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In November 1943, 21-year-old Private First Class Lupe Gasca waded slowly through chest-deep water, toward the small strip of coral clouded by dark gray smoke. Japanese bullets smacked the water to his left and right as he picked his way toward the only structure that looked as though it might offer some protection—a pier jutting out into the lagoon.

Eighty years later, the memories of that afternoon and the rest of his time at Tarawa remain fresh. His eyes fix on a scene that he still sees clearly in his mind. “I remembered two things I forgot to mention last time we talked,” Gasca said one afternoon in his Minnesota living room. “The heat, and the smell. The smell of death … I can still smell it right now. I’ll never forget that.” Now 101 years old, Gasca is one of the very last who remembers the battle for Tarawa.

Gasca joined the Marine Corps in 1942 from Albert Lea, Minn. The son of tenant farmers, Gasca’s young life was characterized by manual labor on farms during the Great Depression. He went to school on a part-time basis but frequented the local library and was especially enthralled by its collection of images of the First World War.

In the summer of 1934, Gasca had a chance encounter that would change the course of his life. While shocking wheat for a farmer, the farmer’s son returned home on leave from the Marine Corps. “He was wearing the khaki shirt with the blue trousers with the red stripe, and the white cap. And he sat and talked to us.” Gasca recalled. The Marine was serving on guard duty in Washington, D.C., and showed Gasca and the other children photos of himself in his dress blue uniform. Gasca had also seen photos of trench warfare in the library’s collection. “I had seen these guys fighting in the mud and everything. So, when World War II broke out and they started talking about recruiting, I said ‘well, I’m not going to join the Army, I’m going to go in the Marine Corps, because I’ll get the easy job. I’m not going to be crawling in the mud like those other guys.’ ” Gasca did join the Marines, and after completing his training, was assigned to 1st Battalion, 2nd Marine Regiment, refitting in Wellington, New Zealand.

In November 1943, 1st Battalion, 2nd Marines moved from New Zealand to the New Hebrides to practice beach landings, and then finally into position a few miles off the coast of Betio Island. Gasca had been assigned to a machine-gun team of 1st Battalion’s Company B, under the command of Captain Maxie Williams. The 1st Bn was assigned to be the regimental reserve. Even so, at about 2 a.m. on Nov. 20, Gasca and the other Marines of B/1/2 filed into the ship’s galley for their pre-invasion breakfast. Then they geared up, and after a long wait, Gasca climbed down the cargo nets and into the landing craft idling in the water below.

“It was just pitch dark as could be,” he remembered. “I could see the shadows of the other ships, and some Higgins boats already making their circles. And just as I got down on the Higgins boat, I heard this funny whistling noise, right over the top of us. It was a shell! I’d never heard anything like that.” As dawn broke, Gasca and his fellow Marines continued their long wait offshore in their landing craft, “circling and circling,” as Gasca recalled. The plan was for the brand-new amphib­ious tractors, of which there were precious few, to create a shuttle service, taking wait­ing Marines from Higgins boats across the reef to the beach. If all went according to plan, 1/2 would follow close on the heels of the Regiment’s 2nd and 3rd Battalions. “They said, ‘they’re land­ing and they’re going to come back,’ and so we were waiting for that 15 minutes it was supposed to take.” Gasca said. “It was hours before I finally got there.”

As they waited, the water rough from the wakes of the other craft, Gasca heard more artillery. “The Japanese got our spot, and they were concentrating on our group” he recalled, imitating the noise of the incoming fire. “To my left—and I could almost see the shell!—their cox­swain was hit and just disappeared.” Gasca watched helplessly as the Marines in that landing craft were thrown about, becoming casualties before even reaching the island. Even when the tractors finally did appear to complete the shuttle proc­ess, loading from the Higgins boat proved chaotic. In the confusion, Gasca and his gunner, Alfred Lewis, were left behind in the Higgins boat while their ammuni­tion carriers went ashore aboard the amtracs, separating them and leaving the two gunners with all of the ammunition, in addition to the gun and tripod they were assigned to carry.

By this time it was about noon, and the lieutenant in his boat ordered the coxswain to take the Marines ashore instead of waiting for another amtrac. “The guy took off and went, but pretty soon, the thing hit coral. And then, the ramp went down. We were still about 200, maybe 300 yards from the beach. And we were very lucky that when the ramp went down and we started walking, the water was only up to here.” Gasca remembered, drawing a line with his hand in the middle of his chest. “There were no holes. But what happened to some other people [and] tanks completely even—the ramp went down, and the unit went down. The Sailors dropping us off were just as green as we were, they didn’t know.” With their feet on solid coral, Gasca and Lewis began their long trek to shore. “When we got so far, Lewis and I looked at each other, and we headed for the pier.” The pier, a pre-war construction extending 1,000 yards into the lagoon to allow for commercial shipping, divided Red Beach 3 from Red Beach 2, and was neutralized in the morning by a scout sniper platoon under the command of First Lieutenant William Deane Hawkins, one of Tarawa’s Medal of Honor recipients. It offered slight protection for Marines on their harrowing journey ashore.

“We were walking, and we finally got along the pier. And every so often, they would spot us. But then they’d stop again, and they’d concentrate where there were a lot of guys coming in. So, we kept walk­ing.” Gasca recalled. “At that time, I’m just hoping I don’t get hit. When I got off of the Higgins boat into the water, there was no reason to be scared because there was nowhere to go but forward. Lewis and I weren’t even talking, we operated just on instinct.” The two Marines picked their way along the pier, careful on the rocks made slippery with the bodies of small fish killed by the concussion of the pre-invasion bombardment. Having made it to the beach, Gasca found chaos. “Final­­ly at the end of the pier was this coconut wall. All I could see was the wall and the sand, and in the open area a bunch of junk. You could see fire, smoke and everything, and there were maybe 150, 200 guys there,” Gasca recalled. “Who they were, I don’t know. Lewis and I didn’t know anybody. But we knew that our unit was supposed to be to the right, so we started heading that way.”

The two began to move along the wall, when suddenly Lewis was grabbed by an unknown Marine sergeant. “He said, ‘where the hell do you think you’re going? You can’t go over there! Look!’ and he pointed. And sure enough, there was just a layer of Marines, dead in what they call no man’s land.” Unable to locate anyone from their unit, Gasca and Lewis joined a platoon of Marines fighting from a section of Red Beach 2. “There was a bunch of debris, and I could see to the left the big bunker. I couldn’t see any of the enemy. They were underneath this debris and tin, and they could see us, and they were close,” Gasca recalled. “There must have been buildings there, because there were tin roofs on the ground, with coco­nut trees fallen over on top of them. It was just like being in a pile of junk. And we just kept firing at the tin.” The two Marines remained there, only about 30 feet inland, firing at an unseen enemy until night fell.

When daylight came, Gasca and Lewis continued moving towards where they believed Co B to be. Finally, at about midday, they found a Marine from their company, Wayne Barr. He told them that B Company was in a tank trap, located on Black Beach, across the narrow island. After waiting for an opportune moment to cross the gun-swept terrain, Gasca noticed four planes circling in the sky above. “Just like in the movies, the sun would hit the wings, and flash silver. And then they started coming down, they were dive bombers. And I can recall telling Lewis, ‘when the other plane comes straf­ing, we’re going to take off,’ and so we did. We ran across, and I jumped into the tank trap and just about landed on top of Maxie Williams.”

They were greeted by laughter from the Marines in the tank trap, who told them that as they ran, Japanese bullets were hitting the ground right behind their feet. Barr, however, was not so lucky. “As he got up and took his first step, a bullet hit him right in the neck,” Gasca recalled. “We didn’t know what had happened to him, just that he had probably gotten hit, because he never came back.”

At long last having rejoined Co B, Gasca continued to fight his way across Betio. He and Lewis spent the day providing suppressing fire for riflemen attempting to capture well-camouflaged and heavily defended fighting positions. “We couldn’t see anybody. They’d just tell us to fire, to pin them down while they were trying to go around a bunker,” Gasca recalled. “In one of those instances, the only guy that was there was our squad leader, by the name of [Private First Class] Arthur Wende. He was the only one from our squad, so he was directing us. There was a crater to the left of this bunker, and Wende said, ‘we can’t do anything here. I’m going to go to that crater, you keep an eye on me and I’ll give you the signal to move the gun to the crater, to fire on the other bunker.’ And he took off and ran to the crater,” Gasca said. “Just as he gets there—I can just see him—he gets his head up above the ground. And I can see the bullet hit his forehead. He stayed like that momentarily, and then fell, and was killed. Just like that … and I think that’s the only time I didn’t see Lewis grinning looking at me. And so we didn’t budge, we didn’t go. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”

The Marines continued fighting. An hour later, the two had another close call as a Japanese grenade landed next to their gun. It exploded, bending the receiver, but leaving the two Marines remarkably unscathed. The second day of battle con­tinued for Gasca much as the first had. Even as incremental advances were made, the enemy was largely unseen and well-fortified. Occasionally, enemy emplace­ments would be passed with the thought that they were neutralized, only to present active resistance again later in the day from occupants who had survived pre­vious assaults. Night fell on the second day, with Gasca and his fellow Marines still inside the tank trap.

On the morning of the Nov. 22, the Marines in the tank trap again made plans to neutralize the bunkers in their area. Gasca provided suppressing fire, enabling the riflemen to locate the source of the Japanese returning fire and successfully neutralize the position. The tenor of the fight had changed, advances were being made. “People were more relaxed, some of them were walking around” (as opposed to crawling for fear of being hit), Gasca remembered. But the island was far from secure.

Co B continued their advance along the island’s southern shoreline. “So now, it gets dark,” Gasca recalled. “We headed towards this other bunker, but there was no activity. Nobody shot at us. And so we got there, and made our dugout for the third night.” Gasca was standing watch, with his machine gun facing the water to guard against possible infiltration from the sea. “At about 11 o’clock, I thought I saw some movement at this bunker. Now before it got dark, I hadn’t seen any door there. But pretty soon, I saw a couple of other guys moving. I had a rifle right next to my machine gun, and I picked up the rifle and I fired. And I hit him.”

At once, it all broke loose. “Just as I fired on top of the bunker—which was high and covered in sand and debris—about 20 guys came over the top! They were firing at us, and I spun my machine gun around and opened up. I didn’t even fire a belt, I probably only fired about 15 seconds. All the other guys opened up with rifles and BARs and everything,” he recalled. “And about the same time that I was doing this, a hand grenade landed to my left and killed some of the guys, and that’s when I got hit. I felt warm from my legs, and tried to move, and I fell down. So that’s when I got wounded. I’ll never forget that.”

Gasca was taken to an aid station back by the tank trap, where he was patched up by corpsmen. The next morning, he was evacuated. “A jeep came over with a stretcher to take us, and they brought me back towards the beach, almost where I came in,” he recalled. “And the Higgins boats still couldn’t come in because there wasn’t enough water. So they put me on a rubber boat and took me out to where it was deep enough for the Higgins boat.” From there, the Higgins boat transported Gasca to the waiting ship. “The winch came down from the ship, and the guys in the landing craft put me in the wire basket. And I was just thinking ‘gee, I hope these baskets don’t drop.’ It hap­pened, you know, and you would sink.” Gasca made it aboard without incident and began his nine-day voyage back to Hawaii. Arriving at the hospital in Pearl Harbor, Gasca was greeted with a pleasant surprise. “The day I arrived in the hospital, I got into the [ward], and there he was, Barr! He was already walking, with a bandage around his neck. The bullet had gone through his neck, but he survived.”

Gasca underwent procedures to remove the shrapnel from his legs—without anesthesia—and slowly regained the ability to walk. He recovered in time to rejoin B/1/2 and fought with them for the rest of the war, surviving the campaigns on Saipan, Tinian and Okinawa. As a part of the occupation forces, he witnessed firsthand the devastation in Nagasaki. Finally, in late 1945, he returned home to Minnesota.

The Battle of Tarawa remains a defin­ing moment in the history of the Marine Corps. The brutality of the battle shocked the Ameri­can public, and the images produced caused scandal. Nearly 3,500 casualties in just 76 hours was a bitter pill to swal­low. Admiral Chester Nimitz, the com­mand­er of the U.S. Pacific Fleet during World War II, said the battle, “knocked down the front door to Japanese defenses in the Central Pacific,” and in­fluenced American doctrine in amphib­ious oper­ations to come. Eighty years on, remnants of the battle are abundant on Betio, and efforts continue to recover the remains of Marines still buried in lost graves on the atoll, PFC Arthur Wende among them.

To Gasca, the legacy of his involvement doesn’t seem to loom large. “It’s a long time ago, and you know, over the years I never talked about it. I came home and got married and raised a family, and we never talked about it. In fact, even when I got back to B Company right after the battle, we never talked about it,” Gasca said. “But after so many years, I wondered—why did they do it like that?”

Eight decades later, Gasca is one of only a few left who fought on Tarawa. He doesn’t see himself as a hero. “I just went and joined the Marine Corps because I didn’t want to join the Army,” he laughed. “But later on, I was proud.”

Editor’s note: Special thanks to Kurt Barickman for his assistance with this article.

Author’s bio: Patrick Reed is a his­torian and graduate of Abilene Christian University. He has a particular interest in the Marine Corps and Marine Corps history, and travels to speak with World War II veterans about their experiences.

A sharp fight for a nameless ridge and a ravine led to a bloody sacrifice for the 1st Battalion, 5th Marines.

October 1942 was a bleak and ter­rifying month for the 1st Marine Division on Guadalcanal. Nearly three months of combat—exhausting patrols punctuated by ferocious pitched battles—left men weakened, wounded and riddled with tropical disease. They were short of food, short of ammunition, short of everything to the point where they dubbed the campaign “Operation Shoestring” and themselves the “First Maroon Division.” Yet, despite these hardships, they managed to hold their perimeter around an airfield whose ex­istence was their sole reason for invading the Solomon Islands. And when they took the tallies at the end of the month, the Marines appeared to come out ahead of their Japanese adversaries.

“On the Matanikau [the Japanese gar­rison] appears to have lost about 500 killed by artillery fire in addition to a total of 13 tanks,” noted the D-2 (Intelli­gence) report. “Total enemy losses along the Matanikau during this period can be conservatively estimated at 1,200 killed. Most of these were from the 4th Infantry and the Oka Unit. On the other front, 1,200 bodies were buried after the battle. A partial count of additional bodies lying in the woods indicates total losses of 2,200 killed … . The 29th and 16th In­fantry Regiments and the Kawaguchi Detachment had been annihilated.” Reconnaissance patrols led by Lieu­tenants William “Holly” Whyte and Harold “Ramrod” Taylor revealed dis­organized and demoralized defenses west of the Matanikau. While these positions could still fight—Lt Taylor gave his life to obtain this information—evidence suggested that a concerted push might break the Japanese lines.

Augmenting this pleasantly bloody news was the anticipated arrival of the 8th Marines, fresh from garrison duty in Samoa, plus additional Navy firepower. These “riches beyond the dreams of avarice” led the Division commander, Major General Alexander A. Vandegrift, to green-light a new offensive across the Matanikau River. The ultimate goal was to annihilate any remnants of the beaten Japanese regiments, capture the base at Kokumbona, and “give them a sense of futility” preventing further reinforcement of the Guadalcanal garrison. Furthermore, Vandegrift hoped to capture or destroy the artillery pieces dropping shells on Henderson Field. For this mission, he tapped the relatively rested 5th Marines; the 2nd Marines and a battalion of the Army’s 164th Infantry would follow in reserve.

Crossing the Matanikau was a daunting endeavor. Marines made repeated forays to the western bank, starting with the ill-fated Goettge Patrol in August 1942 and the aptly named “First Battle of the Matanikau.” Subsequent efforts resulted in temporary control or outright repulse. In the 1st Marine Division, it was said that a man was only a man after crossing the Matanikau three times. By this stand­ard, the 5th Marines was one of the most mature regiments on the island.

Private Leonard Anthony Baumann, a 25-year-old from Queens, N.Y., was an as­­sistant machine-gunner in Company D, 5th Marines. He knew enough about what lay beyond the river to take note of the preparations. “One heavy cruiser and four destroyers came in and sailed up beach to Kokumbona and shelled [Japa­nese],” he noted in a makeshift diary. “Ships went up and down six times con­tinuously throwing shells.” The following morning, Baumann’s squad moved out of their defensive positions and down to a coconut grove “to start the push.” Lieu­tenant Herbert Merrillat, a Marine public relations officer, watched the flow of military might moving into position. “Long lines of men in green and trucks full of ammunition and food crowded the road west of Kukum in a steady stream,” he wrote. The assault troops learned their objectives, duties, and the designated sig­nals for success or support. Through the pattering rain, they could hear the whump of Japanese artillery rounds falling else­where in the regimental area.

Rain and artillery dampened the al­ready muffled sounds of activity along the Matanikau. Under cover of darkness, Co L, 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines crossed the sandbar at the river’s mouth and set up a defensive perimeter on the western bank. A thousand yards upstream, a pla­toon from E/2/5 slithered to the water’s edge and boarded small boats, rowing across to establish a foothold in the jungle. Three companies of the 1st Engineer Battalion went to work deploying sections of pontoon bridges across a slow, lagoon-like stretch of the river. Previous cross­ings relied on the sand bar and “One Log Bridge”—sites well-known to both sides and “inadequate, in any case, for the number of men involved” in the coming operation. The engineers withdrew be­fore dawn, having secured three foot­bridges across the Matanikau. A fourth, strong enough for vehicles, would be deployed if the attack went well.

For 1/5, Nov. 1—All Saints’ Day, be­gan with a 4:30 a.m. reveille and an uninspired breakfast of coffee, jam, and “slum”—C-ration hash, eaten cold from the can on the front lines. As they wrapped up their repast and shouldered their weapons, an artillery barrage—nine batteries of the 11th Marines—ripped through the air overhead. Wildcats and Warhawks winged by, strafing the ground ahead with ma­chine guns and cannon fire. A flight of 19 B-17s droned westward to drop bombs on Kokumbona. As the last shells rumbled overhead at 6:30 a.m., the first 1/5 Ma­rines stepped onto the sturdy pontoon bridge, tramped across, and disappeared into the foliage on the other side. Within an hour, the entire regiment, from lead scouts to command post, was west of the Matanikau with all hands heading for their assigned sectors. The Japanese, shocked or strategically silent, did not contest the crossing.

A Japanese sniper fired too soon; one of Crosby’s Marines returned fire and scored a killing hit. As if on signal, the Japanese line opened up with “a withering barrage of fire.” Although outnumbered and outgunned, Crosby “began to coolly direct” his scouts into a position where they could fight back but was killed as he rushed a camouflaged antitank gun. “David’s men, berserk with sorrow at the loss of the leader whom they idolized, managed in the face of that hell to drive past the spot where he was slain so that they could recover him,” wrote Lieutenant Armitage. “They immediately attacked the enemy position but could not get close enough to assault it. These boys were also killed; the only man who safely returned was the runner Dave had sent back.”

Corporal Casamento, meanwhile, was getting his guns into the fight. Hill 78 ap­peared as a bisecting ridge to the ad­vanc­ing Marines; Casamento sent Shaner’s squad to the left while he ac­companied Robarts’ squad on the right. “We were to meet up together again when we cleared the ridge we were on, before advancing to the ridge [Hill 84] directly in front of us,” recalled Private Tortorici. “Corporal Shaner’s squad wasn’t out of sight more than five minutes when our squad came under heavy machine-gun and rifle fire.” Casamento sighted a spot for the gun, directed Robarts to deploy, and ran directly into a crossfire from two Japanese positions. The assistant gunner, Pvt Michael Ciavarelli, was severely wounded; Robarts and gunner Pvt Joseph Seymour received mortal wounds, and PFC Joseph Corriggio died instantly. Japa­­nese mortar rounds sang down, flin­g­ing Private Tortorici 30 feet in the air. The temporary ammo carriers bor­rowed from Co C were all killed or wounded. An entire machine-gun squad was hors de combat—and a heavy Browning could mean the difference between survival and defeat.

The 5th Marines’ message center lit up at 8:40 a.m. with a simple notice: “C/1/5 receiving MG fire.” Twenty minutes later, a report noted “heavy MG and mortar fire,” followed by “hit hard from front … request help from 1st Bn.” At 9:45 a.m., a breathless runner arrived with a written note from Captain Shine: “Hit hard. Many casualties. Need assistance. Right front in woods MGs. My position on ridge—also woods to left front MGs. Request directions of assistance.” Colonel Merritt Edson dispatched halftracks and 37 mm guns to assist his beleaguered 1st Battalion, but these weapons could not reach Co C on the steep slopes of Hill 78. Edson sent 1/5 a message giving coordinates of the regimental aid station and simultaneously directed the 1st Battalion’s reserve—Co B, with attached machine guns—to Shine’s position.

For two hours on the morning of Nov. 1, 1942, C/1/5 endured a hell of fire the likes of which few other American units experienced on Guadalcanal. The 7th Company of Major Masao Tamura’s 4th Infantry had planned their defenses well, digging sturdy bunk­ers out of coral rock and expertly camou­flaging their positions. Any Americans who ap­proached would be trapped in a jungle-choked ravine: relief or retreat could only happen by crossing the steep, bare western slope of Hill 78, exposed to flat trajectory fire from Hill 84. Japa­nese mortars and artillery dropped along the ravine and ridge, and concealed field pieces ripped through foliage and flesh at point-blank range. Their patience and preparations paid off as Crosby’s platoon melted away.

By order or by general assent, Co C recoiled from the vicious positions in the ravine. Crosby’s survivors fell back to the ridge, bearing the body of their fallen leader. Pvt William Frank Seiverling of Drexel Hill, Pa., staged a one-man coun­terattack and charged down the bar­ren slope, blazing away with his Browning Automatic Rifle to cover the platoon’s re­organization and withdrawal. Seiverling then ran a gauntlet of fire to assist Holland’s platoon, “killing several Japa­nese before he, himself, was hit by ma­chine-gun fire.” Bleeding heavily, Seiverling opened fire on the enemy gun and silenced it before heading for safety. He was too late: another Nambu chattered, and the 22-year-old Marine fell to the ground, never to move again.

Not far away, Corporal Terrence Joseph Reynolds Jr., another Pennsylvania Ma­rine, was writing his name in the history books. “Terry” was a fanatical athlete, and his buddies all knew his dearest ambition was to get his name on the sports page of a major newspaper. He came close on the baseball diamond and closer still as a boxer but never quite clinched a championship. On Nov. 1, 1942, the sports­man showed his true mettle. As Co C made its “temporary organizational withdrawal,” Reynolds picked up a light Browning machine gun and waded into a Japanese attack, firing from the hip and blunting the enemy thrust. He was shot down moments later, still well forward of friendly lines. Seiverling and Reynolds were both posthumously decorated with the Navy Cross.

These heroics bought time for Co C to withdraw and reorganize about 250 yards short of the O-1 line. Sensing an oppor­tunity, Tamura’s men counterattacked through the ravine. Sergeant Carl Weiss, who had already knocked out an enemy emplacement with a grenade, directed the fire of his machine guns against “the infuriated Japanese” who charged up the hill with fixed bayonets. When a wounded Marine rolled down the slope into the crossfire, Weiss crawled through the spitting bullets and dragged the man to safety. The sergeant would also receive the Navy Cross—posthumously, as he was killed in action the following day.

On the northern slope of Hill 78, Tony Casamento clung to his position. Bullet wounds ran from his instep to his ear; a round passed through his neck, and the corporal used his shirt as a makeshift bandage. Japanese troops crept towards the gun and began throwing grenades and insults. “Retreat, Marine!” they shouted. “Tojo says you must die!” Casamento, “mad as hell,” jumped up and danced “like a crazy man,” challenging the Japa­nese to get him. His curses came out as a breathy whistle: the bullet through his neck clipped his vocal cords. “I know if I pass out, those goddamn Japanese will rush up, grab my gun, turn it around, and start mowing down our own men about 100 yards behind me.” Grenade shrapnel smashed his right hand. Unable to load his machine gun, Casamento first tried to pick up a rifle, then Robarts’ sidearm, but his strength failed. Finally felled by concussion “like the kick of a mule,” the corporal began to lose hope.

“I can’t budge. Every time I try, it hurts all over. It’s getting so I can’t see things very well. I’m waiting to die, but I don’t want to die. I keep thinking of my mother and father, and how close it is to Christmas … Any minute I figure the Japanese will be there and stick me, but what worries me is that gun. Any minute they’ll be here and train my own gun on the fellows behind me, and they’ll raise hell with us, and our boys won’t know what it’s all about—one of their own guns shooting at them.”

Casamento could barely make out a figure moving toward him, bayonet at the ready.

It was a Marine. Co B had arrived.

Second Lieutenant Maurice Raphael was appalled at the carnage atop Hill 78. Japanese fire had ripped a hole in the line between companies C and A; Raphael’s platoon of Co B filled the gap. “As we were moving across this hill that was covered with dead and dying men, I came across this body all covered with blood,” he said. “My men had bayonets on their rifles and were ready to bayonet this ‘thing,’ when all of a sudden, I recognized Casamento. I cried out, ‘My God, Casa­mento, what have they done to you?’ He was a bloody mess, and he did a lot of jabbering about the Japanese and his men, crying about losing all of them. Empty rounds of MG ammo were all over the place.” Raphael pulled out his aid kit and bandaged the worst of Casamento’s many wounds, helplessly muttering, “Don’t you worry, fella, don’t you worry.” Incredibly, Casamento survived his ordeal; in 1980, he received a long-overdue Medal of Honor.

Raphael tried to make sense of the slaughter as his men carried Casamento to the rear. He recognized many of the battered bodies personally: Raphael had served as a Co C platoon leader for months and led some of these men in com­bat before transferring to Company B on Oct. 1, 1942. Each fallen figure was like a punch in the gut. “Saw Ausili die,” he wrote in his diary. “Louis Kovacs was dead but still warm, Harland Swart, Carlson, Potocki, Doucette, Waterstraw … everyone was dead … shot to hell and back. It was the saddest and most awful sight I’ve ever seen in my life. I saw Jack Holland, leader [of] 2nd Platoon, shot in the shoulder. Henry Loughman was shot in the groin and died … I found Crosby’s body … poor fellow, he never knew what hit him.”

Second Lieutenant Richard F. Nellson commanded the machine-gun platoon attached to Co B. “I went forward to re­connoiter for suitable machine-gun po­sitions,” he reported. “I saw Casamento at his gun position. All of his men and those of C Company in his sector were dead or wounded. Casamento was riddled by small arms fire but was still at his gun.” It was evident that Casamento’s cour­age prevented Japanese troops from scaling the ridge and dropping flanking fire onto Co A on the flats below. Next, Nellson and his runner found Cpl Shaner’s machine gun. “It was in a shell hole, but both [the] gunner and his assistant were dead,” Nellson continued. “We put the gun out of action and returned to our lines. Shaner’s gunner had not had time to fire a full belt before he was killed.” As Co C treated their wounded and calmed their nerves, Captain “Tabasco Mac” McIlheney’s men pushed forward down the ridge and into the ravine, finally securing their section of the O-1 line at 11:30 a.m.

Impatient officers at Division Head­quar­ters wasted no time in issuing new orders: in one hour, all units were to press on to the O-2 line, a half-mile be­yond Point Cruz. By now, it was clear that the Japanese facing 1/5 had no inten­tion of retreating to Kokumbona; instead, they were determined to defend a strong po­sition near the base of the Point. This “pocket” was soon surrounded by Ma­rines, but, unfazed by the prospect of death, the defenders contested every step with the massive arsenal at their disposal. Companies B and C crossed the stream marking the O-1 line, but Major Tamura’s men fought so desperately that the Ma­rines made no more headway. The two sides traded blows in a bloody jungle brawl, fighting each other to exhaustion while trying to gain a tactical advantage.

Co A had slightly better success along the coast and managed to advance about 800 yards. They also ran into determined defenders—in this case, Japanese artil­lery positions supported by entrenched infantry. As the machine gunners de­ployed, Private Baumann saw his buddy Private Thomas C. White moving out ahead of his squad, pistol in hand. “See­ing [a] trap, he turned to get back to his gun,” recalled Baumann. “Was shot then. Bullets went in [White’s] back and came out chest. White died in about two mi­nutes. No aid available.” Minutes later came the order to withdraw—just a hun­dred yards back, giving mortars room to fire. Baumann, the assistant gunner, was responsible for carrying the dismounted Browning. “I picked up [the] gun, put it on my shoulder and start[ed] back, sud­denly I got a terrific whack on the back of my head, knocked me down,” he wrote. “MG went flying. Didn’t know what hit me. Placed my hand on back of head and saw it was full of blood.” Pharmacist’s Mate Wesley Haggard bandaged the wound and sent Baumann toward the beach to await evacuation by boat. He was shocked to see so many men from his company “in a bad way” on the beach. “Bonin, Kapanoske, Whalen, Wells, and others … . Few of our boys were killed. In all, D Company caught hell.” Co A fought on until catching the sound of vehicle motors approaching along Gov­ernment Track. Fearful of a tank attack and with their left flank in the air, Com­pany A gave up its gains and returned to the O-1. Despite all the chaos, only two A/1/5 Marines—Privates Charles H. Ludwig and John Monaco—died during the day’s fighting. The exact number of casualties among the attached machine-gunners is not known.

There was little sympathy for 1/5 at Division Headquarters. As early as 10:30 a.m., senior officers debated replacing the battalion on the front line with a unit from the 2nd Marines, but Lieutenant Colonel Merrill Thomas (D-3) resisted; he would not mollycoddle what he con­sidered a sub-par outfit. “They’ve had too much of that,” he grumbled. That evening, “it was learned that 1/5 has not yet even passed O-1,” noted Lieutenant Herbert Merillat. “Much disgust at headquarters … 1/5 will never get any­where, D-3 officers say, and 3/5 wouldn’t do any better.” In reality, the battalion had given a good account of itself on a challenging assignment. On Nov. 1, 1942, Major Tamura’s battalion “vanished.” The 7th Company, which caused so much havoc at Hill 78, could muster barely a dozen men by nightfall, and his other companies were in tatters. It would take two more days and five Marine companies to wipe out the Point Cruz pocket. Three hundred and fifty Japanese soldiers were killed, and Marines captured three field pieces, a dozen antitank guns, and 30 machine guns. “Impatience at the CP with the performance of the 5th Marines shows the gulf that often divides a di­vision staff from officers and men on the front line,” admitted Merillat.

While it seems that 1/5 gave better than they got, their casualty report was staggering. Twenty-five Marines were wounded on Nov. 1 alone, while 41 were either killed outright or died of wounds suffered in action. The unusual ratio of killed to wounded speaks to the close-up savagery of the fighting. Twenty-seven of the dead were from C/1/5: no other Marine company suffered so many fatal casualties in a single action during the entire Guadalcanal campaign.

Among the dead were Robert M. Eastburn and Matthew J. Kirchner, high school classmates and neigh­bors from Riverside, N.J., who enlisted, trained, and fought side by side. Pvt Frank W. Lawton of Springfield, Mass., joined up with two buddies from Tech­nical High School; Robert Burdick and Edward Gray were left to mourn his loss. Pvt Austin W. Pollock Jr.’s demise made the Kentucky newspapers: he killed five Japanese sol­diers, reports claimed, before running into the line of fire to cover his sergeant. Pvt Anthony Antonoglou en­dured years at an infamous Florida re­form school; he attacked an abusive teacher and opted to join the Marine Corps to avoid prison time. Privates Theodore Potocki, William Zeigler, William Hall, and Arthur Doucette died before reaching their 18th birthdays.

Nov. 2 was a day of dramatic action at the Point Cruz pocket, culminating in a series of bayonet charges by 3/5—the only such attack by Marine units on Guadalcanal. Meanwhile, 1/5 faced the unwelcome challenge of disposing of dozens of dead men. Extreme heat exacerbated the problem: temperatures reached the triple digits, straining Ameri­can ability to supply their fighters and evacuate the wounded, let alone arrange transport for the fallen. As a result, 30 of the 41 men killed in action were buried in the field at a point “about 400 yards west of Point Cruz [and] about 600 yards inland from the sea.” The Marines had every intention of returning for the bodies—but two days later, American forces withdrew to the Matanikau in response to a perceived threat from Koli Point, far to the east. All of the ground taken was back in Japanese hands. It would take another few weeks of hard fighting to regain the territory—and the front lines would freeze along the Nov. 1 O-1 line until the very end of the campaign.

It is surprising, therefore, that 23 of the 30 field burials are still unrecovered. No other battle on Guadalcanal resulted in so many field burials in a relatively small area—and American troops oc­cupied the location for months—yet there are no known reports of Marine or Army per­sonnel even noticing the graves, let alone making attempts to retrieve re­mains, even after the battle ended. The first graves were rediscovered in March 1944: Pvt Pollock (Co B), Cpl Reynolds (Co D), Sergeants Louis Kovacs and Harland Swart Jr., and Pvt Albert Ausili (Co C) were exhumed by Army Graves Registration and reburied in the island’s military cemetery. Cpl William F. Wheeler (Co C) was discovered in 1945, and Pvt Lawrence Keane (Co C) was found in an isolated grave during a post-war search. The rest have vanished.

The story of Merton Taylor provides a clue to the others’ whereabouts. As a member of C/1/5, Taylor survived the All Saints’ Day debacle but saw four friends cut down around him. He witnessed their burial, which “necessarily consisted sim­ply of placing the fallen comrades in foxholes, covering them with stones, and marking the graves with tiny sticks and bayonets.” Taylor swore to make sure his buddies got “a decent burial,” but malaria forced his evacuation from the island days after the battle. After attending in­telligence school at Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune, he returned to the island in September 1944 as a member of the 29th Marines. Naturally, Taylor visited the cemetery—where he was evidently told in error that his buddies were not there.

According to the Marine Corps Chevron, Taylor went looking for the spot where he thought the graves to be. “It wasn’t as easy as he expected. The ridge, bare of growth when he was there before, was now covered with dense brush,” reads the article. “For two days, he searched every inch of the ridge. Then he found a rusty bayonet splitting a stick to form a crude cross … then a second cross, the third, and finally the last.”

A press photographer snapped Taylor pointing out a marker to an Army Graves Registration officer, 1stLt John L. Stewart. The story is moving, but prob­lem­atic: Taylor and Stewart arrived on Guadal­canal months after Kovacs, Swart, and Ausili had been reburied in the cemetery, and no other 1/5 remains were found while either man was on the island. Whomever Taylor found was not his combat buddies; indeed, the photo­graph may have been staged and the story enhanced. A com­pelling kernel of truth remains, though. It is highly likely that the missing dead were initially buried in foxholes where they fell instead of a regulation field cemetery.

Today, the National Parliament of the Solomon Islands sits atop the site where Tony Casamento’s squad fought their final battle. Roads and residences run through the ravine, and the creek marking the O-1 line has vanished beneath the city of Honiara. Under these buildings, singly or in small groups, lie the remains of the 1st Bn, 5th Marines—forgotten victims of a hard-fought victory.

Author’s note: Special thanks to Dave Holland for his contributions to this article, and Colonel Pam Baumann, USMC (Ret) for permission to publish extracts from her father’s diary.

Author’s bio: Geoffrey W. Roecker is a researcher and writer based in upstate New York. His extensive writings on the WW II history of 1st Battalion, 24th Ma­rines, is available online at www.1-24thmarines.com. Roecker is the author of “Leaving Mac Behind: The Lost Marines of Guadalcanal” and advocates for the return of missing personnel at www.missingmarines.com.

The 24th Marine Amphibious Unit (MAU) landed in Beirut, Lebanon, on May 29, 1983. The Marines came ashore with mixed feelings. They were the fourth MAU to cycle through Beirut in nine months. Marines that pre­ceded them served as “peacekeepers” of a Multi-National Force (MNF) from the U.S., France and Italy. Despite a full-scale civil war raging around them, Ma­rines were not to be combatants. No fewer than 17 separate political or religious factions fought over the war-torn capital city.

A web of politics shrouded the Ma­rines’ understanding of their mission and limited their ability to respond to threats. Even so, the MNF’s presence seemed justified. Marines briefly pulled out of Beirut in September 1982. During their absence, the newly elected Lebanese pres­ident was assassinated, and Palestinian refugees were massacred in retaliation. Marines and the rest of the MNF returned within the month and maintained a steady presence into 1983.

Lieutenant Colonel Howard L. “Larry” Gerlach arrived in Beirut with the 24th MAU as the commanding officer of Battalion Landing Team (BLT) 1st Bat­talion, 8th Marines. The 41-year-old had over 19 years in the Corps by the time he assumed command of the battalion. His career included two years as an en­listed Marine before successfully com­pleting the Naval Reserve Officer’s Training Corps (NROTC) program at the University of Mississippi and receiv­ing an officer’s commission. He earned a Purple Heart as a second lieutenant in Vietnam when a bullet tore through his hip six weeks into his first deployment. Following an extensive recovery, he returned to full duty and later shipped out on a second combat deployment as an advisor to the Vietnamese army.

One event dominated the minds of Gerlach and his Marines as they relieved their predecessors in Beirut. The month prior to their arrival, on April 18, a ve­hicle laden with explosives detonated next to the U.S. embassy. Sixty-three people died in the explosion, including one Marine Security Guard. Marines in Lebanon had suffered casualties prior to the bombing, and even saw one Marine killed while clearing unexploded ord­nance around Beirut International Air­port (BIA). The embassy bombing, how­ever, was unprecedented. As the Marines of 1/8 considered their new home, they tried to decipher what the attack meant. Could it be, perhaps, an anomaly, or a one-off tragedy? Or, was it an ominous harbinger of a new era in Beirut?

The deployment kicked off peacefully, but soon began a steady descent into violence. The battalion’s first instance taking direct fire from the city arrived in the early morning hours of June 8. Rocket Propelled Grenades (RPGs) det­onated around an observation post at the Lebanese University, followed by a furious rattle of heavy machine-gun fire from Israeli soldiers. Whether Marines were the intended target or simply caught in the crossfire, the rockets from an un­identified source exploded on the Ma­rines’ position, and Israeli .50-caliber bullets punched holes in sandbags. July and August saw more instances of rockets falling directly on Marine positions around BIA. Finally, on Aug. 28, the city erupted in violence following Israel’s withdrawal.

Israel’s invasion of Lebanon in June 1982 impelled the MNF to initially de­ploy later that year in an effort to stabilize the country. The Israeli Defense Force (IDF) presence in Beirut served a dual effect. They added to the bullets and rockets flying around the city, even en­gaged in several tense interactions with Marines. Fear or respect for the IDF, how­ever, kept numerous other combatant factions at bay. These groups flooded the streets of Beirut after the IDF withdrew, filling the void they left and immediately increasing the number of attacks on the 24th MAU. Despite increasing hostilities, the Marines’ mission of “presence” and “peacekeeping” would not be altered, lest the U.S. appear to endorse one side or the other with an active combat role.

“We were told not to alter the defenses outside our command post because they wanted things to look as normal as pos­sible,” remembered LtCol Gerlach. “This wasn’t a typical military operation. The missions you learned at The Basic School were attack, defend, withdraw, or re­inforce. Well, we weren’t doing any of that. The last thing in the world we were supposed to do was be an overbearing military force in their country.”

The Rules of Engagement (ROEs) governing the Marines remained strict. Marines could only shoot back if they were actively being fired upon and could see the attacker. Likewise, they were only permitted to respond with a level of force equal to the threat. A typical scene playing out might see a group of concealed militiamen blasting away at Marine positions. Abiding by the ROEs, Marines could fire back with rifles, and perhaps even a machine gun, until the militia fire stopped. Following the engagement, Marines looked on helplessly as the enemy fighters walked out of the building with rifles slung over their shoulders, laughing and shouting, “Bang! Bang!” as they formed guns with their fingers to continue “shooting” at the Marines. Without real bullets coming at them, the Marines could offer only a middle finger in response.

Tragedy struck 1/8 on Aug. 29. A salvo of mortar rounds exploded among the tents of “Alpha” Company. Second Lieu­tenant George Losey and Staff Sergeant Alexander Ortega, the Platoon Com­mand­er and Platoon Sergeant of Alpha Co, 1st Platoon, sustained head wounds when one mortar scored a direct hit on their tent. Ortega died instantly, still seated in his chair next to the lieutenant. Losey survived to be medically evacuated but did not recover. In addition, five other Marines suffered minor wounds. The deaths of Losey and Ortega stunned the Marines in Beirut, and likewise shocked Americans back home whose perception of the “peacekeeping” mission in Leb­anon found it hard to believe Marines could be caught in the crossfire.

The situation accelerated downhill. September witnessed Marines embroiled in the war surrounding them, returning fire with artillery and naval gunfire. Even Marine attack helicopters flying above the city came under fire and shot back with rockets. Despite the constant presence of American reporters and an unending flow of VIPs touring the city, it seemed no one outside Beirut could understand or believe what the Marines faced. Colonel Tim Geraghty, the 24th MAU Commanding Officer, and LtCol Gerlach took steps to upgrade security around the MAU headquarters and the four-story building serving as Gerlach’s BLT command post and barracks. Their proposed adjustments to ROEs and se­curity posture met stiff resistance further up the chain of command. Military and civilian leaders not on the ground in Lebanon resolved to preserve the facade of a passive role in the war.

What Geraghty and Gerlach saw as reality and necessary steps to defend themselves, others viewed as a perversion of their mission of “presence.” If Beirut were a combat deployment, the Marines would plan out their defenses and take appropriate offensive actions. Still, state­side authorities refused to acknowledge Beirut as a combat theater, and limited their defensive capabilities based on political perception. They believed if the MAU were not combatants, they should not expand their positions around the airport, giving the impression of an active role in the combat. Even as American high explosive shells exploded within the city, erasing any perception of passiv­ity the warring factions may have held, Gerlach struggled to procure jersey barriers to place outside his BLT building.

Attacks on the MAU increased. Even through an alleged “cease fire,” Marines paid the price for their presence. On Sept. 6, rockets exploded around Alpha Co positions, killing Lance Corporal Randy Clark and Corporal Pedro Valle and wounding several others. On Oct. 15, gunmen opened fire on Marine jeeps driving through the city. One Marine was shot through both legs. In another jeep, a bullet struck Staff Sergeant Allen Soifert in the chest. The jeep careened off the road and overturned. Others arrived to rescue the Marines, but Soifert died at the battalion aid station.

The following day, a rooftop observa­tion post came under small arms and RPG fire. Several Marines were severely wounded in the attack. Captain Mike Ohler, a forward air controller, braved the fire to spot enemy positions with his binoculars. He located a bunker where the RPGs originated and directed fire onto it. As he observed the bunker, an enemy bullet fatally stuck Ohler in the head. On Oct. 19, Col Geraghty appeared to be the intended target of a car bomb. The bomb exploded less than a minute after Geraghty’s vehicle passed in a con­voy, leaving Geraghty unscathed, but wounding four other Marines. Between the embassy bombing and the attack on Geraghty’s convoy, vehicle-borne ex­plosives were gaining prominence as a terrorist’s weapon of choice. Marines on guard around American facilities kept on the lookout for suspicious vehicles.

The night of Oct. 22 was a busy one for Marines stationed at the BLT building. Machine-gun fire sparked off the pave­ment around the building, rousing the Marines manning guard posts. When several rockets landed nearby, the order came down to upgrade to “Condition One” alert status. Marines exited their bunks on the upper decks and descended the stairs to augment Marines already awake on watch. A tank rolled in front of the entrance to the building, blocking the front door. The high alert lasted several hours, extending into the early morning of Oct. 23. Once the alert status finally downgraded again, exhausted Marines returned to their bunks. Their only saving grace was that today, a Sunday, reveille would sound an hour later than normal, affording them precious extra sleep.

Over 300 Marines, Sailors, and soldiers bedded down once more and passed out. Gerlach was not one of them. His responsibilities as the battalion CO de­manded his presence through the entirety of the condition one status, and well after it ended. Finally, around 6 a.m., Gerlach returned to his corner office on the second deck. He considered an attempt at sleep. As he turned toward his bunk, something flew through the air and smashed into his head, knocking him unconscious. To this day, Gerlach remembers nothing of the events that unfolded that Sunday morning. How he survived remains an even bigger mystery and miracle.

A large yellow box truck had circled the parking lot directly in front of the BLT building. Several Marines on guard observed the truck as it circled, then finally veered right and accelerated through concertina wire barricades. Abiding by their ROEs, Marines manned their posts with loaded magazines in their rifles, but no rounds in the chamber ready to fire. As the truck smashed through the obstacles barring the entry to the BLT building, Marines charged their weapons. By the time they opened fire, the speeding truck passed by and crashed through a sandbagged position at the front entrance to the building, where the tank had stood guard just hours before. The truck finally stopped in an atrium-style lobby that extended from the ground floor to the roof in an expansive shaft occupying the center of the structure.

The driver then detonated several thousand pounds of explosives and the compressed-gas-enhanced explosion ripped through the BLT building. A Marine who witnessed the resulting mushroom cloud logged the time as 6:22 a.m.

The blast force equaled more than 12,000 pounds of TNT. Marines a mile away felt the earth shake and believed an artillery round must have scored a direct hit on their position. Immediately, the entire building collapsed onto the Marines inside, reducing from four stories down to barely more than a single story tall. The bomb disintegrated the 7-inch thick, reinforced concrete floor in the basement below the lobby, leaving in its place a crater measuring 39 by 30 feet, and 8 feet deep. Later analysis by the Federal Bureau of Investigation determined the bomb created the largest non-nuclear explosion ever recorded.

U.S. servicemembers around the air­port raced toward the BLT building to begin rescue efforts within minutes after the bomb went off. They found a completely terrible and chaotic scene. A choking dust cloud hung in the air. Building parts and body parts littered the ground surrounding the mountain of rubble. The earth itself seemed to cry as the screams and moans of buried victims emerged. Rescuers freed Marines from beneath mounds of concrete. They struggled locating the sources of the pleas for help. Rescuers would work feverishly to uncover a Marine, only to discover the victim was already dead, and they were inadvertently piling more rubble onto another living victim nearby. Numerous Marines thought to be alive turned out to be dead. Numerous victims thought to be dead turned out to be alive once they were exhumed. When rescuers located a living Marine, someone would stay with him to keep him company until he was finally extricated, or he passed away. Despite the extraordinarily heroic rescue efforts and the arrival of heavy moving equipment later that morning, the last living victim was rescued around noon, six hours after the explosion. The sounds of the living lingered, traumatizing rescuers as they worked without end for days. Tragically, every remaining victim became a body recovery. In all, 241 U.S. servicemembers died as a result of the explosion.

When LtCol Gerlach regained con­sciousness, he’d never been more con­fused in his life. He could not move any­thing. Nothing looked familiar. Even more concerning, he lay on his back surrounded by bearded, middle eastern men.

“What is your mission here?” one of the men asked.

Gerlach had no idea how he got there, or any memory of the events leading up to his present circumstances.

“I’ve been captured,” Gerlach con­cluded. “I’m a prisoner of war.”

Gerlach was, in fact, one of several casualties from the bombing that went temporarily “missing” in the rush to evac­uate survivors. Rescue workers removed him from beneath the rubble near the outskirts of the blast sight. His weak pulse offered the only evidence of life. Gerlach suf­fered severe head trauma and com­pound fractures on multiple limbs. Hope for his survival waned as rescuers loaded Gerlach into the back of an ambulance and whisked him away. Somehow, Gerlach ended up at an Italian medical dispensary, which immediately triaged him as requiring care far above their capa­bility. The Italians moved Gerlach to a Shiite Muslim hospital facility in Beirut. He lingered in a coma for three days before miraculously awa­king. Unknown to him at the time, the hospital staff treated him ex­ceptionally well, and likely saved his life.

As Gerlach recited his name, rank, and serial number and refused to cooperate with those he believed were his captors, an American reporter named Robin Wright discovered him in the hospital. Wright confirmed Gerlach’s location with the Marines responsible for tracking casualties, and after six days, a helicopter transported Gerlach to a ship offshore, and eventually to Germany for medical care. Most importantly, Wright called her mother in the States and told her to contact Gerlach’s wife, Patty, to inform her that her husband survived the attack.

For two weeks, medical workers moved Gerlach around from location to location, bed to bed, and room to room. His dif­ficulty moving seemed a natural result of his extensive injuries. A specialized X-ray of his neck, however, revealed multiple fractures to his cervical spine and doctors ordered him immediately placed in a halo to stabilize his head and prevent further damage to his spinal cord. The traumatic brain injuries he suffered left Gerlach confused and incapable of understanding the events that led to his present condition. Weeks would pass before he could grasp the magnitude of what happened.

Recovery operations continued for a week following the bombing. Cranes lifted massive chunks of concrete and steel to exhume the bodies. Back in the U.S., the spirit to remain in Beirut dwindled and a political battle ensued debating the Marines’ withdrawal and options for a re­sponse to the bombing. Islamic ter­rorists, backed by Iran, claimed re­spon­sibility for the suicide attack. Little or no response from the U.S. ever materialized. Today, the Beirut embassy and BLT barracks bombings are considered some of the first blows struck in the Global War on Terror, and precursors to events like the attacks on Sept. 11, 2001.

The 22nd MAU, with BLT 2/8, ar­rived in November. Their arrival was scheduled near the end of October but was delayed with orders diverting the MAU to Grenada in support of Operation Urgent Fury. The four-day operation began and ended as a combat deployment for the Marines involved. By contrast, Marines in Leb­anon still officially operated as non­combatants on a peacekeeping mission, despite the U.S.’s growing role in the con­flict and thousands of man hours invested to upgrade defenses in the wake of the barracks bombing. On Dec. 4, less than two weeks after the 22nd MAU arrived, two U.S. Navy fighters were shot down on a bombing mission over the city, killing one of the pilots. Later that even­ing, a Marine rooftop checkpoint came under heavy fire. Tragically, a rocket scored a direct hit, killing eight Marines.

Marine peacekeepers remained in Beirut less than six months after the barracks bombing. The increasing hos­tili­ties killed or wounded more American servicemembers. The incidents were met with escalated responses, including salvos from the massive 16-inch guns of USS New Jersey (BB-62) sailing offshore. By February 1984, the order arrived to leave Beirut. Marines conducted a noncom­batant evacuation, removing 800 civilians from the embassy and surrounding area. On Feb. 9, Major Albert Butler succumbed to wounds received from an accidental discharge, becoming the final Marine to die in Beirut. The last of the Marines in the city relinquished control of BIA on Feb. 26.

America moved on from Beirut quick­ly. With the exception of the embassy and barracks bombings, the 18 months Marines spent in the city faded into history as a largely forgotten episode. For those who lived through the barracks bombing, either as a surviving victim or a rescuer, moving on proved more im­possible. Their lives could never resemble what they had been prior to Oct. 23, 1983.

Larry Gerlach spent month after month in various hospitals recovering from his injuries. Responsibility fell to his wife to explain to him what had happened in Beirut, as his mental faculties rejuvenated near the end of 1983. He would never remember the bombing and the events immediately afterward and could not believe the BLT building had been completely demolished until he saw the terrifying images on the television.

“I have searched my soul, over and over,” reflected Gerlach recently, as he remembered his time recovering after the attack. “That’s all I had to do there for a while. I have racked my brain about what I could have done that would have solved the problem, but there wasn’t a damn thing. From the moment that truck entered the parking lot out front, the bomb would have destroyed the building.”

The spinal injuries he suffered in the blast, and the shuffling around im­me­diately afterwards, left him permanently disabled. Doctors in the U.S. diagnosed him with incomplete quadriplegia; while not totally unusable, everything below his neck was affected. Gerlach deter­mined to use his arms and legs as much as his new body would allow.

After nine months of intensive physical and occupational therapy at the spinal cord injury center of West Roxbury VA Medical Center, Gerlach achieved partial usage of his arms and legs, even working up the strength to walk on crutches. He retired from the Marine Corps in 1985 and moved into the civilian world as a defense contractor, then working with Headquarters Marine Corps, then onto his final career with Defense Logistics Agency. Despite limited wheelchair-friendly resources, Gerlach maintained his independence and refused to be a victim of his circumstances. He de­veloped a method of entering and exiting his car to drive himself to work. He also be­came a tournament fisher and avid hunter.

Throughout his recovery and following his retirement, Gerlach remained in touch with his fellow Beirut veterans. He attended the 1986 dedication of the Beirut Memorial in Jacksonville, N.C., and returned to numerous anniversary gatherings in the following years. On the 25th anniversary, other Beirut veterans of 1/8 honored Gerlach in a special cere­mony. In the immediate aftermath of the bombing, an official change of command never occurred relieving Gerlach of his responsibility as battalion commander. At the anniversary gathering 25 years later, the remaining veterans stood in formation and presented Gerlach with the battalion’s colors.

“Commanding BLT 1/8 was the highest honor of my life,” Gerlach said today. “I hope the Marines are proud of what they did. We tried to do something that was peace-loving, but it’s difficult to preserve something that just isn’t there to begin with. There’s a lot of people in this world, with a lot of people up to a lot of good, but there’s always some people up to a lot of bad. There’s always a certain percentage of people that harbor hateful feelings. Hopefully, they are counteracted by peace-loving people. That’s Gerlach’s philosophy anyway.

Most Marines know that the fabric of our Corps is woven from throughout the nation. Marines join from every state and even from foreign countries, often with the goal of becoming a citizen of the United States. But a Canadian citizen who enlists during the Vietnam War with no desire to renounce his Canadian citizenship and become an American? That’s pretty unusual, but even more rare is when that same Marine goes on to become a highly successful businessman and philanthropist. Veteran Marine, successful businessman, and generous philanthropist Terrance K. “Terry” Salman is such a rarity.

Salman recently sat down for an interview with Leatherneck to discuss his service and his focus on philanthropy after his highly successful business career in Canada. Decades after his time in the Corps ended, Salman remains a loyal Leatherneck reader and even referenced two of the magazine’s articles in his recently published book, “What We Give From Marine to Philanthropist: A Memoir.” The interview took place via Zoom which made it easy to see that Salman embodies the old adage, “Once a Marine, always a Marine.” Behind his desk is a large portrait of a Marine waving the American flag, painted by famous Canadian artist, Attila Richard Lukas. It’s clear that Salman is proud to be a Marine.

Canadian by Birth
Growing up in a large family in Quebec, Canada, Terry Salman was a relatively mediocre high school student whose future wasn’t clearly defined. Meeting a Marine recruiter over the border in Platsburg, N.Y., Salman was intrigued listening to all the benefits of service, especially travel, but it was a photo behind the recruiter’s desk that actually sealed the deal. “I had a fondness for JFK [John F. Kennedy], the commander in chief, and behind the recruiter’s desk was a portrait of the commander in chief.” At that time, his only knowledge of the Corps came from reading the Leon Uris classic, “Battle Cry.” Nevertheless, Salman decided the Marine Corps was for him. The recruiter expedited the required green card, and Salman was off to recruit training at Marine Corps Recruit Depot Parris Island.

Salman said “The DIs were very suspicious,” about his citizenship but added that it was only at Parris Island that being a Canadian was ever an issue during his time in the Corps. “I was happy in the Marine Corps. They didn’t really care if I was Canadian. It never came up after boot camp.” And like many Marines, Salman considers his best day in the Corps to be the day he graduated from recruit training at MCRD Parris Island.

Vietnam
Salman was assigned to the infantry during his six years in the Marine Corps and he quickly advanced through the ranks to the grade of sergeant. He served in Vietnam with 1st Battalion, 4th Marines as a section leader. “I was an 0341, 81 mm mortars,” said Salman. “What mortars have to do to support a platoon is incredibly important and takes a lot of planning and training.” He later took the lessons he learned from his time as a grunt and applied them to both his business endeavors and philanthropy. “Keep your focus on the ultimate objective which the Marine Corps focuses on, whether a combat mission or training a unit or how to train individuals to become a better Marine. Teamwork is incredibly important.”

When asked about the impact his service in Vietnam had on him, Salman responded positively. “It gave me a much different view. I’ve tried to take a worldly view about what is right and what is wrong, that different countries have different ways of looking at things. Having lived in the United States, everybody called it Camelot, it was a high standard. Things are different today, not only in the United States but elsewhere. There’s more political uncertainty than there was in my time.”

Entering the Business World
After leaving the Marine Corps, Salman returned to Canada and began working in the mining industry with a focus on finance. He achieved significant success at Nesbitt Thompson, a Canadian stock brokerage firm, and later at his own financial advisory firm, Salman Partners, where he was president and chief executive officer and where he raised funding for hundreds of companies in the mining and exploration fields. As the current president of Salman Capital and chairman of New Pacific Metals Corporation, Salman’s business successes have been numerous, and he credits his time in the Corps for setting him on the path to success.

“It was really the foundation of my life because the Marines taught me everything was possible. You just have to be patient. You have to work at it. The guiding principles of following procedures, having a good plan, your own plan, your unit’s plan, those are things that I learned from and used.” Salman referenced other lessons from the Corps including discipline, accountability and responsibility. “The many courses I attended in the Marine Corps helped me become sergeant in less than four years. They were incredibly helpful; they taught me a lot about what it takes to persevere, to look for higher goals.”

Philanthropy
His philanthropic efforts grew in parallel to his business successes. According to Salman, philanthropy went hand in hand with his service as a Marine. “Philanthropy is not much different. Some of the core values that Marines learn apply in philanthropy. Marines taught me to help people, and philanthropy is all about helping mankind in a broad sense. I don’t see much difference.”

Veterans’ causes are just one of the many efforts upon which Salman has focused over the years. The Canadian organization, Veterans Transition Network, is especially close to his heart. The organization provides post-traumatic stress treatment to Canadian veterans and American veterans who live in Canada. Encountering one recipient of the organization’s programs and support, Salman was reminded again of the impact of helping others. The veteran told him, “They saved my life. I wouldn’t have seen my daughter graduate without them.” Salman strongly believes that for those who have been blessed with health or a good job, the challenge is to do more. “Veterans are the most marginalized in society in many ways. They suffer from so many things, including a large portion of homelessness, which is a big North American and global crisis to be honest. There’s much more to do.”

Of the many ways Salman has given back, his support of those with AIDS at a time when many shunned them was perhaps most impactful. “When you saw people who had marks on their face and losing weight, I was at the forefront of a hospital that embraced them which was so enriching to see. In those days they were the most marginalized/ostracized people, everyone saw it as a gay man’s disease but of course, it wasn’t. It was uplifting to sit in an environment where you could do something.” According to Salman, his support of those suffering what was at the time an incurable disease is one of his greatest legacies, and again, his efforts to support that particular community also had some roots back to his time in the Corps.

“Philanthropy is about trying to overcome adversity; making the world a better place, more giving, more inclusive, and ironically, I learned that from the Marines—inclusion. We could be supportive in other ways. I learned not to turn my back on people who were different than me. That’s what enabled me to take the AIDS initiative, which was so important.”

Loyalty is vastly important to Salman and is a theme throughout “What We Give.” “That came from my time in the Marine Corps. The Marines are big on loyalty. That’s what Semper Fi is all about. I never forgot that.” He continued, “One of the frustrations I have, not so much in philanthropy but in business, is getting the same kind of loyalty. Six years in the Marine Corps today would seem like an eternity to a young person. That’s a big thing with me.”

Legacy
Like all good Marines, Salman has spent most of his life serving as an example to others. In addition to his philanthropic efforts, which include raising millions for everything from public libraries to hospitals, Salman wrote, “What We Give From Marine To Philanthropist: A Memoir,” in the hopes that his story would serve as inspiration. “The world is full of tragic stories and suffering people. So, for those of us who have the opportunity to give back, it just seems like the moral thing to do.”

He continues to look for opportunities to help others even today. “Giving back gets easier … it has such rewarding characteristics. Small things go a long way. I’m always looking for new ways to help move my philanthropy forward.” And when asked to describe his legacy, Salman again focused on serving others. “I would hope that they would think about not just about how much money I made, helping to create a better world in the charities and philanthropies that I engaged with. There’s more things to do. That’s what I’m looking forward to for the rest of my life; trying to do more, like the Marines do with less.”

Author’s note: More information on “What We Give From Marine to Philanthropist: A Memoir” and how it can be purchased can be found at www.whatwegivebook.com.

Author’s bio: Col Mary H. Reinwald, USMC (Ret) served 27 years on active duty and retired in 2014. She was the editor of Leatherneck and the vice president for strategic communication for the Marine Corps Association until earlier this year.