Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: FRIDAY, August 18, 1995 TAG: 9508190003
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: A-15 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: HARRY M. BOWLES
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
Back in the States, I had been assigned to an Army engineer battalion and, after loading up our equipment on 4 LSTS (Landing Ship, Tanks), we sailed 7,300 miles from Seattle for 54 days toward an unknown destination.
When we landed on Ie Shima, a small island just off Okinawa, we could see shells exploding and units of our infantry advancing on a well-entrenched enemy. 4,700 Japanese soldiers eventually were killed on the island, and 149 were taken prisoner.
At the same time, our Navy was taking the worst beating in its history off Okinawa - 34 ships were sunk and more than 200 were damaged by the enemy's kamikaze attacks.
Before it was over, the Japanese introduced another terrifying weapon. Their bombers would release a bomb with a short wingspan and guided by a pilot. It was the world's first "guided missile" and, with its 2,650-pound high-explosive warhead, it was deadlier than the standard kamikaze fighter plane, which carried a 500-pound bomb. The Japanese called it Okha (cherry blossom). We called it Baka (stupid).
Although none of the eight U.S. and British carriers in the Okinawa area were sunk, all had been hit, and some were nothing more than floating hulks of twisted steel. (Years later, I read that 2,800 Japanese suicide planes were sent against our ships off Okinawa.)
Our hospital ship, the U.S.S. Comfort, was stationed well away from the other ships and, in accordance with the Geneva Convention, was well-lit at night with bright lights focused on the large red crosses. On the evening of my 19th birthday, a kamikaze plane dived onto the ship, killing 29 doctors, nurses and patients, and injuring 33 others.
While fighting still raged at one end of the two-mile by four-mile island, we were rushed to the other end to build an airstrip - an "unsinkable aircraft carrier." The first thing to be done was to clear the minefields. At least 1,000 250-pound aerial bombs were buried nose up in one minefield that measured 50 yards wide and one mile long.
When it became obvious to the enemy that we were building an airstrip (the most advanced U.S. airstrip in the Pacific), they bore in on us from their air bases in Japan, 370 miles away; from the coast of China, 340 miles, and from Formosa, 300 miles. The official records state that "in 104 days, we had 178 air raid alerts." Our island's defenses shot down 52 enemy planes, plus five probables, and damaged 28.
By every man working 12-hour shifts, day and night, with no time off, we completed the job, and eventually our island was loaded down with fighter planes: P-51 Mustangs, P-38 Lightnings, P-47 Thunderbolts, etc. The air raids continued, but because of our vast number of fighter planes, their bombers now came over only at night.
News of what was going on back home and in the rest of the world was hard to come by. We had been too busy working even to care very much - we didn't have radios or newspapers and most of what we had heard was by word of mouth. President Roosevelt died a week before we had landed. Ernie Pyle, the noted war correspondent, was killed the morning we landed, a few hundred feet from where we built the airstrip. Germany had surrendered - and now the news about the atomic bombing of a Japanese city, Hiroshima. Two days later, Russia declared war on Japan, and the next day another atom bomb was dropped on Nagasaki.
For the next few days there was mass confusion. The evening of Aug.. 12, I was standing around at the coral pit with some of my buddies when someone came running toward us shouting and waving his arms like a wild man.
"The war is over - the Japs surrendered."
He had heard the news when it came into headquarters and ran to tell us. We were all laughing, shaking hands and slapping each other on the back. Our anti-aircraft guns opened fire in wild celebration. It all ended in a few minutes, when the air-raid siren went off and all the lights on the island went out. We were stunned and cursed the enemy as we headed for our air-raid shelters. After a few minutes, the "all clear" sounded.
We learned the next day that shrapnel from our anti-aircraft shells had killed six of our men and injured 30, forcing the authorities to sound the air-raid alarm to bring things under control. Also, the news that Japan had surrendered was a hoax - someone entered it into the American Telegraph System and it spread worldwide.
On Aug. 14, Emperor Hirohito announced to the Japanese people by radio that Japan had been defeated. Upon hearing this, Gen. Douglas MacArthur ordered a Japanese delegation to fly to Manila on Aug. 17 to discuss the terms and arrange for the signing of a treaty. The deadline was ignored and treachery was again suspected.
Gen. MacArthur again issued an ultimatum. The Japanese were ordered to send a delegation to the island of Ie Shima (our island!) in a white plane with green crosses painted on it by noon, Aug. 19, or the war and the bombings of their cities would continue. The delegation would be transferred to an American plane that would take them to Manila.
When the time came, I borrowed a camera from my tent mate and walked to the airstrip. Two Japanese planes arrived, both white with green crosses painted over the "meat balls," as we called the "Rising Sun" emblem. As the first plane landed, everyone behind me cheered, and I took a picture an instant before the wheels touched the runway. It was 12:44 p.m., Sunday, Aug. 19, 1945. As far as everyone on the island was concerned, World War II was over.
The delegation of 16 generals, admirals and civilian officials disembarked and were led to an American C-54, to be flown to Manila. The 12 crewmen stayed on Ie Shima to await the return of the emissaries. The treaty agreed on in Manila was signed two weeks later, Sept. 2, 1945, on the U.S.S. Missouri in Tokyo Bay.
Harry M. Bowles of Roanoke is a retired civil engineer.
by CNB