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Black Hours. A mile ahead something was happening. The early waves were not hitting the beach as they should. A control boat sped up and its officer shouted : "You'll have to go in right away as soon as I can get a boat for you. The shell around the island is too shallow to take the Higgins boats." The news was chilling. It meant something dimly foreseen but hardly expected: the shallow coral reef around Betio would bar landing save by special small, steel-plated boats, of which there were all too few, or by wading.
A small boat came alongside Correspondent Sherrod's party. An officer said: "Half of you men get in here. They need help bad on the beach." Jap shells began peppering the water. Major Rice and 17 men scampered into the small craft, which headed for the beach through a barrage of mortar and automatic-weapon fire. The Higgins boat milled around for another ten minutes, getting its share of near-misses. One Marine picked a half-dozen pieces of shrapnel from his lap, stared at them. Another said: "Oh God, I'm scared.
I've never been so scared in my life." Two more small boats, disabled, passed.
The officer of a third offered to take the remainder of the Higgins boatload as far as he could. As the men shifted, they saw another craft half a mile ahead puffing smoke, saw figures jumping over its side into the water. By now the Marines real ized that this was going to be a landing, if any, in the face of enemy machine guns.
Said the wild-eyed small-boat boss : "It's hell in there. They've already knocked out a lot of boats and there are a lot of wounded men, lying on the beach from the first wave. They need men bad. I can't take you all the way in because we've got to get back out here safely and get some more men in there quick. But I'll let you out where you can wade in." The men crouched low. The little vessel was loaded with silent prayers.
Then the boat boss said: ";From here on you can walk in" The men in the boat, about 15 in all, slipped into neck-deep water.
Bloody Hours. Five or six machine guns were concentrating all their fire on the group. Any one of the 1 5 would have sold his chances for an additional $25 on his life insurance policy. There were at least 700 yards to walk slowly, and as the waders rose on to higher ground, they loomed as larger and larger targets. Those who were not hit would always remember how the bullets hissed into the water inches to the right, inches to the left.
After centuries of wading through shallowing water and deepening machine-gun fire, the men split into two groups. One group headed straight for the beach. The other struck toward a coconut log pier, then crawled along it past wrecked boats, a stalled bull dozer, countless fish killed by concussion. Those who got ashore did not know just how many of the 15 had been lost — probably three or four.
Near the landing point, a boat in on the first wave had stalled.