Remember Me

I continue on my quest--

To recover and repatriate the remains of American dead still lying where they fell during the battle of "Bloody Tarawa"--now sixty-five ago,in Novermber, 1943.

I have other objectives, e.g., removing the tons and tons of garbage on Red Beach where so many Americans died under murderous Japanese gunfire; also removing live ammunition, mainly ours, everywhere on that tiny,  densely, populated island.

Repatriation is first...

It's because of something that happened in the waning days of that savage battle.

My job as a Navy landng craft officer was to land Marines on to Red Beach. I made a number of trips in  my Higgins Boat, each time watching my countrymen being cut to pieces on the beach by enfilading Japanese gunfire. The battle almost over, it was my sad duty to transport the wounded in my Higgins Boat back to my ship for medical treatment.

During these several trips I kept a close watch over my precious cargo, concerned that some might die during the long trip back to my ship.

On one trip my attention was drawn to a young Marine--sixteen or seventeen years old at the most. He kept crying and moaning, "It hurts." I crawled on the deck boards over to him and asked if he had had a shot? I meant morphine. "No," he said. I took a morphine syrette out of my first aid kit and injected the drug into his leg, first making sure he had not been wounded there. I then dutifully pinned a tag to his uniform marking the date and time of the shot, ensuring that another shot wouldn't be administered too soon afterwards by someone else.

The morphine had taken effect almost immediately--he had stopped moaning. He seemed to be asleep. I wanted to make sure that he was asleep indeed, so I sat by his side watching him. Presently, he opened his eyes and by their motion signalled for me to come closer. He was trying to say something to me, but I couldn't make out what it was through his throaty whisper. I leaned closer, my ear an inch from his lips. I still wasn't  sure--and maybe I imagined it; your mind plays tricks on you, you know--but I felt sure he said, "Remember me." A few minutes later he was dead.

Regardless of whether he said it or not--I want to believe that it happened.That's why I'm determined to see to it that the two, three hundred American dead in Tarawa are returned home.

Comments

[daniel (n) obriot]

iserved on the uss feland apa11 tarawa is on mind every day from the betty bomer that cleard the king post 100 ft. our officer at are 40 mi gun not giveing pernison to fire boomer crew looking dowen at us