Stretcher-bearers walk upright through heavy Jap shellfire
Wounded reporter knows only fear when told he will live – rain impedes Iwo evacuation
By Keith Wheeler, North American Newspaper Alliance
Last of a series.
176TH ARMY STATION HOSPITAL, Saipan (Feb. 26, delayed) – I don’t know exactly when I began to believe I had a chance to live, but anyway when I did, it made a coward of me.
Probably it was when Lt. Cmdr. Howard S. Eccleston, the regimental surgeon on Iwo, succeeded in keeping a clamp on the artery the Jap bullet had severed in my throat. He pressed a dressing down on the oozing wound and, his face bent intently over me, counted my pulse while someone else I couldn’t see drove a needle into my arm and started plasma pouring into me.
I was still conscious and my mind was clear. It occurred to me dimly that I had a chance.
So long as I had thought I was dying, I was unafraid. Now gradually fear and nervousness grew in me.
Had pitied wounded men
I always had pitied wounded men who stared at their doctors with terrible intentness, asking whether they would live. And I always had thought if I were wounded, I wouldn’t ask – knowing that if it were a near thing one way or the other, the doctor would try to make it easy for me.
But anxious hope and resolution don’t mix. My right eye was drowned in blood but I stared at him with the other and croaked through my blood-filled throat, demanding what chance I had.
“You’re going to be all right now,” he said. It was what I wanted him to say, of course, but I didn’t really believe him. Nor fully disbelieve him either. I wished I hadn’t asked.
Starts to rain
“If you had to get hit, you couldn’t pick a better spot than this – five feet from the two best docs in the division,” Maj. John R. Jones’ voice said above me.
I lay and watched the clear amber level of the plasma going down in the jar somebody was holding above me, and I heard Maj. Jones telephoning for stretcher bearers. It began to rain and somebody folded a poncho around me and held a flap of it over my face.
And the earth still trembled and sand dribbled down the sides of the hole with the cadenced thudding of Jap shells.
Carried gently
I was feverishly impatient by the time the stretcher-bearers came, but I don’t really thing they took long. They lifted me out of the hole, holding my body gently all along its length, put me down on the stretcher and wrapped the poncho around me. The rain was heavier now, dismal and cold.
It was 500 yards to the beach through sand so soft and pitted with shell holes that it was practically a wading job all the way. The stretcher-bearers made it in three stages, stopping twice to change hands.
As we neared the beach, the shelling grew heavier and closer and by the time I saw the blackened prow of a wrecked Jap looming above me, we were moving through a roaring hell of sound.
Waits for boat
Upright, helpless, burdened by my inert weight, the stretcher-bearers trudged through the storm-like fury. A shell exploded so near that my upward-staring eyes saw the top of its plume of smoke and dirt.
Near the water’s edge, the shelling was so intense that we had to wait 20 minutes for a boat to come in. Cold and wet and sick, and by now nearly indifferent, I lay and listened to the shells, wondering whether I would lose now, having come so far.
While the shells crashed all around us, the stretcher-bearers lay close on either side of me, using their bodies to build a human foxhole for mine. They were strangers also; I’ll never know their names and if I did, there’s nothing I could do to thank them. It’s more than likely they’re dead or wounded by now.
The boat came at last and got out again safely through the barrage.