, who until yesterday, had been Corporal Luke. Luke was still a corporal but was now acting Sergeant Luke. He was a few years older than most of them.

The company gunny sergeant came striding down the beach, looking sharp in his form-fitted dungarees. He was an old-time marine, and his attitude showed. Frank figured the Gunny—small, slim, and as tough as a piece of rawhide—was about two hundred years old. The Gunny stopped in front of the third platoon, placed his hands on his hips, and thundered, I’ve sent a patrol out to get that sniper that was firing at us last night. Now break out your trenching tools, and let’s start cleaning up this place. We’re going to be staying for a while. And they did.

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CHAPTER 2

August 11–19,1942: Tanambogo

Frank tried to place the razor on the upper side of the ragged-looking chunk of fuzzy, dark hair on his cheek. After the torturous pulling of several hairs from his face, he shook the razor in the sea. I don’t know why I want to scrape that hair off anyway. It sort of helps to keep the mosquitoes and flies away. He waded ashore and placed the razor with its dull blade into his combat pack.

You’re right, Pat said. He picked up his tin mirror and sailed it onto the surface of the choppy salt water. I don’t even want to see myself.

Is your hand getting any better? Frank asked.

Pat moved his left hand onto his lap. The skin was tight over his wrist, and his complete forearm appeared stiff. The arm may be improving, but it’s my toes that are driving me crazy. I’ve never had anything itch so badly, and the more I rub them, the worse they itch, and the more I rub them. I’m going crazy.

The itching must be pretty bad, or Pat wouldn’t complain, Frank thought. Pat’s ability to accept things as they developed was one reason Frank was glad they shared the same foxhole. Pat’s background was similar to his. Both were Western, small-town ranch types. Pat had spent most of his younger years on a ranch in Montana, and Frank had spent most of his on a ranch in Utah. They had both graduated from high school in 1941 and were the only two in the platoon who had shot expert on the rifle range. They both seemed to have similar value systems and were even alike in appearance—average: average height, dark brown hair, and average weight. Luke said that their only difference was in their eyes—Pat’s were blue and Frank’s were gray.

They picked up their rifles and moved across the beach away from the ocean. Frank noticed Pat still walked a little stiff legged. They eased themselves to the ground near several other grim-faced marines.

They’d been on the island for over a week and to some extent had adapted to the vanished security of the missing ships. The major attack they expected had still not occurred, but to Frank, even the look of his fellow marines appeared scary: all had lost weight; eyes were lost in red sockets; dirty, stubble-decorated, sunken cheeks; dungarees were torn and stiff from mud, blood, and sweat, and they all looked bone-tired. Most of them suffered from dysentery, hunger, fever, and foot fungus, and the combination of problems sapped their strength. They reminded Frank of a pack of dogs he had once seen, well beaten but with plenty of fight left in them.

During the past days, the marines had spent their time digging trenches and gun emplacements, burying the dead, salvaging Japanese weapons, food, and equipment, and patrolling to find snipers who still occasionally snapped .25-caliber slugs over their heads. Enough food had been scrounged to keep them alive but not healthy. A major problem among the marines was the craving for cigarettes. Frank was thankful that he’d never started to smoke.

Every day they watched the ocean for friendly ships, but the only ones spotted were some small interisland boats that occasionally slipped from Tulagi’s Harbor and made slow, chugging journeys to other islands. There had been occasional Japanese air raids, but none had concentrated on their island of Tanambogo. Most air raids were on Guadalcanal, twenty miles across the sea channel.

Damn, I’d give a week’s pay for a cigarette, Nick, a small dark marine, said. His voice trailed off as Tony, the redheaded tall corpsman, approached the group.

Time for quinine. Tony’s voice was flat, as if he’d said the same words a hundred times in the past few days. Do all of you have water? He didn’t wait for an answer but reached into his helmet, which he held in his hand, and started to remove and pass out small packages. Same as usual, he said. It’s wrapped in toilet paper. If you remove it, make sure that you swallow all of it.

Everyone knew the corpsman would not monitor them, and they all remained in place, more or less immobile, staring at the toilet-paper package in their hand as the corpsman walked away. Frank wondered if it was really quinine in the toilet paper, or if Tony was just trying to ease their fear of malaria.

Frank hated the thought of swallowing the package, but he hated worse the thought of catching malaria. Even the thought of drinking water from his canteen was revolting. He removed his canteen, screwed the top off, tossed the toilet-paper package into his mouth, and swallowed water that tasted like a mixture of chemicals, fish, and gasoline. He made a face but managed to hold the mixture on his stomach. If he ever found out that wasn’t quinine, Tony would be in trouble.

Damned if I’m going to take mine, Pat said. I just can’t stand it. He pulled his hand back to throw the package away, then looked at Frank. You want it? he asked.

Sure. Frank took his helmet off and pulled out the condom next to the mosquito netting. He carefully opened it and inspected it for leaks. The rubber felt smooth and slick to his rough fingers. There were already a half dozen toilet-paper-wrapped packages in it. He carefully dropped Pat’s in with the rest. He had no idea why he saved the packets. He’d always been a little like a pack rat.

May as well take mine too, Nick said and handed it to Frank. Wonder whatever happened to those Atabrine tablets they talk about.

As Frank replaced his helmet, the Gunny walked up followed by Sergeant Luke. Luke was still a corporal and probably would be for a long time. However, it didn’t seem strange that after a few days’ action there were several marines with higher-acting ranks, so now Corporal Luke was Sergeant Luke. He replaced both the platoon sergeant and sergeant guide.

Luke’s patrol found a small cave, and we think a sniper or two might be in it. He left a couple of men up there watching it, and now he’s going up to toss a satchel charge into it. I need some volunteers to go with him; just in case there’s another opening and people come out shooting.