The latest U.S. amphibious landing at Angaur was made ten months after the first heavily opposed landing in the Pacific, at Tarawa. This dispatch from TIME Correspondent John Walker shows what Americans have learned, in those ten months, about such ugly jobs:
Up ahead the bulky, unmistakable shape of a battleship winks a bright orange light. Then the soft thudding slap comes over the water: that blinker was a 14-inch salvo. Cruisers, battlewagons and tin cans are standing in amazingly close to the shore, pounding away with all their guns. We knew the island was to catch some 12,000 rounds of projectiles, 5-inch or bigger. But that was just a statistic; now we see it. We hear the blast of the big guns and the ripping-silk sound of the heavy shells sailing to their targets. We see the warships with halos of yellow smoke and the bursts of fire and black smoke back of the beach.
Other boats are pulling into position. Soon the LST bow-gates yawn open and amphtracks and amphtanks pop out like young sea horses. All around the rim of sea you can see nothing but our ships while overhead spotter planes dip, circle and mark fire for the big guns.
Rockets and Planes. Through glasses we can see every detail of Red Beach. A line of LCLs has now moved up nearer, to deliver rocket fire. As the minutes tick by, the warship barrage is rising to a steady drumming. The concussions are uncomfortable. A very young, very redheaded ensign staring at the beach mutters: "If I was a Jap in there and I wasn't scared, I'd get scared now."
Suddenly the surface fire slackens as the air strike begins. Flights of carrier planes swoop in from the north: dive bombers circle in the sun and plunge down almost vertically to drop their crumps. Avengers roar in low and you can see strings of slim black bombs drop out of their bellies. They make fat, black mushroom patterns along the length of the target. Then Hell cats flash over, tearing the sky with heavy machine-gun strafing.
Big Guns. Now the planes are gone. The warships have moved in closer, firing a crescendo of destruction that makes anything before seem mild. We are only minutes away from starting the run. Now the LCLs ahead start to move in slowly, just ahead and to the left of the first wave of amphibious tanks. Those LCLs are firing like coked-up gangsters in a grade-B movie. Rockets go thump, thump, thumping out of them and bursting along the shore. The big rockets, taking off with a coughing roar, scorch the beach and plow up vegetation behind them. Many 20-mm. autoguns are hammering like runaway riveters and weaving red lines of tracer shells alongshore like thin angry fingers prying and poking into every patch that might shelter an enemy.
Now the LCLs have reached their prescribed point and halt in the water while we in our own rolling craft move on. We pass right through their line, reforming on the other side while they continue to pour fire over our heads.