Red Sands Monday

Monday

“Damn…what a crappy place to have a war…”

Brian Cooper hunkered down behind absolutely nothing and hoped the Japanese were lousy shots.

“No grass…no trees…not even a goddamn rock to hide behind. Who the hell came up with this bright idea, anyway? Nothin’ here but volcanic sand…can’t dig worth crap…can’t hide…shit!”

A bullet slapped the sand an inch from his face, spraying dirt into his mouth and nose. He gasped, coughed, hawked, spat…looked around for something to shoot at…anything at all…there was nothing. Brian was in the second wave to hit the beach that morning in February. The first wave met almost no opposition…which they later learned, to their detriment, was basically a trap. As they advanced off the beach, they were suddenly met with withering fire from concealed bunkers and tunnels, and mowed down like sheaves of wheat. The second wave was a little more cautious.

Brian glanced behind him, saw the carnage, shuddered, moved forward a few feet more through the mud and the sand.

He saw his buddy up ahead, laying stretched out, rifle up, aiming down the barrel, looking for…anything. Brian jumped up, ran a bit, flopped down beside him.

“Joey…how you doin’?’

No answer…Brian looked over, saw his friend sighting down his rifle with sightless eyes, a trickle of red escaping from under his helmet, slithering down his face…Brian turned away, gagged, retched onto the sand beside him. An obliging wave rolled in, gathered up the vomit, rolled away…God, he would kill for a dry pair of socks right now. He reached over, removed Joeys’ dog tags, jumped up, and ran…ran for all he was worth, finally dropping behind a destroyed truck, looking left and right, looking ahead, just looking.

“Goddamn somsa bitches! Gotta get off this damn beach…gotta move up the hill…gotta find me something to kill…”

Ahead of him were jumbled, twisted piles of metal…landing craft, trucks, tanks…scrap metal turned into art…the art of war. He reached down, picked up a handful of sand, idly sifted it through his fingers. The black sand fell away…the red that had soaked into it stayed on his fingers. He brushed off his hands and looked ahead. The shooting stopped…the men started to climb off the beach…up toward the interior of the island…Brian joined them…and began to tour Iwo Jima. It was Monday, February 19, 1945. It was eleven o’clock. Brian stood up, started walking with his comrades up the hill…

Friday

Billy Preston stood at the top of Mount Surabachi and looked down toward the airfield. The Americans held the mountain, but they also knew that there were a couple of thousand Japanese directly below them. A vast network of tunnels crisscrossed the island, and the mountain (ha!…all of 545 feet) was a virtual maze of tunnels and bunkers. Getting the Japanese out of there was going to be a chore.

“Well, hell…here we are in the middle of a major battle, and the Secretary of The Navy shows up…Whasshe think? This is some kind of damn tourist attraction? Idiots! We’re being led by idiots!”

He sighed, picked up his rifle, started walking cautiously down the hill…

“What I wouldn’t give for an effin’ tree…some kind of shade…”

He continued down the hill, knowing, for the most part, where most of the bunkers were…knowing that even after they were cleared, the Japanese could re-man them through the tunnel system.

“Stupid! These people are stupid! This war is stupid! Just one, big, stupid fu…”

He stopped, dropped, aimed down the hill…there was something there. Slowly, he inched down the hill, until he came to…a body…an American soldier. As he approached, a cloud of flies buzzed up, swarmed around, settled back on the body. He turned him over, saw the gaping hole in the guys’ belly, saw the maggots feasting on the juices of his intestines deep in the wound, turned away, retched into the dirt. He reached down, took off the dog tags, glanced at the face…just a kid. Glanced at the tags.

“Brian Cooper…well, Coop, I guess it’s over for you…RIP, Marine.”

He got up, headed down the hill…

FACTS:

The battle of Iwo Jima lasted from February 19 to March 26, 1945. Total American Forces: 110,000 Marines. Total Japanese Forces 22,000. For 35 days the island of Iwo Jima became the most populated 8 square miles on the planet.

Total Japanese casualties: 20,703…1,083 were captured during the fighting. Many of the casualties came from ritualistic suicide rather than surrender.

Total American casualties: 27,909 Marines…300 Navy seamen (from kamikaze bombings on the ships). The number of American casualties was greater than the total Allied casualties on D-Day, and this was the only U.S. Marine battle where the American casualties exceeded the Japanese.

Post Script

The photographs shown were taken by Vic McKee. They are reproduced here with the gracious permission of his daughter, Sherri McKee.