Saipan - Suicide Island by Guy Gabaldon

I KILL THREE JAPANESE ON A HARLEY DAVIDSON

Another of my daily excursions into enemy territory—one of my solitary daily “social calls” into enemy territory on Saipan Island.  I have been informed that it was the first time that a Marine Private worked free-lance in Battle.   Now, over sixty years later I’m still in awe as to how this came to be.

 
       My Navy Cross Citation reads in part that I captured “more than 1,000 enemy Japanese,” This statement was reiterated by my former Commanding Officer, and other Intelligence Officers and enlisted men when I was the guest of honor on the national TV program, “This is Your Life.”  That is the official count made by the Marine Regimental Intelligence Officers.  Following the national TV program I signed a contract to make my film bio –“Hell to Eternity.”
 

I joined the Marines on my seventeenth birthday, March 22, 1943, in Los Angeles, California.  The War had been going on for over a year before I was old enough to enlist. I was beginning to think that it would be over before I got the opportunity to fight for my country—but I was destined to fight in one of the most ferocious Pacific battles, the Saipan-Tinian Campaign.

       We hit the Saipan Island Beaches, D-Day, June 15, 1944.  We went there to kick ass, and we sure did a lot of ass kicking by killing over 30,000 enemy soldiers, we lost 4,000 Marines, but eight to one are damn good odds, especially when fighting the enemy in his back yard. However, I  believe hat one Marine’s life was worth more than the all the enemy killed
 

Before joining the Corps I was a motorcycle buff and would rather ride a “bike” than eat.  At 15 years old, weighing 125 pounds I always smelled of oil and gasoline, the same smell as when many years later I owned and flew old radial-engine airplanes.
 

There were times during the Saipan Campaign that I would nostalgically reminisce of riding my Harley-Davidson on the streets of Los Angeles, which were unlike today’s bumper-to-bumper freeways. Before the War it was a pleasure to drive on the uncluttered streets of L.A. There were no freeways or pistol-packing idiots to dodge.
 

In my wildest fantasy I could not have imagined that someday I would kill three enemy soldiers on a motorcycle, and take the bike for my own – a Harley Davidson, at that. A Harley on a fortified Japanese Island? Incredible. The incident I describe here may turn some stomachs, but that’s the way it happened, blood, guts, splattered brains, and no compassion when killing the enemy.
 

 Immediately after landing on Saipan I decided that I would go off into enemy territory to fight the war as I saw fit. I always worked alone, usually at night in the bush. I had the crazy idea that with big cojones and a limited knowledge of the Japanese language I’d be able to do something that no one had done before. I had learned bits and phrases while living among the Japanese-Americans as a kid in Los Angeles before the War.
 

  Taking off on my own nearly got me thrown in the brig. If I had failed to come back to our lines without taking prisoners I would probably have been court-martialed for going off into enemy territory on my own.
 

I sneaked into no-man’s land early one morning to where I had taken six prisoners the day before. I knew that there would be more Japanese in that area and I meant to get as many as I could, dead or alive.  As usual, I had no specific plan; I’d be playing it by ear.
 

Making these daily ventures into enemy territory, getting shot at daily, and not getting wounded (yet), had given me a sense of self-confidence, a feeling that I would not get killed as long as I worked alone. As I look back on these escapades I wonder how I survived.  I believed that working alone in the jungle was the best manner in which to escape detection, and I was right.  I took it upon myself to go into Japanese territory to kill and capture the enemy—my actions prove that God takes care of idiots.
 

If a Marine abandons his post during battle, he can be subject to execution by a firing squad. I gambled and won.  Getting prisoners in large numbers saved my ass. When our Intelligence Unit realized that the prisoners I caught were giving them information that saved Marine lives, and helped end the Campaign, I won approval for my “Lone Wolf” escapades.   I was on my own.
 

I must have seen too many John Wayne movies, because what I was doing was suicidal. It was foolish to believe that I would be the only Marine that could capture the enemy Japanese.
 

Their Japanese military “Bushido” code states that to surrender is tantamount to cowardice and betrayal, but being that I took many prisoners, I called it a “Bullshito” code.  We Marines don’t believe in suicide – we kill the bastards, and if we found that we had to retreat we “advanced to the rear.”
 

My plan, as impossible as it seemed, was to get near a Japanese emplacement, bunker, or cave, and tell them that I had a bunch of Marines with me and we were ready to kill them if they did not surrender. I promised that they would be treated with dignity, and that we would make sure that they were taken back to Japan after the War.
 

It had to be some kind of insanity to think that I could “surround” them by myself.  I really had no idea what response I would get from the die-hard Japanese. When I began taking prisoners it became an addiction—I found that I couldn’t stop—I was hooked.  On top of it being an honor and a privilege to kill and capture the enemy, especially the day that I captured over 800 in four hours – it became a “way of life.”
 

Regarding the Harley caper – I was deep in Japanese territory when I spotted a typical Saipan farm-shack about a mile from our Command Post. It set on stilts, about two feet off the ground, and unlike many farmhouses I had seen in the past few days, this one was untouched by our naval gunfire and aerial bombing. It had a lived-in look to it.
 

I squatted in the adjacent cane field, eye-balling the whole layout, concerned that there might be someone in the shack. I crawled through the cane-field to about fifty feet beyond the shack when I spotted three enemy soldiers standing beside a motorcycle. They were armed with rifles and hand grenades.  They seemed to be waiting for someone.  As close as they were to our CP they could easily sneak up to our Unit and kill some of my buddies. 
 

Even at a distance I recognized the bike as a Harley Davidson three-wheeler. I couldn’t believe my eyes. “What the hell is a Harley doing here on Saipan? That’s gonna be my bike, no matter what it takes.” I later learned that the Harley was a popular motorcycle in pre-war Japan.
 

At that moment I was the happiest Marine on Saipan. I was about to “requisition” a Harley Davidson, even though it was a little old three-wheeler. “These Nips won’t be willing let me have their bike, so I’ll just take it away from them over their dead bodies.” 
 

“I’ll have to play this caper real cool. I’ll sit here for a few minutes taking in the whole scenario.  I’m gonna make sure I won’t get hit from behind.” 
 

The only bad part of working alone was not having back up. If I’d been killed on one of my excursions no one would ever know how or where I died.
 

Just then one of the three Nips takes off for the shack. “Damn it, there goes my chance to have gotten all three at one crack,” but a few minutes later the soldier comes out of the shack carrying a jug of water.  “Now that I know that no one is in the shack I won’t have to watch my back when I take the bike.  It’s three to one, but I’ve got the drop on them. I’ll kill ‘em all with the first volley or I’m in deep shtuff.”
 

“I’ll soon own a Harley—I know that I’m here to kill the enemy, but there’s nothing wrong with taking a little booty while I’m at it. Now I’ll be able to take a good load of Japanese ammo up to our Observation Post instead of hand-carrying it up the hill. 
 

We’d been using a small Japanese artillery piece to fire into Garapan—now we’ll haul the ammo on a Harley to kill the enemy. “Sayonara you bastards, today you’ll meet your dishonorable ancestors—and I’ll get a Harley for sending you off.”  
 

Suddenly one of them leans over and checks the oil level, “That son of a bitch is gonna fire it up and leave. I want that bike. These bastards will not keep me from owning that Harley. I’d better kill them while I can. At this distance I may not get all three with my Carbine. Now I’d give my right nut for an M-1 rifle, I’d get all of them right in the head – like shooting rabbits on my Grandpa’s ranch. With this Carbine I’ve got to be almost on top of them to do the job. No matter, in a few minutes they or I will be fertilizer for this cane-field.
 

“It’d be foolhardy to try to capture them, there are surely hundreds of the enemy nearby—the risk is just too high. Harley or no Harley, I’ll have to kill these guys to keep them from killing some of my fellow Marines.”
 

No one likes killing a human being - not even killing an enemy who would enjoy killing you, but in situations such as this you do not stop to consider morality, you kill without feeling.
 

I knew that if I did not kill them today they would probably kill Marines tomorrow. And if I don’t kill these three on the first round of fire I’ll have to get my ass out of this area before the Japanese who heard the shooting come and do me in. 
 

Usually when I got the drop on the enemy, they had been completely exposed.  The first time it happened I suspected a trap, but later I realized that they were just plain careless. That is why they lost every battle against the Marines, whether it was at Guadalcanal, Tarawa, Kwajalin, or later on Iwo Jima, and on their home turf, Okinawa. One Marine should be able to wipe out at least ten Nips.
 

They may have been tenacious fighters, but they could not out-think the American Marine. If they had used individual initiative they would have won a few battles. We were told that the Japanese were fearless soldiers, but as far as I am concerned they were stupid. I never ceased to be amazed at the carelessness of the Japanese soldier.
 

As short as I am I was able to walk straight up in the cane field without being seen. This is one of the times when it pays to be short. Often in the Saipan Campaign my life will be spared because of my height, or lack thereof.  In one incident when I was firing in the kneeling position a bullet just missed my head and hit the Marine behind me right in the gut.
 

I couldn’t see the shack from inside the cane-field so I had to depend on my sense of direction and distance covered. If I’m extremely quiet I’ll be able to circle the farmhouse and get the drop on them.
 

“I should now be just about behind the shack. The stakes will be pretty high in this game. If the enemy is waiting for me when I breakout into the open it’ll be my last fight and I’ll probably get killed, worse yet I won’t get that Harley. If I’ve miscalculated and they heard me rustling through the dry leaves I’ll become Latino sashimi.  Hell, why am I thinking this way? I’ve been as quite as a church-house mouse. They can’t imagine that a Lone Marine is about to spoil their bullshit session.”
 

I broke out of the cane-field a couple of hundred feet from them. One of them is sitting on the bike, the other two are standing alongside the bike. This will take a steady arm and a good aim down the carbine sights.  At this range and in the prone position I can assure them a clean, fast death.  This is one of the few times that I take careful aim down the sights of my piece. Most of my hits will be from rapid fire as I run into them in the bush. If I miss these guys on the first volley it’ll become a shoot-out and they’ll have the advantage.  I lie down, get a good hold of my piece, hold my breath, take careful aim at the head of the guy on “my” bike, and fire.
 

I immediately pump the remaining 14 rounds in the clip at rapid fire into the other two and punch another 15 round clip in my carbine while running towards them, blasting away and seeing the reaction of their bodies leaping like shot rabbits every time I hit them.  Standing over them, I shot each one in the head, just to make sure—there were incidents of apparently “dead” Nips “reviving” and killing Marines. But these three were real dead. They were fortunate in dying without knowing what hit them. Oh well, they wanted to die for their Emperor.
 

The enemy must have heard the firing and will be coming this way.  I must haul ass out of here, pronto. I give the bike a fast pre-flight inspection. It is obvious that there weren’t any booby traps on the bike or they would not have been sitting on it.
 

Being familiar with the Harley, I knew what to check. I hit the kick-starter on my newly bought Harley. It fires on the first kick and sounds smooth. I’m sure that other Japanese will hear the roar of the Harley, and I don’t want to be a welcoming committee of one when the enemy arrives. I shag ass for our C.P.
 

Making it down this muddy road with the loot in the rear compartment I can easily be mistaken for a Banzai Nip and get blasted off my bike.  I don’t want to get killed before I show off my Harley. Furthermore it’d be embarrassing to get killed on my new bike, by “friendly fire,” at that.
 

 I wave my shirt above my head as I approach our lines—no one fires at me. I make it to the C.P. (Command Post), proud of my Harley, the first Marine, and the first American, to own a motorcycle on Saipan (another first will be blasting the safe at the Saipan Bank).
 

Everybody and his brother crowd around my bike. “Let me have a ride.”

“Okay, but just right here in the C.P. area. One of you guys get some gas from Motor Transport” 
 

Tex says, “Y’all see what I see? Damn if Guy ain’t got himself a motorcycle.”  

Hurley comes running up: “Hey Guy, why didn’t you ask me to go with you?”

“Hell, Hurley, I didn’t know I’d be ‘buying’ a Harley? Anyway, you’re welcome to use it. Take care of it, can’t have it end up back with the enemy.”
 

Just then a Major comes around and says, “Everybody off that motorcycle. We will need it at Division Headquarters” 
 

I couldn’t believe my ears. “Sir, I worked hard to get that motorcycle.  I request that I be allowed to keep it.”
 

I told him that we could use it to haul ammo up to our R-2 Mountain-gun—which would be a lot better than the ox-cart we’d been using.  But the chicken-shit Major was not to be swayed.
 

“No, that motorcycle is now property of the Corps.”

The bastard had probably never been near a shoot-out with the enemy.

“You Hijo de Puta” (son of a bitch), I thought.
 

That bike was well earned booty, but now I was beginning to wonder what would happen to the sabers, sidearms, and watches I was accumulating. What rear echelon bastard would wind up with the spoils of war I had taken from those I killed. There are those who object to stripping the dead enemy of his belongings, but what the hell are they thinking—that I’m gonna write someone a letter telling them, “I just killed your husband in the thick of battle. I’m sending you the gun he tried to kill me with – I  killed the son of a bitch and he’ll rot in the tropical sun and all will be gone.”
 

I never saw my Harley again, but now and then I’d heard that it was being used by the 3rd Battalion to carry ammo. In retrospect I can see without a doubt that I would have been killed on it when going into enemy territory.  It was noisy and would alert anyone within a half a mile of me that I was in the area.  Maybe the chicken shit Major did me a favor, although that wasn’t his intent. But for a short time I was the proud owner of the only Harley on Saipan.

The following letter is from a Marine who read the first edition of my book.

W. Dodson Smith                          July 26, 1990

2nd Marine Division Assc.

Dear Guy,

I have just jumped into reading your book and in the first chapter I learned where the “Three Wheeler” (Harley Davidson) came from. One day on the front lines with K-3-2, Sgt. Komo came riding up on it with ammo and supplies.  He made many trips back and forth from Bn-4 to the front.  Even if you did not get to keep it, it sure helped us out. I only saw it that one day. It must have made the rounds to other outfits.

Colonel Walter Layer, whom you mention in your book, was our Battalion Commander after Col. Johnson was wounded.

I’m enclosing a photo of a drawing that I got off a Nip on Saipan.  It is a Kawasaki Ki-61 Swallow. The American code name for this plane was “Tony.”  The Confederate Air Force in Harling, Texas wants me to donate it to them, I may do so.  Good luck with the Memorial.  Sincerely,  (Signed) W. Dodson Smith