COPYRIGHT © 1979, 1980 BY WILLIAM MANCHESTER
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First eBook Edition: April 2002
Lines from “We'll Build a Bungalow” by Betty Bryant Mayhams and Norris the Troubadour, copyright Robert Mellin Music Publishing Corp. Used by permission.
Lines from “On the Sunny Side of the Street” by Dorothy Fields and Jimmy McHugh, copyright 1930 by Shapiro, Bernstein & Co., Inc., copyright renewed 1957 and assigned to Shapiro, Bernstein&Co., Inc. Used by permission.
Photographs on pages 2, 8, 14, 158, 214, 348, and 392, U.S. Marine Corps photos; page 118, Mark Kauffman, copyright 1951 by Time Inc.; page 36, U.S. Navy photo; page 54, United Press International; page 76, J. R. Eyerman, © 1980 by Time Inc.; page 190, Bruce Adams; page 254, 7th AAF; page 304, U.S. Army photo; page 323, Robin Moyer; page 394, © 1980 by George Silk. All other photographs are courtesy of William Manchester.
ISBN: 978-0-316-05463-8
Route March
Illustrations
PREAMBLE: Blood That Never Dried
PROLOGUE: The Wind-Grieved Ghost
ABLE: From the Argonne to Pearl Harbor
BAKER: Arizona,I Remember You
CHARLIE: Ghastly Remnants of Its Last Gaunt Garrison
DOG: The Rim of Darkness
EASY: The Raggedy Ass Marines
FOX: The Canal
GEORGE: Les Braves Gens
HOW: We Are Living Very Fast
ITEM: I Will Lay Me Down for to Bleed a While …
JIG: …Then I'll Rise and Fight with You Again
Author's Note
Acclaim for William Manchester's
GOODBYE, DARKNESS
A MEMOIR OF THE PACIFIC WAR
“Never have the fighting men been better caught in their talk, fear, pride, misery, pain, anguish. Never have the savagery, madness, ferocity, violence, guts, crud, gristle, and gore of war been better put down on paper. … Goodbye, Darkness belongs with the best war memoirs ever written.”
— Los Angeles Times
“A storyteller of uncommon gifts and imagination. … The reviewer is hard put to describe this intelligent, beautifully crafted but complicated work in a nutshell.”
— Clay Blair, Chicago Tribune
“Unforgettable. … A deeply felt attempt to exorcise ghosts and reclaim the integrity of the spirit. … A page-turner that is raunchy and moving by turns and very well written.”
— Publishers Weekly
“A very moving account. … Manchester's war wasn't subtle. His memoir is powerful, painful.”
— People
“Masterful.”
— Seattle Times
“Weaving recollection with research, Manchester lets the war unfold like memory itself, in concentric circles rising from the subjective sensations to historic events. The sensations dominate, especially those of terror, loss, revulsion, remorse, and, beneath them all, love, the unchosen love shared by fighting men amid the horror and sacrifice of honorable war.”
—J.S. Allen, Saturday Review
“An extremely personal memoir of World War II that will appeal to persons with traditional values and with which many veterans will be able to identify. It should also be interesting to young people seeking to understand the patriotic fervor that once was not only accepted but expected from Americans of all ages. … Manchester neither preaches nor apologizes as he presents a graphic picture of the war and of the young men who fought and died.”
— James Simon, Library Journal
“A compelling account of the war in the Pacific: its strategy, geography, tactics, fighting, its leaders. … No one has looked it over from so many merging or intersecting perspectives. … The campaigns for Guadalcanal, Tarawa, Saipan and Tinian, Guam, Peleliu, Iwo Jima, and Okinawa — gory, in no way understated, movingly rendered and authentic.”
— Washington Post Book World
“This is the most moving memoir of combat in World War II that I have read. Manchester has done for that greatest of conflicts what the English poet Siegfried Sassoon did for the First World War; brought home the misery and horror of combat and what it is like to fight and be wounded and die in hell and confusion and blood of modern battle. It is a testimony to the fortitude of man. This is quite different from the other books that Manchester has written. It is very personal: a quest to find what he has lost as a youth during the fighting in the Pacific and to come to terms with that young man who slogged it out as a foot soldier in the Marines. It is a gripping, haunting book.”
— William L. Shirer
Books by William Manchester
BIOGRAPHY
American Caesar: Douglas MacArthur, 1880–1964
Disturber of the Peace: The Life of H. L. Mencken
The Last Lion: Winston Spencer Churchill; Visions of Glory:
1874–1932
The Last Lion: Winston Spencer Churchill; Alone: 1932–1940
One Brief Shining Moment: Remembering Kennedy
Portrait of a President: John F. Kennedy in Profile
A Rockefeller Family Portrait: From John D. to Nelson
HISTORY
The Arms of Krupp, 1587–1968
The Death of a President: November 20-November 25, 1963
The Glory and the Dream: A Narrative History of America, 1932–1972
A World Lit Only by Fire. The Medieval Mind and the
Renaissance: Portrait of An Age
ESSAYS
Controversy: And Other Essays in Journalism, 1950–1975
In Our Time: The World as Seen by Magnum Photographers
FICTION
The City of Anger
The Long Gainer
Shadow of the Monsoon
DIVERSION
Beard the Lion
MEMOIRS
Goodbye, Darkness: A Memoir of the Pacific War
The author in 1945
To Robert E. Manchester Brother and Brother Marine
Your old men shall dream dreams,
your young men shall see visions.
— Joel 2:28
War, which was cruel and glorious,
Has become cruel and sordid.
— Winston Churchill
But we … shall be remembered:
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition.
— Henry V, Act IV, Scene iii
Illustrations
The author, 1945 frontispiece
Lance Corporal William Manchester, Sr. 17
Malinta Tunnel, Corregidor 66
Red Beach, Guadalcanal 172
The Ilu, Guadalcanal 185
Bloody Ridge, Guadalcanal 190
Sergeant Major Vouza 204
Wading ashore at Tarawa 226
The pier at Tarawa 226
Enemy guns at Tarawa 227
Suicide Cliff, Saipan 272
Banzai Cliff, Saipan 272
Japanese tank, Guam 299
Cave with gun emplacement, Guam 299
Bloody Nose Ridge, Peleliu 312
American tank, Peleliu 319
Japanese gun, Peleliu 321
American monument, Peleliu 323
Japanese monument, Peleli
u 323
Where MacArthur came ashore, Leyte 330
Filipino monument to MacArthur, Leyte 330
Makati cemetery, Manila 336
Iwo Jima 345
The view from Mount Suribachi, Iwo Jima 345
Sugar Loaf Hill, Okinawa, then and now 392
The author, 1979 394
Maps
Pearl Harbor 42
Bataan and Corregidor 59
New Guinea 82
Guadalcanal 164
Tarawa Atoll 216
Saipan 264
Guam 285
Peleliu 308
Leyte Gulf 325
Luzon 332
Iwo Jima 338
Okinawa 351
PREAMBLE
Blood That Never Dried
Our boeing 747 has been fleeing westward from darkened California, racing across the Pacific toward the sun, the incandescent eye of God, but slowly, three hours later than West Coast time, twilight gathers outside, veil upon lilac veil. This is what the French call l'heure bleue. Aquamarine becomes turquoise; turquoise, lavendar; lavendar, violet; violet, magenta; magenta, mulberry. Seen through my cocktail glass, the light fades as it deepens; it becomes opalescent, crepuscular. In the last waning moments of the day I can still feel the failing sunlight on my cheek, taste it in my martini. The plane rises before a spindrift; the darkening sky, broken by clouds like combers, boils and foams overhead. Then the whole weight of evening falls upon me. Old memories, phantoms repressed for more than a third of a century, begin to stir. I can almost hear the rhythm of surf on distant snow-white beaches. I have another drink, and then I learn, for the hundredth time, that you can't drown your troubles, not the real ones, because if they are real they can swim. One of my worst recollections, one I had buried in my deepest memory bank long ago, comes back with a clarity so blinding that I surge forward against the seat belt, appalled by it, filled with remorse and shame.
I am remembering the first man I slew.
There was this little hut on Motobu, perched atop a low rise overlooking the East China Sea. It was a fisherman's shack, so ordinary that scarcely anyone had noticed it. I did. I noticed it because I happened to glance in that direction at a crucial moment. The hut lay between us and B Company of the First Battalion. Word had been passed that that company had been taking sniper losses. They thought the sharpshooters were in spider holes, Jap foxholes, but as I was looking that way, I saw two B Company guys drop, and from the angle of their fall I knew the firing had to come from a window on the other side of that hut. At the same time, I saw that the shack had windows on our side, which meant that once the rifleman had B Company pinned down, he could turn toward us. I was dug in with Barney Cobb. We had excellent defilade ahead and the Twenty-second Marines on our right flank, but we had no protection from the hut, and our hole wasn't deep enough to let us sweat it out. Every time I glanced at that shack I was looking into the empty eye socket of death.
The situation was as clear as the deduction from a euclidean theorem, but my psychological state was extremely complicated. S. L. A. Marshall once observed that the typical fighting man is often at a disadvantage because he “comes from a civilization in which aggression, connected with the taking of life, is prohibited and unacceptable.” This was especially true of me, whose horror of violence had been so deep-seated that I had been unable to trade punches with other boys. But since then life had become cheaper to me. “Two thousand pounds of education drops to a ten rupee,” wrote Kipling of the fighting on India's North-West Frontier. My plight was not unlike that described by the famous sign in the Paris zoo: “Warning: this animal is vicious; when attacked, it defends itself.” I was responding to a basic biological principle first set down by the German zoologist Heini Hediger in his Skizzen zu einer Tierpsychologie um und im Zirkus. Hediger noted that beyond a certain distance, which varies from one species to another, an animal will retreat, while within it, it will attack. He called these “flight distance” and “critical distance.” Obviously I was within critical distance of the hut. It was time to bar the bridge, stick a finger in the dike — to do something. I could be quick or I could be dead.
My choices were limited. Moving inland was inconvenient; the enemy was there, too. I was on the extreme left of our perimeter, and somehow I couldn't quite see myself turning my back on the shack and fleeing through the rest of the battalion screaming, like Chicken Little, “A Jap's after me! A Jap's after me!” Of course, I could order one of my people to take out the sniper; but I played the role of the NCO in Kipling's poem who always looks after the black sheep, and if I ducked this one, they would never let me forget it. Also, I couldn't be certain that the order would be obeyed. I was a gangling, long-boned youth, wholly lacking in what the Marine Corps called “command presence” — charisma — and I led nineteen highly insubordinate men. I couldn't even be sure that Barney would budge. It is war, not politics, that makes strange bedfellows. The fact that I outranked Barney was in itself odd. He was a great blond buffalo of a youth, with stubby hair, a scraggly mustache, and a powerful build. Before the war he had swum breaststroke for Brown, and had left me far behind in two inter-collegiate meets. I valued his respect for me, which cowardice would have wiped out. So I asked him if he had any grenades. He didn't; nobody in the section did. The grenade shortage was chronic. That sterile exchange bought a little time, but every moment lengthened my odds against the Nip sharpshooter. Finally, sweating with the greatest fear I had known till then, I took a deep breath, told Barney, “Cover me,” and took off for the hut at Mach 2 speed in little bounds, zigzagging and dropping every dozen steps, remembering to roll as I dropped. I was nearly there, arrowing in, when I realized that I wasn't wearing my steel helmet. The only cover on my head was my cloth Raider cap. That was a violation of orders. I was out of uniform. I remember hoping, idiotically, that nobody would report me.
Utterly terrified, I jolted to a stop on the threshold of the shack. I could feel a twitching in my jaw, coming and going like a winky light signaling some disorder. Various valves were opening and closing in my stomach. My mouth was dry, my legs quaking, and my eyes out of focus. Then my vision cleared. I unlocked the safety of my Colt, kicked the door with my right foot, and leapt inside.
My horror returned. I was in an empty room. There was another door opposite the one I had unhinged, which meant another room, which meant the sniper was in there — and had been warned by the crash of the outer door. But I had committed myself. Flight was impossible now. So I smashed into the other room and saw him as a blur to my right. I wheeled that way, crouched, gripped the pistol butt in both hands, and fired.
Not only was he the first Japanese soldier I had ever shot at; he was the only one I had seen at close quarters. He was a robin-fat, moon-faced, roly-poly little man with his thick, stubby, trunklike legs sheathed in faded khaki puttees and the rest of him squeezed into a uniform that was much too tight. Unlike me, he was wearing a tin hat, dressed to kill. But I was quite safe from him. His Ari-saka rifle was strapped on in a sniper's harness, and though he had heard me, and was trying to turn toward me, the harness sling had him trapped. He couldn't disentangle himself from it. His eyes were rolling in panic. Realizing that he couldn't extricate his arms and defend himself, he was backing toward a corner with a curious, crablike motion.
My first shot had missed him, embedding itself in the straw wall, but the second caught him dead-on in the femoral artery. His left thigh blossomed, swiftly turning to mush. A wave of blood gushed from the wound; then another boiled out, sheeting across his legs, pooling on the earthen floor. Mutely he looked down at it. He dipped a hand in it and listlessly smeared his cheek red. His shoulders gave a little spasmodic jerk, as though someone had whacked him on the back; then he emitted a tremendous, raspy fart, slumped down, and died. I kept firing, wasting government property.
Already I thought I detected the dark brown effluvium of the freshly slain, a sour, pervasive emanation which is different from anything else y
ou have known. Yet seeing death at that range, like smelling it, requires no previous experience. You instantly recognize the spastic convulsion and the rattle, which in his case was not loud, but deprecating and conciliatory, like the manners of civilian Japanese. He continued to sink until he reached the earthen floor.
His eyes glazed over. Almost immediately a fly landed on his left eyeball. It was joined by another. I don't know how long I stood there staring. I knew from previous combat what lay ahead for the corpse. It would swell, then bloat, bursting out of the uniform. Then the face would turn from yellow to red, to purple, to green, to black. My father's account of the Argonne had omitted certain vital facts. A feeling of disgust and self-hatred clotted darkly in my throat, gagging me.
Jerking my head to shake off the stupor, I slipped a new, fully loaded magazine into the butt of my .45. Then I began to tremble, and next to shake, all over. I sobbed, in a voice still grainy with fear: “I'm sorry.” Then I threw up all over myself. I recognized the half-digested C-ration beans dribbling down my front, smelled the vomit above the cordite. At the same time I noticed another odor; I had urinated in my skivvies. I pondered fleetingly why our excretions become so loathsome the instant they leave the body. Then Barney burst in on me, his carbine at the ready, his face gray, as though he, not I, had just become a partner in the firm of death. He ran over to the Nip's body, grabbed its stacking swivel — its neck — and let go, satisfied that it was a cadaver. I marveled at his courage; I couldn't have taken a step toward that corner. He approached me and then backed away, in revulsion, from my foul stench. He said: “Slim, you stink.” I said nothing. I knew I had become a thing of tears and twitchings and dirtied pants. I remember wondering dumbly: Is this what they mean by “conspicuous gallantry”?
PROLOGUE
The Wind-Grieved Ghost
The dreams started after i flung my pistol into the connect-icut River. It was mine to fling: I was, I suppose, the only World War II Marine who had had to buy his own weapon. My .45 was stolen and hidden by a demented corporal the day before we shoved off for Okinawa, and the battalion commander regretfully told me that there was no provision for such a crisis. He promised me the rifle of the first man to fall on the beach. Somehow unreassured, I bought a Colt from a supply sergeant who would never be close enough to the front line even to hear the artillery. The transaction was illegal, of course, but I had a receipt for thirty-five dollars, and afterward I kept the gun. It lay, unloaded and uncleaned, in the back of a file cabinet for twenty-three years, until Bob Kennedy was killed. Then, on impulse, in a revulsion against all weapons, I threw it away. That, I thought, severed my last link with the war. Kilroy, for me, was no longer there.