It Came Down to One Marine

On Nov. 15, 2003, an 85-year-old retired Marine Corps colonel died of congestive heart failure at his home in La Quinta, Calif., southeast of Palm Springs.

He was a combat veteran of World War II. Reason enough to honor him. But this Marine was a little different. This Marine was Mitchell Paige.

It's hard today to envision -- or, for the dwindling few, to remember -- what the world looked like on October 26, 1942.

The U. S. Navy was not the most powerful fighting force in the Pacific. Not by a long shot. So the Navy basically dumped a few thousand lonely American Marines on the beach on Guadalcanal and high-tailed it out of there.

You Navy guys can hold those letters. Of course Nimitz, Fletcher and Halsey had to ration what few ships they had. I've written separately about the way Bull Halsey rolled the dice on the night of Nov. 13, 1942, violating the stern War College edict against committing capital ships in restricted waters and instead dispatching into the Slot his last two remaining fast battleships, the South Dakota and the Washington, escorted by the only four destroyers with enough fuel in their bunkers to get them there and back.

Those American destroyer captains need not have worried about carrying enough fuel to get home. By 11 p. m., outnumbered better than three- to-one by a massive Japanese task force driving down from the northwest,every one of those four American destroyers had been shot up, sunk, or set aflame. And while the South Dakota -- known throughout the fleet as a jinx ship -- had damaged some lesser Japanese vessels, she continued to be plagued with electrical and fire control problems.

"Washington was now the only intact ship left in the force," writes naval historian David Lippman. "In fact, at that moment Washington was the entire U. S. Pacific Fleet. She was the only barrier between (Admiral) Kondo's ships and Guadalcanal. If this one ship did not stop 14 Japanese ships right then and there, America might lose the war. .."

On Washington's bridge, Lieutenant Ray Hunter had the conn. He had just seen the destroyers Walke and Preston "blown sky high." Dead ahead lay their burning wreckage. Hundreds of men were swimming in the water and the Japanese ships racing in.

"Hunter had to do something. The course he took now could decide the war," Lippman writes. "'Come left,' he said. ... Washington's rudder change put the burning destroyers between her and the enemy, preventing her from being silhouetted by their fires.

"The move made the Japanese momentarily cease fire. Lacking radar, they could not spot Washington behind the fires. ..." Washington raced through burning seas. Dozens of destroyer men were in the water clinging to floating wreckage. "Get after them, Washington!" one shouted.

Sacrificing their ships by maneuvering into the path of torpedoes intended for the Washington, the captains of the American destroyers had given China Lee one final chance.

Blinded by the smoke and flames, the Japanese battleship Kirishima turned on her searchlights, illuminating the helpless South Dakota, and opened fire. Finally, as her own muzzle blasts illuminated her in the darkness,Admiral Lee and Captain Glenn Davis could positively identify an enemy target.

The Washington's main batteries opened fire at 12 midnight precisely. Her radar fire control system functioned perfectly. During the first seven minutes of Nov. 14, 1942, the "last ship in the U. S. Pacific Fleet" fired 75 of her 16-inch shells at the battleship Kirishima. Aboard Kirishima, it rained steel. At 3:25 a. m., her burning hulk officially became the first enemy sunk by an American battleship since the Spanish-American War. Stunned, the Japanese withdrew. Within days, Japanese commander Isoroku Yamamoto recommended the unthinkable to the emperor -- withdrawal from Guadalcanal.

But that was still weeks in the future. We were still with Mitchell Paige back on the god-forsaken malarial jungle island of Guadalcanal, placed like a speed bump at the end of the long blue-water slot between New Guinea and the Bismarck Archipelago ... the very route the Japanese Navy would have to take to reach Australia.

On Guadalcanal the Marines struggled to complete an airfield. Yamamoto knew what that meant. No effort would be spared to dislodge these upstart Yanks from a position that could endanger his ships. Before long,relentless Japanese counterattacks had driven supporting U. S. Navy from inshore waters. The Marines were on their own.

As Platoon Sgt. Mitchell Paige and his 33 riflemen set about carefully emplacing their four water-cooled 30-caliber Brownings, manning their section of the thin khaki line which was expected to defend Henderson Field against the assault of the night of Oct. 25, 1942, it's unlikely anyone thought they were about to provide the definitive answer to that most desperate of questions: How many able-bodied U. S. Marines does it take to hold a hill against 2,000 desperate and motivated attackers?

Nor did the commanders of the mighty Japanese Army, who had swept all before them for decades, expect their advance to be halted on some God- forsaken jungle ridge manned by one thin line of Yanks in khaki in October of 1942.

But by the time the night was over, "The 29th (Japanese) Infantry Regiment has lost 553 killed or missing and 479 wounded among its 2,554 men," historian Lippman reports. "The 16th (Japanese) Regiment's losses are uncounted, but the 164th's burial parties handled 975 Japanese bodies. ... The American estimate of 2,200 Japanese dead is probably too low."

You've already figured out where the Japanese focused their attack,haven't you? Among the 90 American dead and seriously wounded that night were all the men in Mitchell Paige's platoon. Every one. As the night of endless attacks wore on, Paige moved up and down his line, pulling his dead and wounded comrades back into their foxholes and firing a few bursts from each of the four Brownings in turn, convincing the Japanese forces down the hill that the positions were still manned.

The citation for Paige's Congressional Medal of Honor picks up the tale: "When the enemy broke through the line directly in front of his position, P/Sgt. Paige, commanding a machinegun section with fearless determination, continued to direct the fire of his gunners until all his men were either killed or wounded. Alone, against the deadly hail of Japanese shells, he fought with his gun and when it was destroyed, took over another, moving from gun to gun, never ceasing his withering fire."

In the end, Sgt. Paige picked up the last of the 40-pound, belt-fed Brownings -- the same design which John Moses Browning famously fired for a continuous 25 minutes until it ran out of ammunition, glowing cherry red, at its first U. S. Army trial -- and did something for which the weapon was never designed. Sgt. Paige walked down the hill toward the place where he could hear the last Japanese survivors rallying to move around his flank, the belt-fed gun cradled under his arm, firing as he went.

And the weapon did not fail.

Coming up at dawn, battalion executive officer Major Odell M. Conoley was first to discover the answer to our question: How many able-bodied Marines does it take to hold a hill against two regiments of motivated, combat-hardened infantrymen who have never known defeat?

On a hill where the bodies were piled like cordwood, Mitchell Paige alone sat upright behind his 30-caliber Browning, waiting to see what the dawn would bring.

One hill: one Marine.

But "In the early morning light, the enemy could be seen a few yards off, and vapor from the barrels of their machine guns was clearly visible," reports historian Lippman. "It was decided to try to rush the position."

For the task, Major Conoley gathered together "three enlisted communication personnel, several riflemen, a few company runners who were at the point, together with a cook and a few messmen who had brought food to the position the evening before."

Joined by Paige, this ad hoc force of 17 Marines counterattacked at 5:40 a.m., discovering that "the extremely short range allowed the optimum use of grenades." They cleared the ridge.

And that's where the unstoppable wave of Japanese conquest finally crested, broke, and began to recede. On an unnamed jungle ridge on an insignificant island no one had ever heard of, called Guadalcanal.

But who remembers, today, how close-run a thing it was -- the ridge held by a single Marine, in the autumn of 1942?

When the Hasbro Toy Co. called some years back, asking permission to put the retired colonel's face on some kid's doll, Mitchell Paige thought they must be joking.

But they weren't. That's his mug, on the little Marine they call "G.I. Joe."

And now you know.

Vin Suprynowicz
October 26, 2005

- Joatmoaf -

November 17, 2006 at 10:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack (0)

I generally don't like cough-drops. Halls Mint aren't bad for night, but during the day I prefer Horehound-tea-drops. Like lemon-drops, but a dark "tea" color. I'm rarely "coughing" sick, so the kids had never seen those. When I pulled out a baggie of them yesterday, and was about to put one in my mouth, the boys lunged across the table to snatch the baggie from my hands!

Ron grabbed the bag and Lee yelled "noooooooooo". I saw the whole thing in slow-motion! The next thing I knew Ron had thrown the baggie across the room and Lee was babbleling something about gross-rotten-mildew-mold-spoiled-food. Thats right, gentle readers. They thought the candy had gone bad. Because in their rainbow-world no one would ever make a candy look that gross. They were saving me. Yay for them.

So then I explained that horehound-tea was good for sore-throats and coughing and it was made from tea and it was supposed to look like that. They were unconvinced. Ron picked up the idea that the white stuff on the outside didn't look like tea and ... it was probably mold! I should get a clean-mommy-award that my boys have no clue what mold looks like. So then I explained that the white stuff was finely powdered sugar that keeps the "drops" from sticking to each other, like lemon-drops. They didn't hear anything after the word "sugar".

"Sugar?!?" "SUGAR!!!" I might as well have told them that I had seen communists parachuting out of the sky into the backyard. Eyes flared, they lunged for the bag again. But I was quicker this time. And taller. And buffered by large pieces of furniture. Yes, I had to run around the table until I could effectively command that I NEEDED the medicine in those tea-drops whether it had sugar or not!

Things calmed down. Looking back, I realize they calmed down too quickly and that I should be suspicious anytime my boys give each other a look-n-nod. Because it doesn't mean "yes, I too see the light". It means "regroup behind the shower-curtain in five minutes". Ok, it might not mean that exactly. But pretty close.

And, thus, three or four hours later when I reached for another cough-drop I couldn't find the bag. Ron glanced over at me, casually asking "Looking for the drops?" "Yes, I am. I thought they were right here." "They were. But not anymore. Sugar. Is. Bad. For. Your. Diet." I looked up in surprise. Out-manuevered by a nine-year-old! And from the look in his eyes, a look I've seen in the mirror, I knew I wouldn't be getting those drops anytime soon ... No sooner than my father got back his salt all those years ago.

First it was aunts (my mother's sisters), and then older cousins. Phone calls, spontaneous conversations about how Greg-the-son-of-a-Neighbor was perfectly wonderful. How he was smart, and handsome, and funny, and handsome, and sweet, and handsome, and charming, and very handsome. (Maybe this is why I detest John Kerry, who did I mention was in Vietnam?)

Greg did this last week, Greg did that today, Greg simultaneously saved small children and dogs from a burning building while thinking about a solution for poverty and the cure for cancer. Greg was spectacular!

This went on for months, with me weakly smiling and politely nodding while never giving them encouragement. I was busy, I was washing my hair, I was busy, I was interested in some other vague random boy, I was busy, I was really very very busy.

They couldn't seem to grasp the notion that I was NOT interested in Greg in any way. At all. For anything. Ever. See, Greg reminded me of a smarmy junior used-car salesman. I couldn't put my finger on it, but something just made me feel ... icky. Very very icky.

We had reached an impasse. They extolled Greg's perfectness and I refused to bow down before him.

Then my cousin got married. Not to Greg of course, Greg and his family were there. Over the preceeding 18 months I had been worn down. Maybe his "ickiness" was all in my imagination. Maybe I was missing the boat. Maybe I should embrace The Cult Of Greg whole-heartedly! Ok, that last one was a joke. I've never been one to chug the koolaid in one big swallow. Know that old saying, He who hesitates is lost? Well, I lived my life by: He who hesitates is sometimes saved!

Still, I decided to give Greg a second look. To really check him out. Which does not mean watching him dance. It meant letting Norman know I wanted to know "the dirt", and It meant finding Greg's sister and sitting next to her at the reception. You'd be AMAZED at what they'll tell you about their brothers. And if they won't tell you anything? That means he's at least a good-enough guy that his sister doesn't hate him. Greg's sister? She had a LOT to say ...

A few days later, when all the aunts were meeting at Aunt Grace's to do each others hair (dye, perms, whatever) it came to a full boil. They started babbleling about Greg. Again. But this time? This time I was ready. Then it came "He's SUCH a catch!"

"Really? You think he's a catch? Do you even KNOW him? We're talking about the same guy, right? Greg-the-neighbor? The guy from the wedding? The one that cheated on his last girlfriend, and thought it was justified because she too busy having the flu to pay attention to him? The one that uses more hair-product than I do? The guy with the gold chain? The guy who lays out in the sun with a timer so his tan is even on both sides? The guy who fakes an injury if he's losing at a sports-game? The guy who spends TWO HOURS IN THE BATHROOM arranging every hair on his head, and holding it in place with HAIR-SPRAY? The guy whose ambition is to be the manager of the local grocery-store? That Greg? He's a catch? I, for one, think I deserve better than that! But what I hear you saying is that he's the best I can do, and I should be grateful if he deigns to notice me. Is THAT what you're saying? Because THAT is what I'm hearing every time you talk about "Greg". That you have absolutely no standards at all.

Although they had won many battles, they definitely lost The Greg Wars. After that, not one of them had the audacity to bring his name up ever again.

Years later, when their children are working their way through their second and third marriages, none of them can figure out how I ended up with Mr. Perfect. Hmmm. It must have just been dumb luck! Couldn't have been having standards other than "oh, look, its a male".

Samantha called me last week with that riddle. I was just idlely chatting. You know, loading the dishwasher, handing out cheese-sticks, making sure no one took raisons in the computer room again (don't ask), etc. Without giving it another thought, I muttered the answer. While making a note that we needed more grape-juice.

Lucy: She needed a funeral.
Sam: (after big pause) (in a tight little voice) Why would she need a funeral?

Lucy: (exasperated) Obviously, if the man came to her mother's funeral he might show up for her sister's funeral. Although it would have been smarter to kill her Mother's best-friend. Its likely that if he didn't sign the guest-book that he didn't know her, he was probably there with someone who DID know her, and since he was about her age he could have been the son of one of her Mother's friends.
Sam: (dead silence)

Lucy: Thats the answer, right? Right? Are you still there?
Sam: Yes. (weird, scrunched voice)

Lucy: What's wrong with you?
Sam: This riddle is a question used to evaluate sociopathic tendancies.

(dead quiet)

Lucy: Don't be ridiculous. You got it. Didn't you?
Sam: (still sounding weird) No. No one has gotten it except JohnDoe (a guy we both know that is truly diagnosably sociopathic and/or narcisisistic)

Lucy: You can't be serious.
Sam: Ummm.

Lucy: YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS! First, its not that I approve of the behavior. He would. Second, HOW could you NOT get it after spending years with The Sisters!?! ("The Sisters" being my mother and her five sisters)

Sam: (Sounding both relieved and normal) Oh! RIGHT! Of course you'd get it. Of everyone, YOU would get it.
Lucy: Hrumph! (Yes, I make that sound out loud. It can be VERY effective)

Pay attention to the part where Lucy and Jennifer are NOT sociopaths! (According to American Heritage "sociopaths are interested only in their personal needs and desires, without concern for the effects of their behavior on others.") Just because we knew the answer doesn't mean we approve of the answer. (I took a quick look at her site and feel comfortable giving her the benefit of the doubt :)

And its likely that we'd good witnesses to a crime. Most people aren't because they focus on the victim. Apparently, Jennifer and I would focus on the criminal. I like to think that would have made us good boy-scouts. "Always Be Prepared", and you can't be prepared if you take your eye off the ball.

And its not to say that my mother is out killing small animals. THAT would be a psychopath.

What it does mean is that you know more about "Lucy" that you thought you'd be learning today. And its not really depressing. No surprise that everyone has baggage of one kind or another. You know how in the story of Cinderella, things start out well, and then there's the icky part, and then the happy ending? Well, I found my very happy ending ages ago!