Excerpt from my book “Letters from the dead–Guadalcanal”

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Chapter 48
Wednesday, September 9, 1942, Truk
At first light, a large convoy of fifty ships slipped out of Truk harbor. Yamamoto had taken personal command of the force. He was tucked comfortably in his opulent stateroom aboard his flagship. He had boarded the previous evening, and was still sleeping as the ships set a course for Guadalcanal.
Over the years he had seen that complex plans often led to defeat. Hence, the orders issued just before he left his shore headquarters were the picture of simplicity. 1) Keep the location and movements of the Japanese carriers unknown to the enemy. 2) Make initial air assaults against the enemy as strong as possible. The convoy was to be given the strongest air cover possible with Zeroes from Rabaul. Yamamoto had insisted on air cover. He was not about to suffer Tanaka’s fate. His request had been quickly approved.
In addition to searching for the American carriers, he had the responsibility of providing bombardment support to General Kawaguichi’s attack to recapture Henderson Field to be launched in three days, on September Twelfth.
A mess man came into Yamamoto’s stateroom and turned on the lights. He wheeled in a large breakfast cart with trays under silver warming covers, the usual American breakfast Yamamoto enjoyed. Today he was having eggs sunny side up, a rasher of bacon, and wheat toast.
Yamamoto sprung out of bed when the lights were turned on. He always woke quickly, ready to address issues as if he had not been sleeping. He called for the captain to join him for breakfast. The captain had been on the bridge since they had left Truk a few hours ago. The captain wore his dress blue uniform, as he did every time he left port. He knocked on the bulkhead next to the hatch, and Yamamoto said, “Come in, Captain. Please join me for breakfast.”
The captain’s stomach turned when he saw the American dishes spread on the table. “Perhaps some tea, Admiral.”
The Admiral, playing the gracious host, poured cups of hot tea into blue and white Dresden china cups. He sipped his tea. “Tell me Captain, where are the American carriers?”
“Sir, if the coward Fletcher is in command, he will be just far enough to remain out of reach of our planes. It is uncanny how he remains out of reach. I suspect he is somewhere off of the southeast coast of Guadalcanal. What has worked for him in the past, he will continue to use the same tactics. He is not a very bright admiral by our standards, sir.”
Yamamoto chuckled, “I agree with you captain, the American carriers are off to the southeast. I am not so sure I agree with you regarding Fletcher’s mental faculties. He has stayed one step ahead of all of our efforts to sink his carrier out from under him. Perhaps his luck has run out.” He asked after the captain’s family as dictated by politeness.
The captain answered briefly, and took the switch in subjects as a polite dismissal. He bowed to the admiral and said his presence was needed on the bridge.
Admiral Yamamoto took off his silk kimono and entered the bathing area off his stateroom. He had had a hot tub installed. He dropped slowly into the hot water, and leaned back. The steam rose from the water, covering the room in a dense fog. He lounged in the water for an extended period of time, trying to put himself in Fletcher’s shoes. Where would he strike from? His thoughts turned to the waters off of the southeastern tip of Guadalcanal. Yes, that is where he will come from. Yamamoto had a slight smile on his lips. He rose from the steamy water and put on a cotton robe. He returned to his stateroom for a massage, before he dressed and moved up on the bridge.
At midmorning, Edson left the wharf where he had said goodbye to the officers of the Raider Battalion he had most recently commanded. The raiders were moving back to Tulagi, from which they had left to participate in the assault on Tasimboko. He missed these comrades already. He left the docks and went to First Division headquarters. Vandegrift had asked his advice on the placement of the Fifth Marines in the defense perimeter.
Edson stood at the map with Gerald Thomas. Thomas asked, “Red Mike, where do you envision the main attack will come from?” He used the nickname Edson had affectionately been called by his men in the Raiders.
Edson stood over the map deep in thought. Vandegrift moved over to the map table and silently watched the discussion taking place. Vandegrift looked at Edson. Edson was one of his most intelligent senior officers. He was happy to have him as a regimental commander. Edson was leanly built, with the movements of a cat. When he smiled, his eyes didn’t. He was very quiet and reserved.
Edson traced his fingers over the map, following the perimeter around the airstrip. His forefinger came to rest on the grassy ridge south of the airstrip. “This looks like a likely approach. If I was attacking the field that is where I would come from. That is where I would like to put the Fifth.”
General Vandegrift looked a bit uncomfortable. “I hope you are wrong Colonel Edson. I just finished moving the division headquarters on the back slope of that ridge. The airstrip seemed to have a big red bull’s eye over it. When the Japs bomb us that is where the bombs fall. I thought I was making a smart move, taking the headquarters out of harm’s way.”
“I hope I’m wrong General, but that is where I would like to put the Fifth.”
“Go ahead Red, if you are right, the attack will come in my own back yard, and there is no one I would rather have protecting my back yard than you.”
Shortly after 2100, Weatherby was visiting the squad’s foxholes one at a time, insuring the men were ready to get through the long night ahead of them. He had slept very little since Rousselow died. Now he visited his men throughout the night to see that they were alert. He came to Fortune and Groves hole. “Hey, you guys ready for the night? Who’s on watch first?”
Fortune yawned and pointed at Billy.
“I’m stuck with it, Sarge,” said Groves; a smile flitted across his face. Weatherby barely saw the smile in the darkness.
“Stay alert, Billy, the Japs may want to pay us back for Tasimboko. I am—.” As if on cue, shelling interrupted them.
“Lord, they are coming!” said Groves jumping, and aiming his BAR across the dark river.
“Hold it Groves, don’t get your tit in a ringer,” said Weatherby. He listened to the shelling. He saw the bright light from the explosion and began counting. It took ninety seconds before the sound of the explosion reached them. He did a quick calculation. “That stuff is about eighteen miles away.” A few minutes later word reached them three Jap cruisers were bombarding Tulagi.

Thursday, September 10, 1942, Ridge South of Airstrip, Guadalcanal
The Fifth Marines had breakfasted on soggy rice and dehydrated potatoes. At noon they marched to the ridge south of Henderson Field. They barely arrived when the air raid siren went off.
The men scattered and hit the dirt, but nothing happened. The all clear was sounded and the men, grumbling, went back to digging new positions on the crest of the ridge. Edson slowly moved down the line. He saw a small Iguana with a string around his neck. He laughed, and went up to the marine nearest the lizard. “This pet belong to you marine?”
The startled marine jumped to attention. He wasn’t used to colonels visiting him on the front line. “Sir, yes sir!”
In a gravelly voice the colonel continued, “At ease Marine! Have you trained it to bite Japs!”
The Marine relaxed a bit, but still stayed at “Oh, yes sir! Irving will not disappoint us if the Japs attack sir! He will go for their throat.” The young marine reached out and scratched the lizard along its backbone. He then took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat off of his forehead.
The Colonel said, “Pretty hot work, huh?”
“Not bad, sir!” The marine grinned, and the new regimental commander moved further down the ridge.
Edson glanced over at the new division headquarters to the rear of the ridge and smiled. The engineers had built the general a small house. It had screened-in windows, with a bedroom at each end, and an office meeting room in the center. He knew the general hated paperwork almost as much as he did. He smiled, then said quietly to himself, “Moving out to the tulles isn’t going to get you away from the paperwork, General; it will just make people walk further to deliver it.” He had seen the general sitting at his desk with a pained look on his face, like he had gas. The look always remained on his face as long as he sat at his desk. Edson hoped it wouldn’t get too hot for the general here. He would hate to see him get his tail feathers burned.
A macaw dropped a big white load at his feet, as if it was practicing to be a bomber. He looked up, “Missed me that time!” For some reason the macaws liked it on the ridge. It was peppered with little white presents; the men didn’t like that.
Friday, September 11, 1942, Japanese Strongpoint, West of Matanikau River
Oka looked at the men Captain Monzen had given him to beef out his assault force. They were a pretty pathetic looking bunch. Monzen gave him four hundred and fifty combat troops and twelve hundred construction workers. He watched as weapons were issued to the construction workers. It was obvious the way they held the rifles that many of them had never held one before. He worried that they would shoot themselves or someone else. He assigned every soldier in his command a group of construction workers to train quickly on how to shoot. It would be a big job.
Privates’ Misawa and Ishimoto combined the green troops assigned to them into one unit. They had twenty construction workers in their charge. It was the first time they had ever been in charge of anyone and they were being tough on their new recruits.
Masao Misawa strutted back and forth in front of the group, “It is obvious to me you are totally worthless to our Emperor! I want you to listen carefully while I again go through how to hit a target with your rifle, without endangering every Japanese soldier on this island. Private Ishimoto will be watching you carefully to help anyone that doesn’t understand what I am telling you.” He looked over the group with disdain. “Here is the safety…”
Just before noon, Private John Sashabaw and Pfc. Warren Olmstead were taking a break from digging their foxhole on the ridge. Olmstead looked over at the division headquarters and saw a Pfc. sitting in the entrance of the building typing away. “Hey, Sashabaw, there is the job we need, kinda cushy, bet that asshole hasn’t dug a foxhole since boot.”
He reached inside his pack and got a box of ration cigarettes. He opened the box, tapped out a cigarette and put it between his lips, letting it dangle. He lit it and took a drag, blowing smoke above his head. He took the canteen out of its cover on his cartridge belt, which was lying next to his pack and took a long swig. He handed it to Sashabaw who took a swig and handed it back.
Sashabaw looked over at the division clerk and said, “I bet he hasn’t forgotten how, besides, he probably had to help dig the bomb shelters for all the officers. No enlisted man gets off easily—as I see it.” He wiped the sweat off his face, and picked up his entrenching tool and again starting attacking the rock hard coral earth. “Now get off your ass and give me a hand here!” He tried to sound disgusted. He turned his face away from Olmstead and smiled, so his hole mate wouldn’t know he was just kidding.
The air raid siren again went off and they both dove into their foxhole which was now about three feet deep, not deep enough but better than nothing. This time it was no false alarm. High above Jap bombers dropped stick bombs, which rained down all along the ridgeline. Olmstead looked up and shook his fist at them. “You dumb shits, all you are hitting here is Privates! The airstrip is north of here. Drop your fucking bombs where they belong!” Word had gotten around that Edson put the Fifth here to get away from the bombing. He called it their rest area. “Some kind of rest area!” Olmstead mumbled, as the all clear sounded. Up and down the line the marines worked just a little harder to get their holes to a depth that would provide some protection from the bombs.
Admiral Turner showed up at 1300 for a visit at the new division headquarters. He looked to the south and saw men digging foxholes. He was wearing a gaudy bush hat and carried a bottle of Dewars in each hand. The clerk announced his arrival to the general who yelled, “Come on in, Admiral!”
Turner went into the office, “I see you have a whole regiment of marines personally guarding your headquarters. That’s a little much isn’t it?” He shook hands with his friend.
“Kelly where and the hell did you get that hat?”
Gerald Thomas, Vandegrift’s senior staff man joined them smiling.
“Traded with a coast watcher over on Tulagi; I had to give him a fifth of scotch!”
“He cheated your ass! I see you brought a little liquid refreshment, going to share?”
“Only if you quit making fun of my hat, General. So break out the glasses, you mean ole curmudgeon. I brought you a message from Ghormley, but you aren’t going to like it, Sunny Jim.”
The general put three glasses in front of Turner, took the message and read it, while Turner poured generous dollops of scotch in each glass. Vandegrift touched the glass to his lips and took a swallow while he read the message. “The Japs are amassing forces at Rabaul and Truk. My staff estimates they will launch a major assault on your position within the next three weeks. I find myself with inadequate naval forces to continue supporting operations on Guadalcanal. I would consider sending in the Seventh Marines to bolster your forces if you wish.”
Vandegrift shook his head in disgust. He then waved the letter at Thomas, who took it, read it and folded it up and put it in his front pocket, where it was destined to stay for the rest of their time on the island.
“I wouldn’t expect any less from Ghormley,” Vandegrift muttered. “He has been trying to pull the rug out from under this campaign since before it started.”
Turner walked across the room and put his elephant hat on a peg next to the door. He then walked back to the table and picked up his glass of scotch. Staring through the amber liquid for a moment, he then took a sip. “Vandegrift, I’m not inclined to take so pessimistic a view of the situation as Ghormley does. He doesn’t believe I can get the Seventh Marines in here. I still think you should deploy the Seventh in small groups all around the island and stymie Jap attempts to reinforce by having a reception committee wherever they try to land.”
Vandegrift looked at Thomas and raised his eyebrows, “Quaint notion, but I believe they should be put ashore at Lunga Point where we really have a weak point.” They talked back and forth until dinner. They reached no consensus on the Seventh Marine issue. Several of Vandegrift’s staff came in for various reasons; none willing to admit the Dewars drew them. Each man in turn was asked to have a drink, which they readily agreed to.
The general’s cook staff prepared beef tips over rice, using rice from the recent battle for Tasimboko. It had very few bugs in it. Several members of the press joined the two for dinner.
One of them asked Turner how long he thought the marines would be on the island.
“Marines will be on the island for a long time, and it will definitely get worse before it gets better.”
The two senior officers stayed with the press for about an hour after dinner, and then retired to the general’s new quarters. They cracked the seal on the second bottle of Dewars, had a drink, and retired early.
Turner sat down on his cot and removed his shoes. He set the bottle of Dewars on the floor next to his bunk and lay back on the cot, adjusting the green mosquito netting over the cot. He quickly fell into a deep sleep without removing his uniform. The last sound he heard as he drifted off to sleep was the buzzing of the thousands of mosquitoes trying to get through the mosquito netting.
Taps was sounded. Shortly after the bugles fell silent and the camp became quiet, they were awakened by the sound of naval gunfire and the answering fire from shore batteries on the beach.
The general and the admiral ran to the bunker outside the headquarters building, with the admiral grabbing the half-empty bottle of Dewars on the way out. Sitting in the bunker barefoot, the admiral took a pull on the bottle and handed it to the general. “Vandegrift, what are you shooting at? Those are not Japanese guns. They are U. S. Navy five inchers. I know them well. I have to bring all this ammunition in here, and I don’t want to see it wasted.” Just then a salvo struck the headquarters area. The ground shook under their feet.
“Well, Kelly, either your sailors are terrible shots, or those are Japanese ships shooting at us!”
“Yeah, well I guess you better keep shooting back, in case I am wrong about those being five inchers.”
Japanese patrols brushed the front of the Fifth Marines. Pfc. Olmstead fired several rounds at the enemy who flitted across the front of his position, “Some kind of goddamned rest area!” Sashabaw heard him say, as they both continued to fire at the elusive enemy soldiers.
Artillery and mortar fire had been called in to their front. The explosions lit the area, making the Japanese more visible. Rifle and machine gun fire rose as more enemy came forward. Japanese officers remained in the rear, plotting very carefully the American positions by spotting their muzzle blasts.

Chapter 49
Saturday, September 12, 1942, First Division Headquarters, Guadalcanal
At 0630, Turner woke from a deep sleep. He was groggy but knew that when the fog cleared he would be refreshed. He whistled quietly as he pulled on his shoes. He scratched his armpit, frowned, wondering if he had gotten lice already. He figured he would check it out with the doc as soon as he got back on the ship. The admiral groaned as he rose to his feet. Oh, for the days when your body didn’t feel every ache and pain. The cot had not been good for his back. He muttered to himself, “Boy am I glad I joined the navy.”
`He grabbed his kit bag and went outside. He moved to the rear of the building and found a lister bag hanging from a tree limb. He found a helmet hanging on the tree and poured it full of water. He removed his khaki shirt and undershirt, and washed his upper body thoroughly, drying with one of the rough green towels hanging on the drying rack. He then shaved in the little metal mirror tacked to the tree, and wiped off the remains of the soap. He whistled the whole time. He decided that if the old curmudgeon wants the Seventh Marines delivered to the North Pole, he guessed it was his job to get them there. At least Lunga Point was closer. He smiled.
The general and the admiral walked down to the mess tent at the airstrip for breakfast. The air was redolent with the smell of strong coffee.
“Just what the doctor ordered,” quipped the admiral. They got mess trays and went through the line. They saw Gerald Thomas sitting at a table alone and went to join him.
Thomas looked up, “How’d you sleep Admiral?” Thomas had already finished his breakfast and was just lingering over coffee. He took another sip.
“I got by. Good thing I had the mosquito netting. It sounded like there was a squadron of B-17’s flying around my cot.”
“Yeah, they grow them big here. All the insects are big, except for those little red fire ants. Those are mean little critters.”
“Rumor has it that they would kill ya if you couldn’t get away and there was enough of ‘em.” He looked at the general. “Where do you want the Seventh?” He took a deep breath, resigned. “When I bring the Seventh in I will land them where you want.”
With a smile Thomas pointed at the shore some three hundred yards to the north, “Right there Admiral, inside the perimeter.”
Turner jotted it down in his notebook, and beckoned for a runner to take it to be transmitted. “I still think my dispersal idea has merit.”
He shook hands with the two marine officers and then went down to the dock to board his launch to return to the McCawley.
Vandegrift left the mess tent, put on his pith helmet and wandered over to the Pagoda. Inside he found General Geiger sipping coffee at a table. A clerk sat at the field desk just inside the door typing reports. Vandegrift went over to the coffeepot and poured a cup, joined Geiger at the table and sat opposite his old friend. He crossed his legs, left over right. “Roy, I got a message from Ghormley yesterday. The pessimistic bastard says the Japs are massing for an attack, estimating it will happen within three weeks. To top it off, the asshole says he can’t spare any more navy forces. He is leaving us to flap in the wind. But I’ll tell you something; we are staying come hell or high water. We’ll take to the hills if we can’t hold the perimeter.”
Geiger listened in silence. He then reached across the table and clamped his hand on Vandegrift’s shoulder. “Archer, if we can’t use the planes back in the hills we’ll fly them out, but whatever happens I’m staying here with you.”
The day passed slowly. Vandegrift spent it bringing in the commanders of his perimeter one by one, sharing the latest assessment and looking at the strength and disposition of men. The long and short of it was that the marines were stretched across too broad an area, but their morale was high. All his marines were in place. Every gun was committed. His meetings went on. As the afternoon light faded into dusk, then darkness, his orderly arrang