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Opposition. There is nothing between us and Red Beach now and the twinkling, flaring, dancing explosions alongshore seem like an insane fireworks show. Two white fountains spring up in the water ahead and the commander snaps: "Here it comes. Mortars. Get down, dammit!" We duck hastily but nothing seems to drop close. Then there is the mean pinging of machine-gun fire and we duck again. Everything is firing now. Amphtanks are cracking vicious bursts. Our twin .50-cal. guns go off right over my head, almost knocking me flat. The .50-cal. at six inches is more impressive than the 16-incher at 100 yards.
We are within 200 yards of the beach. The bluff is pitted at the water's edge with limestone caves. We are getting sniper fire from there. Amphtanks roll on the final hundred yards with what seems maddening slowness. Then deliberately, clumsily, one of them chuffs up on the beach, swings and throws a shot to the left. The landing is made just one minute behind the schedule drawn up weeks or months ago.
Other iron turtles waddle up on the beach. Next in are amphtracks, and then the landing boats, loaded with troops who jump out, flatten themselves on the sand and start crawling up to take cover beside the shattered trees at the top of the beach. Mortar shells burst on the beach.
The ships' gunfire has been lifted now except for heavy salvos fired well inland, but a flight of Navy fighters zooms in, strafing back in the tangled undergrowth, and the mortars apparently go out of business, but the Japs still fire small arms.
For a moment the beach seems quiet as a line of men in greenish drab, herring bone-twill jungle uniforms moves over a rise in the background. Then a Jap pillbox at the extreme left of the beach coughs machine-gun fire. Two Americans drop, riddled, and other troops are pinned down momentarily. But an amphtank rolls into position 30 yards away, pumps shells into the pillbox, then stands guard.
Making Sure. Soldiers creep out along a coral limestone bluff at the left and shoot a Jap sniper in a cave. A few moments later a boat reports another in the cave. Our tender ghosts right up to the entrance and a young sailor in a skivvy shirt rips in three bursts from a Tommy gun, then yells back, "I think he was dead but I made sure." A young lieutenant from our portside tender had been hit. He stands very straight but he is streaming blood. A wounded soldier drags himself painfully along at the water's edge, trailing a shattered leg. An Army doctor gets a machine gun burst in the arm. Evacuated, he curses. For two years he had been getting ready to care for the wounded.
At the far left in an elaborate pillbox a Jap officer lay, half buried in rubble, naked without a visible mark on his body. But not all the dead were Japs. Curled behind a stump above and back of the beach was a young American. His uniform and pack were very neat and trim. Someone must have picked up his rifle. He was shot squarely between the eyes.
The official reports described the Angaur landings as without opposition, which I suppose is quite correct in a military sense, but I think the point is that the tremendous preparation never gave the opposition a chance. The landing is not the battle of course, and the dirtiest fighting just starts when the troops get ashore. But the technique U.S. forces have worked out for making landings good is an awesome thing to see.