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What REALLY Happened on Here in 1945 | Dark Docs | YouTubeToText
YouTube Transcript: What REALLY Happened on Here in 1945
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The Battle of Sugar Loaf Hill during the Okinawa campaign exemplifies a brutal, attritional fight where a seemingly insignificant geographical feature became a pivotal and devastating obstacle, ultimately costing immense casualties for a hard-won strategic victory.
On April 1st, 1945, 180,000 Americans, the largest force in the Pacific, stormed the beaches of
Okinawa expecting a bloodbath. Just 360 miles from Japan's home islands, this was the final stepping
stone before the invasion of Japan itself. The landing craft ground into the sand. Marines
surged forward into waist-high surf, rifles raised, braced for machine guns and mortars.
They found nothing but silence. Vice Admiral Turner radioed Pearl Harbor:
"I may be crazy but it looks like the Japanese have quit the war."
But the Japanese hadn't quit. They'd given away the beaches because they didn't need
them. They'd simply chosen a tiny hill, barely fifty feet high, to become the bloodiest ground
in Marine Corps history. The Road to Okinawa
By March 1945, the U.S. was closing in. The Philippines were retaken, Iwo Jima had fallen,
and Japan’s empire was crumbling. Only one major obstacle remained before the home islands—Okinawa.
Just 360 miles from Kyushu, Okinawa placed American bombers within easy reach of southern
Japan. It offered a launchpad for Operation Downfall, the planned invasion set for November,
and threatened to sever Japan’s last supply lines from Southeast Asia. The island had to fall.
Planners chose Okinawa’s Hagushi beaches for the main landing. The surf was calm,
the terrain inland was open, and two vital airfields sat just a mile from
shore. If armor moved fast, Okinawa could be the final stepping stone.
Every commander expected it to be another Tarawa or Peleliu. Men braced themselves for the worst.
At Ulithi, the final staging base, briefing officers gave no illusions.
Private First Class Eugene Sledge remembered the warning drilled into them: [QUOTE]
"This is expected to be the costliest amphibious campaign of the war. We will
be hitting an island about 350 miles from the Japs' home islands, so you can expect them to
fight with more determination than ever. We can expect 80 to 85 percent casualties on the beach."
The words hung in the air like smoke. Nobody said a thing.
To soften the landing, U.S. battleships and carriers opened fire on March 24. Over 27,000
shells and waves of bombs tore into Okinawa’s southern coast. The bombardment was deafening,
constant, and for the Japanese defenders, psychologically shattering.
But for all the fire and steel, much of Okinawa's defenses remained untouched.
The defenders had simply pulled back, waiting for the Americans to come to them.
The Trap at Shuri
On the other side of the island,
Lieutenant General Mitsuru Ushijima wasn't trying to stop the Americans at the beach.
The 57-year-old commander of Japan’s 32nd Army, a veteran of Burma and former academy instructor,
knew Okinawa would fall. Japan lacked the air and naval power
to stop it. But he vowed to make the Americans pay for every inch.
Southern Okinawa was a fortress. Steep ridgelines, jagged coral outcrops, deep ravines,
natural caves, and ancient tombs offered ideal terrain for layered defenses. Ushijima turned this
natural maze into a network of fortified lines anchored on the ancient Ryukyuan capital, Shuri.
Three defensive belts stretched from coast to coast. The western flank curved toward Naha and
the China Sea, while the eastern flank ran past Yonabaru. From the ridges surrounding
Shuri Castle, artillery observers could see every approach and call in fire across the entire front.
Engineers honeycombed the ridges with tunnel systems and caves.
Ushijima had 100,000 men dug into the coral. Okinawa would fall. But not without a warning.
The Silence at Hagushi
On April 1, 1945, Easter Sunday coincided with April Fools' Day. The
Americans came ashore expecting a nightmare.
The assault force was the largest in the Pacific: 1,300 ships, 182,000 troops,
and a week of pre-landing bombardment. Landing ships carried Sherman M4A3 tanks
with 76-millimeter guns. Amphibious tractors churned through the surf,
loaded with Marines carrying M1 Garand rifles and 30-round magazines.
At 8:30am, the 1st and 6th Marine Divisions hit the beaches north of the Bishi River.
The Army's 7th and 96th Divisions landed south. Forty-two warships and 500 aircraft had prepped
the shoreline. Everything about the landing felt like the start of another slaughter.
Instead, they stepped into stillness.
No screaming metal. No sandspouts. Just the steady churn of water and the rustling of canvas packs.
Private Sledge didn't trust the silence. He and the other veterans
had seen enough to know the Japanese hadn't quit. They were hiding. Waiting.
Vice Admiral Richmond Kelly Turner, overseeing the landings from offshore,
sent an exuberant message to Admiral Chester Nimitz at Pearl Harbor: [QUOTE]
"I may be crazy but it looks like the Japanese have quit the war, at least in this sector."
Nimitz's reply came back: [QUOTE]
"Delete all after 'crazy.'"
By nightfall, 60,000 troops were ashore with tanks, supplies, bulldozers, and artillery.
The beachhead was 15 miles wide and five deep. Patrols moved across the island's narrow waist,
and by April 4, a Marine regiment had reached the east coast, cutting Okinawa in half.
Ushijima's forces in the north were stranded. Army units pushed north to finish them off
while the Marines swung south into what planners assumed would be mop-up operations.
Then, by the second week of May, just southwest of Naha, the Marines found what they had been
looking for: a hill, about fifty feet high, which looked to them like a sugar loaf.
It rose just 75 feet, narrow and dry, its slopes scattered with brush. It didn’t look like a
fortress, but it was. Beneath its surface, 2,000 Japanese troops under Colonel Seiko Mita were dug
in, linked by tunnels to Horseshoe and Half Moon Hills. Shuri Heights loomed just behind.
From the forward slope, Marines couldn't see the Nambu Type 92
heavy machine guns tucked just over the crest. From the flanks,
150-millimeter howitzers from Shuri Heights zeroed in on any movement. Anyone who reached
the summit found themselves silhouetted against the skyline—perfect targets.
Bunkers, mortar pits, and tunnel mouths opened into an attack cone.
Every shot was planned. Every approach was already covered.
The first wave went up. Most didn't come down.
Into the Teeth of Shuri
Marines charged across 200 yards of open ground, M1 rifles blazing.
Japanese defenders unleashed everything.The assault stalled 50 yards from the crest.
Some reached the summit. They couldn't hold it.
The survivors crawled back under covering fire from Sherman tanks,
their 75-millimeter guns pounding Japanese positions. But the tunnels and
caves absorbed the punishment. Within hours, the defenders had reoccupied every position.
Then again, and again, 50 Marines would advance,
15 would return. Each attack stripped away more men,
more strength. Platoons lost half their number on open ground before even reaching the hill.
For seven days, Sugar Loaf didn't just resist—it punished. Marines returned fire,
called in tanks, and rained shells. But nothing seemed to crack it.
What they'd thought was just a bump in the landscape turned out to be a crucible.
Sugar Loaf would not be taken in a single charge. It would have to be
paid for—inches at a time. Company G's First Assault
A fresh assault began in broad daylight on May 12. Captain Owen T. Stebbins led a
Marine company forward with Sherman tanks in support. For 900 yards,
resistance was light—then the hillside erupted.
From hidden trenches and ridgelines, mortars and machine guns opened fire. Two platoons were pinned
down instantly. Stebbins and First Lieutenant Dale W. Bair led the remaining 40 men toward the hill.
Marines advanced by rushes, one squad covering while the
other moved. But the Japanese defense was coordinated, relentless, and dug in deep.
They didn't make it 100 yards before 28 went down.
Stebbins took multiple rounds through both legs and dropped. Bair took command,
though his left arm was shattered by shrapnel before he could even issue an order.
He refused evacuation. Instead, he led the remaining Marines up the slope in
a desperate charge. The fighting was savage, close-quarters combat.
He reached the summit with ten Marines. Japanese soldiers charged from tunnel entrances.
Two more rounds hit Bair—one in the leg, one tearing into his lower back.
That night, the company had lost 140 men. Just 75 were fit to fight and Sugar Loaf still held.
The next morning, the regiment went up again. They reached the crest again. Artillery barrages
from Shuri's 150-millimeter howitzers and fresh counterattacks tore them off—again.
The pattern was set. Climb. Fight. Fall
back. Reset. Sugar Loaf wasn't a hill anymore. It was a grinder.
Four Days on the Hill
That day, they reached the summit three more times—each
time driven off by a withering crossfire from Horseshoe, Half Moon, and Sugar Loaf itself.
The attacks followed a brutal rhythm. At dawn, Marines would advance behind
a barrage of howitzer fire. The shells would lift, and the infantry would charge. Japanese
defenders would emerge from their caves and tunnels, firing everything they had.
When the day was over, only one squad was still alive and in position on the crest.
Corporal James Day led that squad.
Day was ordered to reinforce the summit. His squad clawed up the hill,
using shell craters for cover. They tossed grenades into cave mouths and
sprayed suspected positions with Thompson submachine gun fire.
They fought off a Japanese counterattack—40 men charging through smoke and shrapnel,
bayonets gleaming. Day's squad held the line, their M1 rifles cracking in eight-round clips.
They eliminated the attackers and stayed until ordered to withdraw. No support was left.
Shortly after, Major Henry Courtney pulled Day for reconnaissance to link with another
Marine regiment. That night, Day was ordered to join a different company for the next morning's
assault. It collapsed in minutes under concentrated fire from all three hills.
His squad was now seven Marines, cut off on the opposite slope. They
hunkered into a shell crater four feet deep, carved by a 155-millimeter shell.
That night, Day's position overlooked another Marine assault. When the Japanese counterattacked,
Day's squad opened fire, disrupting the response. Their muzzle flashes
revealed their position, but they kept firing to help comrades below.
Japanese soldiers infiltrated through the darkness, guided by American voices. Day's
men fought with grenades, bayonets, and fists. Five were hit. One by one,
Day carried them to aid, making multiple trips across sniper-swept ground.
By dawn, only Day and two men remained, including Private First Class Dale Bertoli.
The next day, another assault and counterattack. Day spotted Japanese
columns maneuvering through ravines. He and his men opened fire, breaking them up but not fully.
Needing firepower, Day left cover for a discarded M1919A1 machine gun. As he handed it over,
a mortar exploded nearby, mortally wounding one man and destroying the gun.
Day and Bertoli were alone.
They held for 24 more hours, cutting down patrols
and infiltrators. Ammunition nearly gone, a runner finally ordered them out.
They left Sugar Loaf littered with over 100 Japanese bodies.
As they limped back, artillery and naval guns opened up. Battleships fired 16-inch
shells onto the hill, followed by Marine Corsair napalm strikes.
Courtney's Charge
Meanwhile, on May 14, Major Henry Courtney led a separate assault
as two Marine regiments resumed their hammering of Sugar Loaf.
By midafternoon, two companies had reached the summit—but volleying fire from Half Moon and
Horseshoe once again tore into their flanks and forced them off the crest. The crossfire
was perfectly coordinated, with machine guns on each hill supporting the others.
Then came a late-afternoon assault by a Marine battalion. It stalled halfway up the hill,
leaving 44 Marines stranded under direct fire,
while over a hundred others were hit or pinned down on the open slope.
The wounded crawled into shell craters and called for corpsmen.
Japanese snipers picked off anyone who moved. The situation was desperate—the
Marines were trapped in a shooting field with no way forward and no way back.
From the base of the hill, Major Henry Courtney, the battalion's executive officer,
saw the situation and made a choice. This 28-year-old officer from Duluth,
Minnesota, had seen enough. As Courtney put it:
"When we go up there, some of us are never going to come down again. … but that hill's got to be
taken, and we're going to do it. I'm going up to the top of Sugar Loaf Hill. Who's coming along?"
There was no time to wait for reinforcements.
He radioed for mortar support, gathered volunteers, and started up with 44 Marines.
The climb was a nightmare. Japanese defenders had perfect observation of
every approach. Machine gun fire raked the slopes. Mortar shells exploded in
precise patterns. But Courtney's men moved like veterans, using every piece of cover.
They tossed grenades into caves as they climbed. The Mark II fragmentation grenades
had a four-second fuse and were lethal within a 15-yard radius. Cave mouths erupted in smoke
and debris. Once at the top, Courtney's men dug in with entrenching tools and bayonets.
They didn't have long. Japanese troops crawled toward the perimeter,
their grenades thudding into Marine positions.
Then, just after midnight, Courtney sensed a massed assault forming. He didn't wait.
He counterattacked.
It worked. The preemptive strike caught the Japanese
off guard and drove them back, temporarily.
Courtney kept pushing until a grenade exploded near him,
shrapnel ripping into his neck. The men dragged his body back and covered
it with a poncho. Only 15 Marines were still able to fight by dawn.
Then the enemy hit back.
Valor & Desperation
At 7:30am on May 15, Japanese troops charged the hill in a coordinated assault. The survivors
of Courtney's group couldn't hold. The Japanese rolled straight into the Marine lines at the base.
Hand Grenade Ridge, they called it. Marines threw thousands of grenades that day.
By nightfall on May 15, the Marine regiment had taken 60 percent casualties. Over 400 men in
one battalion were gone. The survivors held through another pounding night,
dug into dirt that now had no topsoil—only scars from shellfire.
The Relentless Assault
At 8:30am on May 16, the Marines launched
their fifth consecutive day of furious combat at Sugar Loaf.
One Marine regiment scaled parts of Half Moon Hill while another regiment hammered Sugar Loaf.
The assault began with a massive artillery barrage. 105- and 155-millimeter howitzers
pounded the hill for thirty minutes. Then the infantry advanced behind a curtain of steel.
A Marine battalion edged around Sugar Loaf's left flank late that afternoon,
aiming to surge up the slopes. The plan was to hit the Japanese from
an unexpected direction while other units attacked frontally.
Instead, they ran headlong into devastating artillery and machine-gun fire from Shuri
Heights, pounding their left flank and rear. The Japanese had anticipated this
move. Their artillery observers on the heights called in precise coordinates.
Shells bracketed the advancing Marines with lethal accuracy.
Four times they stormed the summit—and four times they were forced back.
The cycle repeated the next morning, but a break finally appeared in Ushijima's
defenses. After a crushing battleship bombardment—16-inch shells that carved
craters thirty feet deep—followed by carrier air strikes, Major General Lemuel C. Shepherd
moved one Marine regiment through a narrow depression east of Sugar Loaf.
The regiment split—one force attacking Sugar Loaf, the other Half Moon. The timing
was crucial. Both hills had to be taken simultaneously to prevent mutual support.
A company rushed Sugar Loaf's eastern slope and reached the summit,
only to be driven down by fierce counterattacks.
Captain Alan Meissner ordered a bayonet charge, and again they reached the top.
But the position was untenable. Japanese reinforcements poured
from tunnels and caves. The Marines were forced to withdraw after suffering heavy casualties.
Finally, late in the afternoon, Marines took the summit and repelled a counterattack.
They had fired all their ammunition and were down to throwing rocks. Exhausted and out of
ammunition after suffering 160 casualties, they had to yield the crest once more.
The Final Breakthrough
May 18 saw an intricate plan come together. Captain Howard L. Mabie,
commanding a Marine company, sent a diversionary attack on Half Moon
and Horseshoe Hills to draw enemy fire. While Japanese machine guns and mortars focused there,
a second Marine force backed by Sherman tanks hit Sugar Loaf's right flank.
They fired high-explosive shells directly into cave mouths and
bunkers. The rounds penetrated three feet of coral and concrete.
As the Japanese shifted defenders, Mabie dispatched a third group of
Marines and tanks around Sugar Loaf's left flank to its rear.
This was the key—hitting the hill from three directions simultaneously. Then,
80 men under First Lieutenant Francis X. Smith surged up the forward slope.
The final assault was a masterpiece of coordination. Smith's Marines advanced in small
groups, each covered by the others. They tossed grenades into every cave mouth and spider hole.
BAR gunners provided suppressive fire while riflemen advanced in rushes.
Reaching the summit, they rained grenades down on the Japanese while
Mabie's tanks fired point-blank from below. The 76-millimeter guns fired at maximum depression,
their shells exploding inside the hill's tunnel system.
The defenders faced a grim choice: abandon their positions through devastating Marine fire,
or launch banzai charges. One desperate group stormed from a cave with explosives strapped on,
only to be obliterated by machine-gun fire, igniting their satchel charges.
The explosion was tremendous—a chain reaction of TNT and ammunition that shook the entire hill.
The brutal seven-day fight for Sugar Loaf ended with the hill finally taken.
Marines suffered 2,662 casualties and 1,289 evacuated—nearly half the division’s strength.
Ushijima’s troops still harassed nearby hills, but Sugar Loaf held, breaking the Shuri Line.
Correspondent Elvis Lane called it: [QUOTE]
“The bloodiest triumph in Corps history.”
Taking Sugar Loaf shattered Japan’s western anchor,
signaling their defeat on Okinawa and clearing the way to the island’s capital.
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