Memories of Tarawa

Submitted by: Cary

It was low tide. The young man stood on the outermost shelf of the reef that protected this island paradise, the crashing waves behind him, the coral cliffs that supported the flat top of the island more than a hundred yards away and thirty to forty feet high. The reef itself was only eight inches below the surface of the water; waves didn’t make it to this point because of the deep drop off at the end of the coral shelf. He had carefully made his way to this vantage point, gingerly stepping around the many sink holes that would be hidden from view in more turbulent water. His eyes scanned the many scars and cracks on the face of the cliff, knowing that each mark was man- made, either with the picks and shovels of the defenders or the impact of high-explosive ordinance thrown from the invaders’ ships more than forty years in the past.

He searched and found the narrow slits at the tops of the cliffs, and followed them down twisted pathways to the narrow strips of dazzling white sand at the water’s edge. In his mind he replayed the words he had read – “…the landing craft ran aground on the reef… …as the ramps crashed down, we were sitting ducks for the Japanese guns in the cliffs… …I was the only one that made it to the beach from our LC… …they were dug in so deep we couldn’t get at them… …the water was red from the waves to the shore…” – and stood there, in the quiet summer sunshine, and listened to the ghosts of the Marines who had taken Tarawa.

He turned from the cliffs, and rejoined his fellow Marines as they regrouped at the base of one of the paths to the top. Pausing, they examined the shreds of leather that had been their boots before they stepped onto the knife-sharp coral shelf. The joking back and forth died down, replaced with the sobering realization of just what those young kids had faced in World War Two. Scrambling up the steep path, they found an opening into the warren of caves behind the cliff face. Moving from room to room, bent over double, they could see every inch of the defender’s territory from the base of the cliffs to the watery horizon. Idle kicking of the dust on the floor would turn up Japanese machine gun casings, bits of shrapnel, and the remains of cooking fires – signs of human occupation many years past.

Returning to the coveted airstrip, they boarded an older model cargo plane, ready to continue their flight back to the base on the island of Okinawa. The plane’s propellers strained against the wheel brakes as the engines were readied for the launch. Assisted by an auxiliary jet engine, the plane leaped back into the clear blue sky over the Sea of Japan.