Decision on Corregidor

The Japanese landed before midnight, taking heavy losses while approaching Corregidor. Two American 75mm artillery pieces that had never fired opened an accurate and devastating fire, sending in round after shattering round, turning numerous barges into slaughter pens. Machine guns and small arms blazed away, sinking half the barges and slicing down men wading toward the sloping shore. The remaining big guns on Corregidor and the other fortified islands fired as rapidly as possible in accordance with defense plans drawn up weeks earlier, adding to the deadly mayhem. The Japanese, who had expected an easy landing, were shocked. Ed lay perched at the ragged edge of a shell crater atop a rise on Kindley Field’s western fringe, firing his Springfield at hundreds of Japanese troops struggling through the surf. Illuminated by flaming barges, the shadowy figures appeared as ghostly smudges in the dark night. An American searchlight snapped on for the briefest of moments before being shot out, but not before illuminating the enemy heading toward shore. Leuterio, at Ed’s side, fired his rifle over and over, pausing only to toss an occasional hand grenade when groups approached the cliff face below. Streams of bright tracer machine gun rounds sliced through the sky, guiding their aim. “My gun’s kicking like a mule,” shouted Ed as he worked the bolt on his Springfield. Leuterio barely glanced up, ramming clip after clip into his rifle, firing at the invaders gathering below. “Their strength is building,” he shouted. “It’s time to use the fragmentation bombs.” Ed nodded, emptied his rifle and edged toward the lip of the ridge. A dozen other Americans nearby madly worked the bolts of their Springfields, the enemy return fire increasing as more Japanese came ashore. A barge landed virtually unopposed about two hundred yards to the right, resisted by a few riflemen in foxholes among rocks behind the flat beach. They were far too few in number and he could see Americans advancing across Kindley Field to reinforce them. Armed only with small arms and grenades, with nothing heavier to fire, it looked like a chancy undertaking, given the number of Japanese, who were already pushing the riflemen aside and advancing onto the airstrip. There was no time to waste; Ed edged back and got down to business. With few planes to service in the course of the campaign, the stockpile of 25 lb. fragmentation bombs had been barely touched. Marines assigned to beach defense had figured out how to make profitable use of them and had scattered caches of the bombs along the cliffs. They instructed defenders to use chutes constructed from wood planks to plunge the deadly projectiles on the enemy below. Ed and Leuterio lugged a chute and two crates of bombs to just below the top of the ridge. Three others rushed over to help, bringing forward additional bombs. Ed wedged the chute into position and hollered, “Okay, boys, let’s give it to ‘em.” Leuterio positioned the first bomb and another tipped the chute frontward. The bomb slid forward in the “V” created by two planks, gathering speed, and plunged out of sight into the darkness. In a split second the night lit up with a flash of orange flame and a satisfying, roaring explosion. They grinned at each other. After weeks of being on the receiving end, it was a nice feeling to dish it out. “Let’s give ‘em one more then move over about twenty yards,” shouted Ed. Leuterio grabbed another bomb, screwed on a point detonating fuse and let her rip down the chute. Another detonation occurred. It felt great. They continued hurling bombs down on the Japanese invaders all along the ridge, emptying ten crates in the process. They must have killed and wounded dozens, though intermittent return fire continued. Several were wounded or killed by Japanese on the beach firing up from behind rock outcroppings. Suddenly, something whistled past Ed’s head, plowing into churned up brown dirt. He threw himself down. It was a Japanese sniper firing from the far right – one from the lightly opposed barge that landed earlier. The American counter-attack had sputtered out and Japanese were advancing across the northern edge of the strip, though resistance continued. Two machine guns held them up for awhile, but the Japanese, alternately crawling and rushing forward, put the guns out of action and forced a retreat all the way back to Monkey Point. “We’re getting outflanked,” whispered Ed to himself under his breath. He swung around and watched the Filipino and American defenders along the ridgeline firing their rifles and tossing grenades. They had put up a stout defense for the past two hours, not allowing the Japanese beyond the beach, exacting a huge casualty toll. But despite their stubborn resistance, the enemy now had a firm foothold on Corregidor and threatened to go farther. Leuterio crawled up, enemy small arms fire bursting around him into the soft dirt. “Sir, there’ve been several hits from the crossfire. We have to do something.” Ed scrunched up his mouth and ran a hand over his forehead. He looked down in disgust. “I know,” he said. Ed paused for a moment, reflecting on their suddenly exposed position. “We’ve got two choices; attack and be forced to fall back later or retire now while we have a chance. As soon as daylight comes, they’ll send over reinforcements.” Ed twisted around to gaze with profound sympathy upon the men scattered along the ridge. They had been through hell, enduring months of steady retreat, empty promises, starvation, and near-constant bombardment. Their firm resistance was a testament to their grit and determination, but he knew the effort was futile. Since the opening day of the war, the writing had been on the wall. The forces in the Philippines had become nothing more than symbols of resistance. America needed heroes during these dark days, he knew, but is that really what it had come to? Was that worth dying for? A jumble of questions cluttered his mind. If he were to order a counterattack, how many of the twenty or so men along the ridge would perish in the attempt? How many would be maimed for life? Wearing a scowl, he gazed at Leuterio. He knew whatever they could accomplish would do nothing to reverse the situation. They would kill more Japanese, but their small number could not hold against a counterattack. They would be annihilated. Ed rose up, his jaw set and eyes blazing fire. “Armando,” he said in the clipped voice of authority, “pass the word to fall back. We’ll reform at Monkey Point.” Leuterio took in a quick, sharp breath, staring back in astonishment. “Fall back, sir? What?” Ed had not undergone formal training as an infantry officer, but the last three months of on-the-job experience were of a great deal more consequence. The self-doubt that once existed had vanished. “Yeah, that’s what I said, Armando. We’re falling back.” “But, sir, if we move forward we might be able to drive them off.” Ed shook his head, frowning with exasperation. “Not with twenty men, we can’t.” He lowered himself down the ridge a few feet and looked toward the Japanese advancing across Kindley Field in ever increasing numbers. The formerly black sky was now becoming gray. Pinkish streaks glinted up from the horizon. The Japanese had set up several Nambu machine guns in shell craters and were hammering the American line at Monkey Point. Knee mortars they had carried ashore opened up seconds later, thudding explosions blossoming upward. “We better get moving or we’re gonna get cut off,” he said.