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chapter 2 June 30, 1943, to December 27, 1944 With the Ninth Defense Battalion on Rendova, New Georgia, and Guam; the deactivation of the Ninth’s 155 mm Group; Christmastime in Hawaii It rained that night, June 30, 1943. I slept fitfully until near 2:00 a.m., when I dressed and reported to the bridge for watch. There was some excitement among the personnel topside. Ten minutes before my arrival, one of our Ninth Defense radar operators, a boy who had been in my replacement company, had jumped overboard. He was one of those sleeping on deck. The man next to him said that he had noted signs of a nightmare . Suddenly, the boy jumped up from his cot and fell on the wet deck. He rose again and vanished over the guard wire into the dark ocean. The skipper, who had been summoned to the bridge, figured that the unfortunate lad must have been caught by one of the screws, for on an LST, there is a propeller near each side of the blunt stern. We heard, too, rumors that one of our troopships had been lost to a torpedo. (It developed later that the USS McCawley had overstayed the deadline in the Rendova area and had been sunk in the darkness by our own torpedo planes.)1 Lieutenant Jacoby relieved me at 0400, and I went below for an early breakfast of steak and potatoes. As dawn greeted us, the weather cleared and we could distinguish the Munda shoreline on the starboard side and Rendova to port. Destroyers were ranging along the New Georgia coast. Squadrons of fighters circled overhead. In fact, everything appeared under control. Our LST, the second in line, moved through the narrow pass in the reef line, its deck crowded with vehicles, radars, and men. We headed for the narrow strip of sand in Rendova harbor, at which the lead ship had already pulled up almost under the leaves of the palms on the plantation.2 There was scarcely room enough for the two ramp doors of the two LSTs to be let down, side by side. Two of our 155s were on each of the ships. 29 Donner text.indb 29 3/28/12 10:35 AM 30  pacific time on target My job was to assist in directing the unloading. A series of mishaps, mechanical in nature, delayed us from the start. Two tractor batteries had quit, and the elevator from the LST’s tank deck to topside jammed. We had just succeeded in working out a smooth operation when, about noon, a siren gave three long blasts. I was on shore at the moment, designating a spot to place materials. The enlisted men busily working in the hold fled from the ship at the sound of the alarm and sought cover in the plantation. The Jap planes did not get through our fighter protection, but it took twenty minutes or more to round up the men and bring them back to work on the ship. When I had seen them run, not knowing how close the danger might be, I had a panicky moment and flattened myself beside a fallen palm. During the next two raid warnings, we stayed on the ship where we were and tried to command the men to go on with their unloading. Some did, and some fled each time. The bulk cargo toward the rear of the LST had been horribly stowed. Puddles of burlap bags, barbed wire, and iron pickets had broken and tangled with everything. But with all of us sweating and clawing at that pile until sundown, we managed to unload everything of first importance . The 155 mm ammo, at 95 pounds per round, and the 90 mm stuff were all manhandled. I left the LST as it pulled out from shore and tried to follow the coral road through the plantation, knowing that the battery should by now be emplaced a mile or so away. The road had been churned into a sea of mud, in which weapons carriers and tractors were sunk to their hoods. The men who had been unloading were to remain at the beach under command of a warrant officer. I was virtually alone until I arrived at one of our 90 mm AA batteries. There I found Captain Box, who said that we should spend the night there, as there was no one who knew the trail to Able Battery. I readily agreed, being dead tired...

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