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Submitted by: Edward Miller

1941- Volunteer as air-raid messenger - Age 16
1944 - Drafted into U.S. Marine Corps - 98553
1945 - Landed on Iwo Jima - assigned to communication platoon 26th Mar. Reg.
Attended chaplain Gittleson's dedication of the 5th Division Cemetery.
Served with 2nd Division occupation Japan

The Day of the Roar

It was D-Day + 4 except for the crackle of gunfire, relatively quiet, in the communication area. Suddenly about 10AM roar came toward us from Suribachi, there the flag, atop a pipe was blowing in the wind. And we joined in the cheer, 'If Suribachi was secured, the end was surely in sight!'

Memories and Pseudo-memories

History lived more than written. From the Depression years through WWII, growing up to serve in the U.S. Marine Corps is a scenario full of twists and turns, expected and unexpected. All connected to people in one's memory.
Book Description:
Imagine that your grandchild, a friend or a reporter found out that you were a U.S. Marine in WWII, who survived the Iwo Jima operation and decided you were worthy of an interview. In addition, your life leading up to that event and the years following it would also prove interesting enough to prompt exploration because being a skinny Jewish kid and a Marine seemed so incongruous.
The grandchild, the friend, the reporter didn't materialize except in my own head and the prompting came from my own psyche. So Memories and Pseudo-memories comes from the need to discuss what they would have wanted to know, in the format that such things come to one's mind, not chronologically as in a constructed biography or novel. Each episode special and unique!

From my birth in Brooklyn, childhood adventures in Rockville Centre, LI, growing up with relatives and friends in East New York to serving in the 5th Marine Division, fighting the Japanese and then befriending them while in the 2nd Division occupation, is a simple, sit down comfortably and listen, story. The author is a contributor to the exhibit, 'Ours To Fight For: American Jews in the Second World War' at the Museum of Jewish Heritage, New York City.

Size Number Nine

We were scheduled to have a field trip. That wasn't what it sounds like. This was no joy ride! The whole camp was getting prepared for a Division operation. All of the units of the Marine Corps Fifth Division, Camp Pendelton were supposed to participate. We were to simulate an invasion of an island occupied by a Japanese force. Although the Radio Company had Jeeps, my unit would walk; a 40lb. field pack on my back and a 40lb. radio on my chest. Exactly what I wanted to avoid by being in the Navy. Fate had assigned me number 9, at the Induction Center, so here I was. But that's not the story.

A week before, the outfit was ordered to the quartermasters' for new outfits, dungarees,hats, underwear, socks and shoes, the cowhide boots called, 'boondockers!' Loaded down with all the clothing reminded me of Boot Camp when as a new recruit I and all the other '----heads' were outfitted for a hell called, Parris Island. This was Pendelton, California, the QM sergeant asked, 'Size?' and I answered, '9and a half!' The sergeant shot back, 'No nine and a half!' He threw down a nine and shouted, 'Next!' I moved on and headed to the barracks. The following week I wore the new shoes. They felt comfortable enough, so I paid it no mind.

I did my duty in the Radio shack wearing the new outfit and shoes. The day of the operation arrived and the Communications Platoon were loaded on a truck and transported to the landing craft on the beach. Once aboard, the Higgins boats went out to sea rendezvoused, then returned to shore. The spray washed over the sides flooding the deck and soaking our new boots. Suddenly the craft stopped, the gate was lowered and the men prepared to disembark. We slogged forward through the water. The men in front, wearing their gear and radios leapt off the ramp and disappeared into the surf. Completely disappeared. Were it not for the alertness of the men behind them they would have drowned. They were pulled aboard soaking wet and gasping. The ramp went up and the seaman pulled the boat back into deeper water. Revving up to full speed he jumped the sandbar and dropped the ramp that got us to the beach.

This time the troops were more cautious anal I, among them went ashore to meet up with our unit. My boots were beginning to dry but I was unaware that the wetness inside was still there. 'Fall in!' came the order and I took my place in the line of march. The pain started after about two miles. A sharp pain that shot up one leg then the other. I tried my best to pretend it wasn't happening but every step made it worse.

The sergeant came over. 'What the hell is holding up the line?' he screamed. 'Sarge,' I explained, 'I'm crippled!'

'Bullshit!' he shouted. 'Get moving! I'll have no 'f-----g off in my outfit.' The Lieutenant drove up and asked what the trouble was. He took me aside and made me remove my boots and socks. One look and he ordered me to get off the line. 'Leave your boots off!' be ordered. 'Get into the Jeep, Private!'

The other men resented me anyway, but they were furious seeing me ride. When we arrived at the site of the twenty mile bivouac, the medic-corpsman looked at my swollen inflamed feet and gave the C.O. his report. Another Jeep was dispatched and I was driven to the base hospital. A special contraption held my feet elevated until the Podiatrist could see me.

A few days later, the pain subsided and so did the inflammation. The doctor, a young Jewish Naval officer was very sympathetic. 'You're very lucky that you didn't continue on those feet!' he said. 'You could have ruined your feet forever!' he said. 'You could have ruined your feet forever!'
I thought, 'Then I would have been medically discharged! Some luck!'

'You'll have to have therapy and baths. Two or three weeks and you'll be as good as new. By the way, your shoe size is nine and a half, not nine!' I explained that I told the QM Sergeant.

'It would have been better with a ten. I'll get you excused from drills and forced marches for a while.'
That was encouraging, I thought. 'What about a light duty assignment or medical discharge, Doc? I asked.

'Sorry, buddy!' was his reply. 'See you soon!'

Being in the hospital was almost like being in the Navy. Almost! There were only a few other patients, so I was treated like royalty. The Doctor paid regular visits and then told me, he had to let me go. He had ordered a correct size boot and I would have limited duty for a month.

I hated to return to my unit and the hatred. Word was that we were soon shipping out for Hawaii so I had to get ready. The doctor saw me again and wrote that I was ready for full duty. At least I had avoided the punishment of all the forced marches with full pack and radio.

When I arrived at the island of Hawaii, I was reassigned to the 13the Marine Artillery. I never knew whether my trouble with number nine shoes had anything to do with it. The Artillery used voice radio which was mounted on a jeep. Even the spotters used a lightweight Army radios, but that was not my job. Any practice bivouacs were motorized, so I did not have to walk miles carrying the full pack and radio. The men in this outfit knew nothing of the trouble that I had with my feet or the resentment that I suffered because of it. Although I had to learn a whole different language and procedure, these Communications men were patient and helpful. The whole Hawaiian experience was memorable. The operations were fun, painless. The liberty was an adventure in itself Hilo, Hawaii was very special. The correct shoe size made life enjoyable. At first, I cursed the QM Sergeant for giving me the #9 boots but except for the excruciating pain, they may have turned out to be a blessing. Wasn't it number 9 that put me in the Marine Corps in the first place, when every ninth man in the Navy line-up at the Induction Center was selected for the Corps. I thought, 'Maybe nine was my lucky number after all!'

A Marine Called Mic

The southern drill instructor in Parris Island boot camp could not be troubled with all of the different ethnic names on his roster, so when he came to the two Irish kids, McMurphy's, he called one Murph and the other, Mic. Both were from the Irish section of Flatbush in Brooklyn but that's where the similarity ended. Murph was a graduate from Erasmus Hall High School, my age and had volunteered to serve in the Corps. He was a quiet guy, friendly, one of the guys. He was a poor Irish street kid but didn't flaunt it. He got along with everybody.

Mic was the opposite. He had quit school to join up. Everyone had to know his story. He joined the Marines at age sixteen to escape having to face the father of the fourteen year old girl. Mic had no shame when he bragged about getting her pregnant. He had no shame about anything. His loud use of vulgarity outdid the worse of the users. It seemed that the measure of Mics toughness was in the coarseness of his speech. He could hardly read according to the test scores. He faked his way through the boot camp manual and the 'General Orders!'

No doubt he was a fighter. He got into scraps with everybody, especially the other ethnics from all over the east coast. He was constantly being punished with special duty for disrupting the training.
The good riflemen on the range needed no reason to brag but Mic put the 'BULL' in bullseye.

Murphy often took him aside to shut him up but soon got fed up and let him rant about how he was going to wipe out the Japs all by himself. He believed that he was 'HERO' material. If it wasn't so tragic, it would have been laughable.

The day came for our assignment to advanced training. Most of the men would be riflemen, light machine gunners, artillery, tank men, etc. In other words 'combat ready troops'. I was assigned to Field Radio School in Camp Le Jeune. Our buddy, Mic sat quietly for the first time since we started boot camp. He concealed his orders to advanced training. He was the only one to go to the 'Cooks and Bakers School' in Camp Le Jeune. Our 'HERO' was going to kill the Japs with ladles, pots and pans. He finally put up a front and bragged that he would show us! 'Just wait!' And I did!
The next time that I saw Mic was on Iwo Jima, during the great battle at the wide end of the island. He was doing duty serving food to the troops at Division Headquarters. He was on the chow line dishing out SOS or scrambled eggs for breakfast, whatever at lunch and something or other for dinner. The officers and artillery had this convenience, not those of us on the front line. I spotted him coming out of a cave that had just been hit by the flamethrowers. The smoke was still floating above the entrance. He and a buddy were crawling forward, their arms loaded with Japanese weapons, souvenirs. I told the Sergeant next to me that he was my Boot Camp buddy. 'He's a cook!' the Sergeant said, 'He must be crazy taking a chance, going into the caves. Often, the Japanese were not all dead. How could anyone risk their lives for stupid souvenirs?'

The word got out that Mic had an immense stash in his tent and that every evening he and his buddies would do an inventory to make sure every piece was there. Near the end of operations, my unit was relieved, so that we were able to go to the Division area to shave and shower. The demolitions men had cordoned off square areas that were still mined. Strings with yellow ribbons warned not to trespass beyond the safe pathways. The next time that I saw Mic he was between two of his buddies. He was loaded down with Japanese rifles and Samurai swords. What caught my attention was the loud 'BLAM', the exploding of a land mine. There, right in the middle of the restricted area were the three men, their bodies being flung into the air, legs separate from torsos, the booty scattered high above them. The Medical Corpsmen were cautioned not to go in until the demolition crew could clear a path. I left the scene uncertain whether the 'HERO' Jap killer was alive or dead. I knew that his arrogant stupidity had finally caught up with him. It would have been a crime, were he to survive, to be awarded a 'Purple Heart!' when he deserved a dishonorable discharge. Perhaps he deserved some award for providing the Officers in Division area with a cache of souvenir weapons.

I never expected to see him again. Fate, coincidence or synchronicity knew otherwise. Many years passed I had finished my tour of duty in Japan, my odyssey across the Pacific through the Canal to land at Norfolk, VA, separation from the Corps in Quantico and my return to civilian life as a veteran. In due coarse, I was again a student a CCNY uptown. The IRT subway was the conduit to and from school. It also gave me time to read the textbook assignments. Rarely did I allow myself to be distracted but something urged me to look up fro my book. Through the door that connects one car to another, I made out a figure trying to negotiate the passage from the other car to mine. Suddenly the door to my car flung open. There balancing on crutches, one pant leg of the Marine uniform pinned up, dress cap for begging money in his hand was Mic. All of this was instantaneous, because he caught my eye, spun around and disappeared back into the car he had come from.

I closed my book. I did not pursue the ex-Marine derelict. A phrase came to me. 'How the mighty have fallen!' The cadence of the train changed into the vicious cacophony of anti Semitic words the braggart had spewed at me and the other Jews long ago in Boot Camp. Why had I been on that particular train? Was it to finalize the association, to give closure to a period in my life, a distasteful experience, a haunting memory, that of knowing Mic. If I were to tell you that I accidentally met Tom McMurphy at an Italian wedding in Bensonhurst several years later, you would be surprised as I was. I didn't recognize him, he recognized me, although he didn't remember my name. Our paths hadn't crossed since Boot Camp. The handshake became a hug. When I mentioned Mic, the pained look on his face said, 'Stop!' We promised to get together soon, but we never did. He wore a Purple Heart in his lapel. The facial scars on his cheek said enough. The church was not the time or the place for buddies to discuss their experiences; of myself, Tom McMurphy, a real hero or a Marine called Mic.

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