“I’m Going In ALONE”: The UNTOLD STORY of Tony Stein’s One-Man WAR on Iwo Jima That Changed the Marine Corps FOREVER

 

Disclaimer: Images for illustration purpose

The first wave hit the beach at 09:00 hours.

The island of Iwo Jima rose ahead of them like the spine of some black, volcanic beast jutting out of the Pacific—a dark silhouette against the smoke and thunder of naval bombardment. The air smelled of salt, cordite, and burnt metal. The sound of engines and explosions rolled together into one unending roar that shook the ribs of every man on those landing craft.

Corporal Tony Stein stood near the bow of his Higgins boat, hands wrapped around a weapon that shouldn’t have existed—his homemade Stinger, a hybrid born from the wreckage of a crashed dive bomber and the restless mind of a machinist who couldn’t leave good enough alone.

He had built it himself in a machine shed on Hawaii—a weapon that fired faster than any gun the Marines had ever carried into battle. Now, as the ramp of the landing craft clanged open and the first bullets struck the water around them, that weapon was about to write itself into history.

“GO!” someone shouted, and the Marines of Company A poured out into waist-deep surf.

The volcanic sand wasn’t sand at all. It was black ash—soft, shifting, treacherous. It swallowed their boots, dragged at their legs, made every step a battle. Stein stumbled forward, the Stinger clutched tight in his hands, the world exploding around him. Mortar shells plunged into the surf, sending fountains of water and black grit into the air. Men screamed. The smell of blood mixed with salt and smoke.

He had trained for this moment, but no training could prepare a man for the feeling of walking into hell.

Machine gun fire tore across the beach in thin, invisible sheets. The Japanese had spent eight months preparing for this. Their bunkers were invisible until they opened fire—camouflaged with rock, their firing slits hidden in the slopes of Mount Suribachi. The Marines had been told the pre-invasion bombardment had destroyed those positions. The men who told them that were wrong.

Stein dropped flat in a shallow depression, breathing hard, volcanic dust coating his teeth and tongue. He could see the rest of his squad sprawled across the ash, pinned down, unable to move. Every time someone tried to rise, a burst of machine gun fire cut the air inches above their heads.

The beach was turning into a graveyard.

“Where’s that fire coming from?!” a voice shouted.

“Everywhere!” someone yelled back.

Stein rolled onto his side, scanning the ridge. He spotted it—just a flicker, a glint of light from a firing slit halfway up the slope. That was where the rounds were coming from. That was the gun cutting down his brothers. He lifted the Stinger, sighted through the crude iron notch he’d welded himself, and pressed the trigger.

The weapon roared like nothing else on that beach—a high, screaming buzzsaw that made the M1s and BARs sound like toys. The recoil slammed into his shoulder as brass casings rained down around him. In less than six seconds, a hundred rounds chewed through the black rock around the pillbox, ripping it apart piece by piece. The enemy gun fell silent.

The men around him began to move.

“Stein! Keep firing! KEEP FIRING!”

He shifted his aim, cut down another nest fifty yards to the right. The Stinger spat fire and smoke, its barrel glowing red in the ash. Every burst shook the ground beneath him. The weapon’s cyclic rate was so fast it seemed to hum—a deadly vibration that drowned out the screams and explosions.

When his belt ran dry, the silence was deafening.

He glanced at the ammo box. Empty. Already. A hundred rounds gone in seconds.

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February 19th, 1945. The black volcanic sand of Ewima stretched before Corporal Tony Stein like a moonscape carved from obsidian. The air smelled of sulfur and saltwater, cordite, and death. In his hands, he gripped a weapon that defied every regulation in the Marine Corps’s manual, a Browning A&M2 aircraft machine gun, 25 pounds of salvaged metal, and improvised mechanics that his sergeants had called a death trap three months earlier. around him.

 The morning erupted with the sound of Japanese Type 92 heavy machine guns tearing through American ranks. Bullets snapped overhead with that distinctive crack that told veteran Marines they were passing within inches of flesh and bone. Mortar rounds detonated in eruptions of volcanic ash, throwing black sand 30 ft into the tropical morning. The beach was transforming into an abbittoire.

 23 years old, six combat missions, zero kills with conventional weapons. Tony Stein crouched in a shallow depression that offered no real cover, just a psychological barrier between life and the interlocking fields of fire that made Ewima’s beaches the most fortified eight square miles in the Pacific theater.

 His boot sank 3 in into the loose volcanic aggregate that American intelligence had assured them would be firm enough for vehicles. The intelligence was wrong. The sand wasn’t sand at all. It was ash from millennia of volcanic eruptions pulverized into particles so fine they flowed like ball bearings underfoot. The Japanese had fortified this island with the kind of defensive architecture that military engineers would study for generations.

11 miles of interconnected tunnels, 17,000 defenders who had spent eight months preparing for this exact moment. pillboxes constructed from reinforced concrete and disguised with volcanic rock so perfectly that aerial reconnaissance couldn’t distinguish them from natural formations. Every approach to the interior was covered by machine gun positions arranged in triangulated kill zones where three different weapons could concentrate fire on a single square meter of ground. This wasn’t just defensive preparation.

This was industrialcale fortification guided by Lieutenant General Tatamichi Kuribayashi’s understanding that Japan’s strategy had shifted from victory to making America bleed so profusely that Washington would negotiate peace rather than continue the island hopping campaign toward Tokyo.

 Every Marine who died on this beach brought that negotiation one body closer. Stein was among the first men from Company A, First Battalion, 28th Marines, Fifth Marine Division to push beyond the initial landing zone. Around him, his brothers were pinned down by concentrated fire from positions they couldn’t identify. The pill boxes were invisible until they opened fire.

 By midm morning, the fifth marine division had lost 43 men. Dead Marines lay scattered across the terrorist beach in the grotesque poses that violent. Death arranges, arms twisted at impossible angles, legs spled, faces pressed into ash that would preserve their final expressions until Graves registration teams could retrieve them. The standard issue Browning M1919 machine guns were performing exactly as designed. They were reliable. They were accurate.

 They weighed 31 pounds empty and delivered 400 rounds per minute of sustained fire. Excellent for defensive positions where a crew could set up establish interlocking fields of fire and hold terrain. Utterly inadequate for the kind of assault that Ewima demanded. The problem was mathematical.

 When a machine gun crew tried to advance with a rifle platoon, they needed to break down their weapon, move forward under fire, then reassemble and resume firing. That cycle took minutes. In those minutes, momentum died. The Japanese defenders adjusted their positions, called in mortar fire, and concentrated their own machine guns on the stalled American advance.

 the window of opportunity that opened when Marines suppressed an enemy position and charged forward. That window closed before the M1919 crews could get back into action. Tony Stein had recognized this problem months earlier back when the Fifth Marine Division was training at Camp Terawa in Hawaii. He had watched machine gun crews struggle during field exercises, always lagging behind the riflemen, always arriving after the critical moment had passed.

 He understood machinery the way some men understood music or mathematics. Born in Dayton, Ohio in 1921 to Austrian Jewish immigrants who had fled the rising tide of anti-semitism in Eastern Europe. Stein had grown up in a household where the old world’s nightmares were never far from dinner table conversations.

 His parents, Samuel and Rose, had come to America with the kind of desperate hope that transforms immigrants into the most fiercely patriotic citizens. They had built a modest life in Dayton’s Jewish community, and their son Tony had inherited both their work ethic and their understanding that freedom required defense.

 By age 16, Stein was working a lathe at Patterson Field, the Army Airore installation outside Dayton. His hands learned the language of metal, how steel responded to cutting tools, how aluminum required different speeds and pressures, how brass filed differently than iron. After Pearl Harbor, he transferred to Delo Products, a defense contractor manufacturing precision components for military equipment.

 He was a tool and die maker, the kind of specialized craftsman who could look at a mechanical problem and see solutions that weren’t in any manual. In September 1942, with Europe burning and the Pacific theater demanding every available man, Tony Stein enlisted in the Marine Corps parramarines, the elite parachute infantry units that represented the core’s answer to the army’s airborne divisions.

The paramarines trained at Camp Gillespie near San Diego, learning both conventional infantry tactics and the specialized skills required for airborne operations. Stein excelled. His mechanical aptitude translated naturally to weapons maintenance. His physical conditioning from years of factory work gave him the endurance for forced marches and obstacle courses.

 His immigrant background gave him something else, a visceral understanding of what happened when civilized nations failed to confront evil early enough. The paramarines deployed to the South Pacific in early 1943. Stein’s first combat came on Bugganville, the largest of the Solomon Islands, where American forces were establishing bases to support the advance toward Rabul.

 The fighting was jungle warfare at its most brutal. Close quarters ambushes, sniper duels, disease that killed as efficiently as bullets. During a single patrol in November 1943, Stein killed five Japanese snipers who had been targeting Marine patrols from concealed positions in the jungle canopy.

 He did it methodically without theatrics, using the M1 Garand rifle with the kind of precision that came from understanding mechanical systems. Each shot was a problem solved. Calculate distance, account for wind, control breathing, squeeze trigger. The snipers stopped shooting.

 But what caught the attention of his platoon sergeant, Mel Grevich, wasn’t just Stein’s marksmanship. It was his ability to modify equipment in the field. When his rifle’s gas system malfunctioned in the jungle humidity, Stein disassembled it with the rudimentary tools available, diagnose the problem, carbon buildup, restricting gas flow, and improvised a solution using a combination of solvent, fine wire, and patient attention that other Marines couldn’t replicate.

Grevich remembered that skill. By late 1944, the strategic situation had changed dramatically. The paramarines were disbanded. Their specialized training deemed less useful than the core’s need for standard infantry replacements. Stein and Grevich were both reassigned to the 28th Marines Fifth Marine Division.

 A new unit being formed for operations that nobody would specify, but everyone understood would be catastrophic. They trained at Camp Terawa on the big island of Hawaii, running assault drills on terrain that bore no resemblance to coral atalss or volcanic islands, but taught the fundamentals: fire and movement, suppression and assault, coordination between rifle squads and supporting weapons.

 It was during this training that Grevich approached Stein with an idea that would either revolutionize infantry tactics or get them both court marshaled. Grevich had salvaged anm2 aircraft machine gun from a crashed Douglas SBD Dauntless dive bomber during the Buganville campaign. The SBD was the Navy and Marine Corps’s primary scout and dive bomber, a workhorse aircraft that had turned the tide at Midway and provided close air support across the Pacific.

Each Dauntless carried two ANM2 Browning machine guns. One mounted in the engine cowling, one in the rear cockpit for the Radio Man gunner. The ENM2 was a marvel of aviation engineering. It weighed only 21 lb, 10 lb lighter than the infantry’s M1919. More importantly, it fired at a cyclic rate of 1,200 rounds per minute, three times faster than the groundbased gun.

That rate of fire was necessary for aerial combat, where target engagement windows lasted only seconds as aircraft passed each other at combined closing speeds exceeding 400 mph. To achieve that rate of fire without the weapon destroying itself, the&M2’s designers had created a machine gun cooled by airflow.

 When mounted in an aircraft traveling at 300 mph, the slipstream provided constant cooling to the barrel, preventing the metal from reaching failure temperatures even during sustained firing. But there was an obvious problem. The AN&M2 was designed to be mounted on a fixed aircraft installation. It had spayed grips, two handles that an aerial gunner would grasp while swiveing the weapon on its mount. No buttstock for shoulder firing.

 No sights for aiming from a standing or prone position. No bipod for stability. no way for a single infantryman to carry it and employ it effectively while advancing under fire. The weapon existed in a strange categorical limbo, too light to be a vehicle-mounted machine gun, too fast firing to be sustainable in ground combat, where there was no 300 mph air flow, and completely lacking the furniture required for individual operation.

When Grevich showed the salvaged A&M2 to Stein in November 1944, other Marines in the maintenance shed laughed. One corporal said, “You might as well try to shoulder fire a howitzer.” A sergeant said the barrel would melt after the first magazine. The weapon required aircraft slipstream for cooling.

 On the ground with no air flow, the thin barrel would heat to failure temperatures and warp or crack. Even if you could solve the cooling problem, how would you aim it? How would you carry enough ammunition to sustain 1,200 rounds per minute? The standard infantryman carried 240 rounds for his M1 Garand in eight round clips and A&M2 would consume that ammunition in 12 seconds of continuous fire.

Stein looked at the weapon and saw not problems but specifications. Every obstacle was simply a design constraint to work within. The cooling issue was real but manageable. don’t fire in sustained bursts. Use short controlled bursts that allowed barrel cooling between engagements. The aiming issue required fabricating a stock and sighting system.

 The carrying issue required reducing weight elsewhere and accepting that the operator would need frequent resupply. They worked at night in the maintenance shed using tools that ranged from proper machining equipment to improvised implements fashioned from scrap metal. Stein cut down an M1 Garand buttstock, hollowing out the internal channel to accept the anm2’s buffer tube and recoil spring assembly.

The Garand stock was solid walnut, dense enough to absorb recoil, but light enough not to add excessive weight. He carefully shaped the wood to mate with the machine gun’s receiver, creating a pressure fit that wouldn’t shift during firing.

 For the trigger mechanism, Stein fabricated a solenoid system from sheet metal scraps and electrical components salvaged from damaged radios. The&M2’s original firing mechanism was designed for aircraft electrical systems. Stein’s solenoid converted that to a mechanical trigger that an infantryman could operate with his finger. It was crude but functional. Press the trigger.

Complete the circuit. Weapon fires. Grevich contributed welding expertise attaching a Browning automatic rifle bipod to the front of the ANM2. The bar bipod was designed for a weapon of similar weight and recoil characteristics, making it a reasonable match.

 They added barre rear sights to the receiver, giving the gunner a rudimentary but adequate aiming system effective to 200 yards. The ammunition feed required no modification. The ENM2 used standard 136 Springfield rounds in linked belts, the same ammunition used by the M1919 and BR. They could draw from existing supply chains without requiring special ordinance.

 The final result was a weapon that weighed 25 pounds fully assembled, fed from 100 round ammunition boxes, and was theoretically capable of emptying that box in 5 seconds of continuous fire. They called it the Stinger. The name had a dual meaning. It stung like the scorpion it was named after, and it referenced the wasplike sound the weapon made when firing at full cyclic rate.

 Stein built six of them total, one for each of the three rifle platoon in company A, one for the demolition section, one for Grevich, and one for himself. The reaction from other Marines ranged from skeptical interest to outright derision. Some saw innovation. Others saw a disaster waiting to happen. One platoon sergeant examined the stinger and declared that it would jam on the first burst because the feed mechanism wasn’t designed for ground combat angles.

 Another sergeant predicted the barrel would melt after two magazines warping so badly the weapon would become inoperable. A company commander from second battalion looked at the improvised stock and solenoid trigger and said only an idiot would carry a plane gun into an infantry fight. The weapon was designed for aircraft.

 Its operating parameters were defined by aircraft employment and trying to use it on the ground violated every principle of weapons engineering. But when Stein test fired the Stinger on the range at Camp Terawa, emptying a full 100 round box into a target at 200 yards in under 6 seconds. The skeptics went quiet.

 The sound alone was distinctive, a high-pitched roar that was immediately recognizable as different from any standard infantry weapon. The target, a wooden mockup representing a pillbox firing slit, was completely destroyed. Where the M1919 would have delivered 400 rounds per minute, requiring 15 seconds to put 100 rounds down range, the Stinger had done it in six.

 The implications were obvious to anyone who understood suppressive fire. Company commanders approved it. Battalion approved it. Even regimental command signed off, though with caveats. The Stinger was a field modification, not standard issue. And if it malfunctioned, causing marine casualties, the responsibility would fall on the men who built it. The weapon was going to war.

 Now, on the morning of February 19th, 1945, Tony Stein crouched in volcanic ash on Ewima’s beach, holding that improvised weapon, while around him, the Fifth Marine Division, was learning exactly how thoroughly the Japanese had prepared for this invasion. The initial naval bombardment had seemed overwhelming. 3 days of sustained shelling from battleships, cruisers, and destroyers combined with aerial bombing from carrier aircraft.

 American commanders had expected the bombardment to destroy the majority of Japanese defensive positions. The commanders were catastrophically wrong. The Japanese had built their fortifications deep into the volcanic rock. some positions buried under 30 feet of stone and reinforced concrete. The naval shells had destroyed surface structures and cratered the landscape, but the interconnected tunnel system remained intact.

As soon as the bombardment lifted and landing craft approached the beach, the Japanese emerged from their tunnels and began firing from positions that aerial reconnaissance had reported as destroyed. The result was a killing field meticulously designed by Lieutenant General Kurib Bayashi, who understood that Japan could not win the Pacific War, but could make victory so costly that American public opinion would fracture.

 Every Marine who died on Euima was a data point in that calculation. The standard American assault doctrine called for overwhelming firepower to suppress enemy positions, followed by rapid advance under that suppression. But suppressive fire required machine guns, and the M1919 crews were struggling to keep pace. They would set up, deliver fire, then require several minutes to displace forward.

 In those minutes, the Japanese adjusted. They brought additional weapons to bear. They called in mortar fire. The American advance stalled. Stein tightened his grip on the stinger. The barrel was already warm from the few test bursts he had fired during the approach to the beach. around him.

 Marines were dying because they couldn’t locate the camouflaged Japanese positions quickly enough. Standard procedure called for tanks or naval gunfire to eliminate hardened positions, but the tanks were bogged down in the volcanic ash. The M4 Shermans weighed 30 tons, and their treads couldn’t gain purchase in the loose aggregate. Naval shells couldn’t hit what couldn’t be identified.

Someone needed to draw enemy fire to reveal their positions. Stein made a decision that would earn him the Medal of Honor and define the rest of his short life. He stood up fully upright in the middle of a beach where Japanese machine gunners had spent months calculating fields of fire and range cards.

 Corporal Tony Stein, 23 years old tool and die maker from Dayton, exposed himself to draw enemy attention. He needed them to reveal their positions. He needed to see the muzzle flashes. Bullets snapped past his head with that particular supersonic crack that veteran infantrymen learned to distinguish from the deeper thump of rounds passing farther away.

These were close. Within inches, mortar rounds began detonating nearby, throwing volcanic ash in black fountains that hung in the air before settling back down. The Japanese mortar crews had excellent discipline, adjusting their fire based on spotter reports from the heights of Mount Surabachi.

 And then Stein saw it. A pillbox 75 yards northwest, camouflaged so perfectly with volcanic rock and ash that it was invisible until the moment it fired. The barrel of a Type 92 heavy machine gun protruded just inches from a firing slit no more than 8 in wide.

 The Type 92 was a formidable weapon comparable to the American M1919 in firepower. Known for reliability and accuracy, the crew operating it had trained for this exact scenario. Stein lowered the Stinger, aimed at the pillbox, and squeezed the solenoid trigger. The weapon roared to life at,200 rounds per minute.

 The sound was unmistakable, a high-pitched buzzsaw roar that cut through the ambient noise of battle. The pillbox began disintegrating under the torrent of 3006 rounds. 1,200 bullets per minute translated to 20 rounds per second hammering into the volcanic rock and sandbags protecting the Japanese position. The volume of fire was simply overwhelming.

 The Type 92 fell silent within 3 seconds through the dust and smoke kicked up by his own gunfire. Stein could see movement inside the position, then nothing. He shifted aim to a second pillbox 40 yards to the left, one that had begun firing at him the moment he engaged the first position. Another burst. 5 seconds of continuous fire. The concrete structure absorbed some rounds.

 The Japanese had built well, but the concentration of fire was too much. Rounds found the firing slit. The machine gun crew inside stopped shooting. Around Stein, Marines began to move. Seeing the enemy positions suppressed, riflemen advanced from their shallow depressions in the volcanic sand. Sergeants shouted orders that were barely audible over the ongoing artillery and small arms fire.

 The assault was moving again. Stein charged the first pillbox. The Stinger’s lighter weight compared to the M19119 meant he could run with it at a pace impossible for standard machine gun crews. He covered 75 yards in seconds, boots sinking into the volcanic, ash with each stride, but momentum carrying him forward. He reached the position and assessed the damage.

 Inside the reinforced concrete structure, three Japanese soldiers lay dead. The 1,200 rounds per minute rate of fire had simply cut through everything. Flesh, bone, sandbags, equipment. It wasn’t surgical. It was industrial. He moved to the second pillbox. Same result. Two enemy soldiers dead. The position destroyed.

 The type 96 machine gun lay on its side, the barrel bent from multiple hits. But then Stein felt the stinger go light in his hands. The 100 round ammunition box was empty. 100 rounds gone in less than 10 seconds of actual trigger time. He had anticipated this problem during training in Hawaii working through the mathematics with Grievich.

 1,200 rounds per minute meant you could empty a standard belt in five seconds of continuous fire. Short controlled bursts would extend that. But even three round bursts meant you were going through ammunition faster than any other weapon on the battlefield. But experiencing the reality in combat was different from planning for it in training.

 Stein looked back toward the beach, 200 yards to the ammunition resupply point near the waterline, where landing craft were still unloading supplies under sporadic mortar fire. He would have to cross open ground fully exposed to get more linked 30 caliber ammunition. He started running. The volcanic sand made every step difficult.

 It wasn’t like normal beach sand which compacted under pressure and provided reasonable footing. The ash from millennia of eruptions was pulverized so finely that it behaved like a fluid. Marines compared it to running through ball bearings. Stein’s boot sank three inches with each stride, and the energy required to extract his foot and take the next step was exhausting.

 Halfway to the beach, he passed a wounded marine, a private first class from second platoon, shrapnel wound to the left leg from a mortar fragment. The man was conscious but couldn’t walk, and staying in the open meant dying from blood loss or follow-up mortar fire. Stein grabbed him without breaking stride, slung him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and kept running.

 The Marine weighed 160 lb. The Stinger weighed 25 lbs. Stein’s combat pack, ammunition pouches, grenades, first aid kit, entrenching tool, canteen, added another 30 lb. He was carrying over 215 lbs through volcanic ash while Japanese mortar crews bracketed the beach with high explosive shells. He reached the supply point at 945.

 A Navy corman took the wounded marine already calling for a stretcher team to evacuate him to the beach aid station. Stein grabbed four ammunition boxes, each containing 100 rounds of linked 30 caliber. He stuffed two boxes into his pack, carried one in each hand, and turned back toward his platoon’s position. The return trip took three minutes.

 Japanese snipers had started targeting Marines, moving between the beach and forward positions. Recognizing that supply lines were vulnerability, bullets kicked up black ash around Stein’s boots, creating small eruptions like miniature mortar strikes. A mortar round detonated 30 yards to his right, throwing volcanic rock and shrapnel in a lethal radius that killed two Marines who had been crouched near the impact point. Stein didn’t stop.

 Stopping in the open meant dying. The only direction was forward. When he reached company A’s position, his platoon sergeant immediately pointed to a third pillbox. This one was larger reinforced concrete with a type 96 light machine gun covering the approach to airfield number one. Two previous assaults had failed.

Four Marines lay dead in front of it, their bodies marking the kill zone boundaries as clearly as surveyor stakes. Stein loaded a fresh ammunition box into the stinger. He checked the belt feed, ensuring the first round was properly seated. The weapon was already hot from the previous engagement. The barrel was warm to the touch, even through his gloves. But the thin aircraft steel could handle more.

The&M2’s designers had built-in tolerances for aerial combat where cooling was constant. On the ground, those tolerances were being tested. He stood up and advanced on the pillbox alone. The Type 96 opened fire immediately. rounds snapped past his head and chest, some close enough that he could feel the pressure wave of their passage. At 50 yards, he opened fire.

The weapon’s rate of fire was so high that the Japanese gunner couldn’t adjust his aim fast enough. The human reaction time, see target, assess threat, adjust weapon, fire, takes approximately one and a half seconds for a trained soldier. In one and a half seconds, the stinger delivered 30 rounds.

 Stein’s initial burst found the firing slit and rounds began penetrating the position. The enemy gun went silent. He charged the final 20 yards and dropped a fragmentation grenade through the opening. The explosion killed the threeman crew inside. Stein turned back to reload. The ammunition box was empty again.

 He had been in continuous combat for 46 minutes and had already gone through 300 rounds. The Stinger was proving its tactical worth beyond any doubt. But the logistical problem was becoming critical. This weapon could suppress and destroy enemy positions faster than any standard machine gun in the Marine Corps arsenal. but it would require constant ammunition resupply at a rate that the existing supply system wasn’t designed to sustain. He started his second run to the beach.

 This time he found two wounded Marines on the route down. One had a sucking chest wound from shrapnel that had penetrated his flack jacket. The bubbling sound of air escaping through damaged lung tissue was audible even over the battle noise. The other had lost part of his right hand to a shell fragment, the fingers simply gone, bone visible through torn flesh.

 Stein couldn’t carry both simultaneously. He made a calculation based on triage principles. the corman had taught during training. The chest wound was immediately life-threatening. The hand wound was severe but survivable if treated within the next hour. He took the chest wound case first, running him to the corman at the beach aid station.

 The corman took one look, started emergency treatment, and called for immediate evacuation to a hospital ship. Stein grabbed more ammunition and made a third trip specifically to retrieve the second wounded man. By 10:30, Stein had made four trips to the beach and back.

 Each time he had carried a wounded marine to safety, each time he had returned with ammunition. His platoon had advanced 200 yards inland from the initial beach positions. They had destroyed seven enemy positions and Stein had personally killed at least 15 Japanese soldiers, though the exact count was impossible to determine because some bodies were buried under collapsed pillbox structures. But the Stinger was suffering.

 The barrel was discolored from heat instead of the normal steel blue gray. It had developed a purple tinge that metal smiths recognize as an indication of heat stress. The solenoid trigger was starting to stick, requiring manual manipulation to reset between bursts, and Stein’s boots were disintegrating. The volcanic ash was abrasive, wearing through the leather soles with each step. He looked down at his feet.

 The soles were nearly gone, worn through to the point where he could feel individual rocks through the remaining leather. The uppers were cracked and torn, providing minimal ankle support. Running in them was becoming painful. Every step sent sharp pains through his arches as his feet absorbed impacts that the boot soles should have cushioned.

 Stein made a decision that seemed insane, but was based on calculated reasoning. He unlaced his boots and kicked them off, barefoot in volcanic ash. The decision violated every infantry manual and common sense principle. But Stein understood the mathematics. Every second counted when Marines were bleeding out waiting for ammunition.

 His disintegrating boots were adding friction and slowing him down. The ash was abrasive, yes, but not unbearably hot in the shaded areas. He could run faster without them. He also removed his M1 steel pot helmet. The helmet weighed 22 lb, not much in isolation, but combined with the boots, he was shedding nearly 5 lb of equipment. 5 lbs that would let him move faster between the beach and his platoon.

His fifth run to the beach took 2 minutes and 40 seconds, nearly 30 seconds faster than his previous run. Barefoot, he could actually gain traction in the loose volcanic sand in ways that the rigid bootles couldn’t match. His feet sank into the ash, but without the leather barrier, he could feel the terrain and adjust his stride.

 Instinctively, it was painful. The ash was coarse, like running on ground glass, but it was faster. He grabbed another wounded marine on the way down. This one with shrapnel to the abdomen, intestines visible through the torn uniform. The man was unconscious from shock and blood loss. Stein carried him over his shoulder, delivered him to the corman, loaded up on ammunition, and ran back to company A’s position barefoot through volcanic ash while Japanese snipers tried to kill him. By 1100 hours, Stein had made six trips to the beach. He had carried six wounded Marines to safety, each of whom would have died without immediate evacuation. He had brought back 600 rounds of ammunition. He had personally destroyed five more enemy positions with the Stinger. His platoon had advanced 300 yards from the beach.

 They were approaching airfield number one, one of the strategic objectives that made Ewima valuable enough to justify the horrific casualties. Japanese resistance was intensifying as the Marines pushed inland. The enemy had constructed a defensive network of pillboxes, spider holes, and underground bunkers connected by tunnels that allowed defenders to move unseen. When one position was destroyed, soldiers would emerge from another location and resume firing.

 The Americans were fighting not just individual strong points, but an interconnected system. The Stinger was the only weapon in Company A that could deliver enough volume of fire to keep multiple positions suppressed simultaneously. When Stein opened up on one pillbox, the sheer sound of 1,200 rounds per minute was enough to make adjacent positions hesitate.

 That moment of hesitation, that brief window where enemy gunners ducked instead of firing, gave riflemen time to advance and throw grenades. But the weapon was taking serious damage. The barrel was now visibly glowing after sustained fire, radiating heat that Stein could feel on his face when he aimed. The thin aircraftrade steel wasn’t designed for prolonged ground combat.

 It was engineered to be cooled by 300 mph slipstreams during dive bombing runs and air-to-air combat. On the ground, there was no air flow except what Stein could create by moving, just relentless heat buildup from rapid firing. The solenoid trigger mechanism was also degrading. Stein had fabricated it from sheet metal in Hawaii using tools and materials available in a maintenance shed. And while it worked, it wasn’t built to military specifications.

Sometimes it would stick, requiring a sharp tap to reset. Sometimes it would fire one round when he wanted a burst. Sometimes it would fire a burst when he wanted a single round. He had to constantly adjust his firing technique to compensate for the mechanical inconsistencies. Despite the issues, the Stinger remained devastatingly effective.

 At 11:20, Stein’s platoon encountered a reinforced Japanese position that had stopped the advance of two other companies. It was a concrete bunker with three firing slits positioned to cover the approach to airfield number one with interlocking fields of fire. Multiple type 96 light machine guns inside positioned so that advancing marines would be caught in a crossfire. Two M10 tank destroyers had tried to knock it out from long range.

 Both were hit by concealed 47 mm anti-tank guns that the Japanese had positioned specifically to protect this bunker. The tank destroyers withdrew with damaged tracks and wounded crew members. An air strike was called in SBD Dauntlesses. Ironically, the same type of aircraft that had provided the ENM2 machine guns Stein had salvaged.

 But the bombs missed by 50 yards, cratering the landscape without touching the bunker. The position remained operational, and Company A’s advance was stalled. Stein studied the position from a covered position 70 yard away. The firing slits were narrow, maybe 8 in wide and 4 in tall, designed to provide maximum protection while allowing the defenders to fire outward. Difficult targets for conventional weapons.

 But the Stinger’s rate of fire meant that if he aimed at a slit and held the trigger, statistically some rounds would get through. It was a numbers game. 1,200 rounds per minute meant 20 rounds per second. Even with significant dispersion, several rounds would find the opening. He advanced alone. At 50 yards from the bunker, he went prone in the volcanic ash and opened fire.

 The Stinger emptied its 100 round box in 7 seconds. At that range, with that volume of fire, at least 30 rounds went through the firing slits. The effect inside the bunker would have been catastrophic. Ricocheting rounds, fragmentation from the concrete, over pressure from multiple impacts in an enclosed space. The Japanese guns inside went silent.

Stein reloaded, stood up, and charged the bunker. He dropped grenades through the firing slits. The explosions killed the fiveman crew inside. Company A’s advance resumed. His seventh trip to the beach came at 11:50. This time he carried a Marine who had lost both legs below the knee to an anti-personnel mine.

 The man was still conscious, screaming from shock and pain, his femoral arteries pumping blood with each heartbeat. Stein ran the entire 200 yards while the marine bled into his uniform, the warm wetness soaking through Stein’s shirt and trousers.

 The corman said later that if Stein had been 30 seconds slower, the marine would have died from blood loss before reaching treatment. As it was, the corman applied tourniquets, administered morphine, and called for immediate evacuation. The marine survived. On the return trip, Stein encountered something unexpected. Another marine carrying a stinger. It was one of Grevich’s other gunners from company G, part of the original group that had received the improvised weapons.

 The man’s stinger had jammed permanently after overheating. The barrel had warped from sustained fire without adequate cooling, bending enough that the belt feed mechanism no longer aligned properly. He was carrying it back to the beach to see if an armorer could repair it, though both men knew that field repair of a warped barrel was impossible without machine tools.

Stein looked at his own stinger. The barrel was discolored purple from heat stress. The wooden furniture on the grand stock was starting to char with small wisps of smoke rising from the wood where the hot receiver made contact. The bipod was loose, the welds cracking from repeated firing stress, but it still fired. He made his eighth trip to the beach at 12:30.

 Another wounded marine evacuated. Another load of ammunition retrieved. By now, other Marines had started to notice the barefoot corporal making repeated runs under fire. Some thought he was crazy, barefoot on Ewima, where every step could be on a mine or sharp volcanic rock.

 Others thought he was the bravest man on the island, repeatedly exposing himself to enemy fire when he could have stayed in relatively safe positions. Stein didn’t think about bravery or insanity. He thought about mathematics and logistics. His platoon needed ammunition to maintain the rate of fire that kept them alive. Wounded men needed evacuation or they would die. He was faster barefoot.

 The stinger gave him enough firepower to suppress enemy positions while he moved. Everything else was just execution. But on his eighth return trip, something changed. A Japanese sniper had moved into position, overlooking the supply route, recognizing that Marines making repeated trips were valuable targets.

 As Stein ran back toward company A with four ammunition boxes, a round snapped past his head. Close, maybe 6 in, close enough that if he had turned his head at that instant, the bullet would have struck him. He dropped flat in the volcanic ash. The stinger landed beside him. For the first time that day, Tony Stein was pinned down. The sniper was good.

 demonstrating the patience and skill that characterized Japanese sniper training. Stein couldn’t see the position, but the angle of the shot told him it was somewhere on the ridge line 200 yards east, probably in a spider hole or behind volcanic rock that provided both cover and concealment. The Japanese had trained their snipers according to rigorous standards, patient, disciplined, willing to wait hours for a single high value target.

 A marine making repeated trips across open ground was definitely high value. Killing him would disrupt company A’s ammunition supply and demoralize the men who depended on those barefoot runs. Stein lay motionless for 30 seconds, controlling his breathing. The sniper would be watching for movement. Any movement would draw fire. The volcanic ash around his position showed no cover, just flat open terrain between the beach and the forward positions.

 Another round cracked overhead, impacting the ash 10 ft behind him. The sniper was firing at where Stein had been, not where he was now, which meant the shooter hadn’t acquired his exact location yet. Stein had maybe 10 seconds before the sniper adjusted and found him. He rolled left, grabbed the stinger, and came up running.

 Not toward his platoon, toward the sniper. The mathematics were simple and brutal. Running perpendicular to the sniper’s line of sight would make him a harder target than running away. And if he could close the distance, the Stinger’s rate of fire would overwhelm a boltaction rifle. Three more shots rang out, all misses.

 Stein was sprinting now, barefoot through volcanic ash, the stinger in his hands, ammunition boxes bouncing in his pack. At 150 yards, he saw movement. A figure in a spider hole partially concealed by volcanic rock. The classic Japanese sniper position that provided 360° visibility while remaining nearly invisible. Stein dropped to one knee and opened fire. The stinger roared.

 1,200 rounds per minute shredded the rock and surrounding terrain. The human body cannot withstand that volume of fire. The sniper’s position disintegrated under the assault. When the ammunition box ran empty, there was no return fire. Stein reloaded cautiously and approached the position. The sniper was dead. The type 97 sniper rifle lay beside him.

 a bolt-action weapon with a telescopic sight accurate to 600 yardds in skilled hands. Stein took the telescopic site as a souvenir and continued toward company A. When he reached his platoon at 1300 hours, the situation had deteriorated significantly. Company A had been pinned down by a complex of fortifications that included at least eight pill boxes arranged in a semicircle creating interlocking fields of fire.

 The Japanese defensive engineering was masterful. Any marine who stood up was immediately engaged by multiple positions from different angles. The company had taken 12 casualties in the past 20 minutes trying to advance. Three dead, nine wounded. The company commander had called for tank support, but the M4 Shermans were still bogged down near the beach.

 The volcanic ash was too soft for vehicles weighing 30 tons. The tanks kept throwing tracks or getting stuck, becoming targets for Japanese anti-tank weapons rather than providing fire support. Artillery support was limited because forward observers couldn’t get clear lines of sight to the enemy positions. The volcanic terrain featured ridges and depressions that blocked observation, and the Japanese had positioned their fortifications to take maximum advantage of those dead zones.

Stein moved to the forwardmost position, a shallow crater that provided minimal cover, and assessed the situation tactically. The eight pill boxes formed an arc approximately 100 yards ahead. Through gaps in the smoke and dust, he could see Japanese soldiers moving through trenches connecting the positions. It wasn’t static defense.

 It was a coordinated system where defenders could reinforce threatened points and concentrate fire where American forces tried to advance. The Stinger’s advantage was suppressive volume. Stein calculated that if he could suppress multiple positions in rapid sequence, riflemen could advance under that suppression, but it would require exposing himself again, standing up in the kill zone where Japanese machine gunners were waiting.

 He stood up and opened fire on the leftmost pillbox. 5second burst, approximately 100 rounds delivered down range. The position went silent. The defenders either dead or forced to take cover. He shifted aim to the next pillbox in the ark. Another burst. Silence. He was methodically working his way across the defensive ark, suppressing each position in sequence, giving Company A’s riflemen time to move forward. Japanese soldiers in the trenches began firing at him.

Type 99 rifles. Type 96 light machine guns, all concentrating on the single standing target who was systematically destroying their defensive line. Rounds kicked up ash around his bare feet, creating small eruptions inches from where he stood.

 One bullet struck the Stinger’s barrel with a metallic clang that Stein could feel through the weapon. The round had hit the already damaged barrel but hadn’t penetrated. The weapon kept firing. Stein emptied his ammunition box and dropped flat to reload while riflemen from company A advanced 50 yards under the suppression he’d provided. When Stein stood up and resumed firing, they advanced another 50 yards.

 The coordination was instinctive, unplanned, emerging from the tactical situation. The Marines understood that when the Stinger was firing, they could move. When it fell silent, they took cover. By 13:30, Company A had broken through the defensive ark. Five of the eight pill boxes were destroyed, the structures collapsed, or the crews dead.

The other three were abandoned. The defenders retreating through the tunnel system rather than remaining in positions that were being systematically eliminated. 17 Japanese soldiers were confirmed dead in and around the fortifications. Company A had lost three more Marines during the assault, but the advance continued inland.

 The Stinger was now critically damaged. The barrel was bent slightly from the bullet strike, visible as a deviation from true that would affect accuracy beyond 50 yards. The bipod had broken off completely, the welds finally failing from cumulative stress. The grand stock was charred black, the wood smoking where it contacted the hot receiver, but it still fired, and that was all that mattered.

At 13:45, during the assault on another pillbox complex, something happened that Stein had trained for, but hoped would never occur. He was firing a sustained burst when a Japanese type 96 machine gun scored a direct hit on the Stinger. The impact was violent and immediate.

 The weapon was ripped from Stein’s hands and thrown six feet backward into volcanic ash, tumbling like debris. Stein dove for cover behind a low ridge of volcanic rock. He was now unarmed in an active combat zone. The stinger lay in open ground between his position and the enemy pillbox. Japanese soldiers had seen it fall. They knew he was disarmed.

They were waiting for him to try to retrieve it. Their weapons trained on that spot. Stein looked at the weapon lying in the ash. The barrel was smoking, heat radiating visibly in the tropical air. He could see that the belt feed mechanism was damaged, the cover bent from the impact.

 Even if he retrieved it, the stinger might not fire. But he had carried that weapon through eight trips to the beach. He had used it to destroy more than 20 enemy positions. It had kept his platoon alive through 8 hours of continuous combat. He wasn’t leaving it. Stein prepared to run into the open.

 He took three deep breaths, calculating angles and timing, then sprinted into the kill zone. The Japanese machine gun opened fire immediately. Rounds snapped past his head and torso, the gunner tracking him as he moved. Stein ran in a zigzag pattern, making himself a harder target, using every evasion technique the Marine Corps had taught. 3 seconds to reach the stinger.

 He grabbed it midstride, rolled behind another ridge line, and immediately checked the weapon. The belt feed was jammed. A round had struck the feed mechanism and bent the guide rails that directed the ammunition belt into the chamber. Stein pulled out the damaged belt with his fingers, ignoring the heat of the metal. He cleared the jam manually.

 His tool and die training giving him the mechanical understanding to diagnose and fix the problem in seconds. He loaded a fresh ammunition box. The weapon fed correctly. He test fired a three round burst. It worked. He stood up and emptied the entire 100 round box into the pillbox that had shot the stinger from his hands. 100 rounds in 7 seconds. The position was obliterated.

The type 96 machine gun that had nearly killed him fell silent permanently. The crew dead, the weapon destroyed. Stein reloaded and continued the assault. By 1400 hours, company A had advanced 400 yardds from the beach. They had destroyed 23 enemy positions.

 Stein had personally accounted for at least 12 of those, though the exact count was impossible because some positions had been engaged by multiple Marines, and credit couldn’t be definitively assigned. His barefoot runs to the beach had saved nine wounded Marines who would have died without immediate evacuation. And the Stinger, despite being shot, overheated, and mechanically abused beyond any reasonable operational limits, was still firing, but the weapon’s condition was now critical and approaching catastrophic failure. The barrel was visibly bent, affecting

accuracy to the point where aimed fire beyond 30 yards was unreliable. The rate of fire had decreased to approximately 900 rounds per minute. Still faster than the M19 to19, but only 75% of the original capability. The solenoid trigger was firing in erratic bursts of three to five rounds, even when Stein wanted continuous fire, and the wooden stock was so charred that it was starting to crumble. Pieces of burned wood breaking off with each shot.

At 14:30, during an assault on a fortified trench system, the stinger was hit again. This time, a type 99 rifle round struck the receiver directly, impacting the metal housing that contained the bolt and firing mechanism. The impact knocked the weapon from Stein’s hands for the second time. It landed 10 ft away in a shell crater left by an earlier naval bombardment.

 Stein was now completely exposed in open ground with no weapon. Japanese soldiers in the trench. He could see at least six enemy combatants were firing at him with rifles and throwing grenades. A grenade exploded 5 yards behind him. The blast throwing volcanic ash and shrapnel. Fragments hit his left leg and back, tearing through his uniform and embedding in flesh.

 small wounds, painful, but not immediately incapacitating. He could still move. He ran for the stinger through the explosion debris, dove into the crater where it had fallen, and assessed the damage. The receiver had a deep gouge where the bullet had struck, a groove carved through steel that shouldn’t have been penetrable by a rifle round.

 But the&m2 was designed for aircraft weight considerations using thinner metal than groundbased weapons. Stein cycled the action manually. It was stiff, requiring significant force, but functional. He loaded a fresh belt, aimed at the trench, and fired. The Stinger worked barely.

 The rate of fire was down to approximately 600 rounds per minute, half its original capability and only 50% faster than the M1919. But 600 rounds per minute was still devastating. Stein suppressed the trench while riflemen advanced with grenades. The position was cleared in minutes. Six Japanese soldiers dead. Company A’s advance continued. By 1500 hours, Stein had made eight trips to the beach and back.

 He had fired over 2,000 rounds through the Stinger. He had carried wounded Marines on every single return trip. His feet were bloody from running barefoot through volcanic ash embedded with rock fragments. Every step left red footprints. His uniform was soaked with sweat and the blood of wounded men he had carried.

 His hands were blistered from carrying the hot weapon, and the stinger was barely functional. The barrel was bent at a five degree angle, visible deviation from true. The stock was held together by friction and hope, charred black and crumbling. The solenoid trigger fired randomly. Sometimes one round, sometimes five, sometimes nothing.

 Requiring manual manipulation, Stein had to manually cycle the action between bursts, operating the weapon more like a semi-automatic rifle than a machine gun. But company A had reached its objective for February 19th. They were at the base of Mount Suribbachi, the 550 ft volcanic peak that dominated the southern tip of like a malevolent fortress. Japanese observers on the summit could see every American position on the beach.

 Artillery spotters directed mortar and artillery fire from the heights with devastating accuracy. The mountain had to be taken, but not today. At 1700 hours, Stein’s platoon was ordered to establish a defensive perimeter and hold their position overnight. The assault on Suribachi would begin the next morning.

 For now, company A needed to consolidate their gains, resupply, and prepare for the inevitable Japanese counterattacks that doctrine predicted would come after dark. Stein finally had time to assess his own condition in detail. His feet were torn and bleeding. Lacerations from volcanic rock mixed with abrasions from the coarse ash.

 The volcanic ash had worked its way into every wound, contaminating them with silica particles that would cause infection if not treated. He had shrapnel fragments in his left calf and lower back. He could feel them when he moved, small, sharp pains distinct from the general soreness. Minor wounds by battlefield standards, but they would need treatment.

 His hands were blistered from carrying the hot stinger, the skin on his palms red and peeling. He was exhausted in ways that transcended physical fatigue. He had been in continuous combat for 8 hours, sprinting repeatedly under fire, carrying wounded men fighting without pause. He had run approximately three miles total across those eight trips to the beach through volcanic ash that made every step require twice the normal energy expenditure, carrying additional weight under fire barefoot.

 The stinger lay beside him in the fighting hole. The weapon was destroyed by any reasonable assessment. The barrel would need complete replacement. It was bent and heat stressed beyond repair. The receiver was damaged, gouged by a direct hit that should have rendered it inoperable. The stock was burned, charred black with structural integrity compromised.

The trigger mechanism was unreliable, firing erratically. But it had done its job. It had kept company A moving forward when conventional weapons would have left them pinned on the beach, dying under Japanese machine gun fire. It had provided suppressive fire that allowed nine wounded Marines to be evacuated.

It had destroyed more than 20 enemy positions. Other Marines started calling him the barefoot corporal, the nickname spreading through the regiment as word of his actions circulated. Some thought he was insane, who runs barefoot on Ewima, where every step could be on a mine or razor sharp volcanic rock.

 Others called him the bravest man they had ever seen, repeatedly exposing himself to enemy fire when he could have remained in relatively safe covered positions. Stein didn’t care about either assessment. He had done what needed to be done. The mathematics had been simple and undeniable. His platoon needed fire support to advance.

 The stinger provided that support more effectively than any standard weapon. Wounded men needed evacuation or they would die. He could run faster barefoot. Everything else, reputation, medals, recognition, was irrelevant compared to keeping his brothers alive. That night, while Stein tried to sleep in his fighting hole, Japanese infiltrators began probing Company A’s perimeter.

 Small groups of two or three soldiers testing the defenses, looking for weak points where they could penetrate and attack command posts or supply dumps. This was standard Japanese night combat doctrine designed to disrupt American rest and create casualties among troops who thought they were in safe rear areas. Stein grabbed the Stinger when he heard movement 30 yards from his position.

Despite its damage, it still had one critical advantage. Volume of fire. When a Japanese soldier appeared in the darkness, silhouetted against the slightly lighter sky, Stein fired a burst. The weapon worked. The infiltrator died. By dawn on February 20th, Stein had been awake for 22 consecutive hours.

 The assault on Mount Surabachi began at 800. Company A along with the rest of the 28th Marines began the climb up volcanic slopes that provided no cover and perfect visibility for Japanese observers. The terrain was brutal, loose ash that gave way underfoot, no vegetation, exposed ridges where defenders could see every movement, and direct fire with precision.

 The enemy had fortified the mountain with over 60 pill boxes, bunkers, and cave positions. Every approach was covered by interlocking fields of fire. Japanese soldiers had spent months preparing these defenses under Lieutenant General Kurabayashi’s orders. They had stockpiled ammunition, food, and water inside the mountains tunnel system. They intended to make the Americans pay for every yard with blood.

Stein carried the Stinger up the mountain. An armorer had worked on it overnight, replacing the most damaged components with parts cannibalized from other weapons. The barrel was still bent. There was no replacement available, but a new belt feed mechanism had been installed from a damaged M1919. The solenoid trigger had been cleaned and adjusted, making it more reliable, though not perfect. The weapon would fire, but it was no longer the devastating tool it had been.

 On February 19th, at Our 9:30, Company A encountered a reinforced bunker complex halfway up the southern slope. four concrete bunkers connected by trenches with multiple machine gun positions and mortar crews firing from concealed pits. The 28th Marines advance stalled as concentrated fire cut down every Marine who tried to move forward.

 Stein moved forward with the stinger, identified the primary bunker, and opened fire. The damaged barrel meant accuracy had decreased significantly. Rounds were dispersing more widely than designed. But at close, range, volume of fire still mattered more than precision. He suppressed the position long enough for demolition teams to move forward with satchel charges.

 The bunker was destroyed in a massive explosion that sent volcanic rock and concrete fragments hundreds of yards. Company A advanced another 50 yards up the mountain. At 10:15, Stein’s luck changed. A Japanese grenade landed 3 ft from his position. He saw it. the distinctive cylindrical shape of a type 97 hand grenade with its distinctive fuse system visible.

 He tried to move, diving away from the grenade, but the loose volcanic ash made rapid movement difficult. The grenade detonated before he could get clear. Shrapnel hit his right arm, right leg, and torso. Multiple wounds, none immediately fatal, but bleeding heavily. Fragments had penetrated his uniform and embedded in muscle tissue.

 A Navy corman reached him within minutes, applying pressure bandages and calling for evacuation. Stein refused. His platoon was still engaged in assault operations. The stinger was still needed. He had already seen what happened when marine units lost their supporting machine gun fire. They stalled, took casualties, died. He continued fighting despite the wounds and blood loss.

 For the next two hours, Stein provided fire support while bleeding through his bandages, the white gauze turning red, and then dark crimson. The stinger continued to function despite the beating both weapon and man had taken. Every time a pillbox opened fire on advancing Marines, Stein suppressed it with bursts that were becoming shorter as ammunition conservation became critical.

 Every time Japanese soldiers appeared in trench systems, he cut them down with controlled fire. But by 1230, Stein’s wounds had worsened significantly. He had lost substantial blood enough that his uniform was soaked and he was becoming lightaded. His vision was narrowing, peripheral areas going dark as his blood pressure dropped.

 He was experiencing the early stages of hypoalmic shock. The corman told him directly that he needed immediate evacuation or he would die on this mountain, become another casualty statistic in the battle for Ewima. This time Stein didn’t argue. He could barely stand.

 He handed the stinger to another marine in his squad, giving brief instructions on the weapon’s quirks. The bent barrel meant aim low and right. The trigger was sensitive. Fire in short bursts to prevent overheating. Then he allowed Corman to carry him down the mountain to the beach where he was loaded onto a landing craft and transported to a hospital ship anchored offshore.

 On February 21st, while Stein recovered on the hospital ship USS Samaritan, the 28th Marines continued their brutal assault on Mount Suribachi. The fighting was savage and personal. Every cave had to be cleared with flamethrowers and demolition charges. Every trench had to be taken in close combat with grenades and bayonets. Japanese soldiers fought to the death rather than surrender following the Bushidto code that considered surrender the ultimate dishonor.

 On February 23rd at 10:20 in the morning, a patrol from company E, 28th Marines, reached the summit of Mount Suribachi. They raised a small American flag that had been carried up the mountain for this purpose. Associated Press photographer Joe Rosenthal captured the moment. Later that afternoon, the small flag was replaced with a larger one taken from LST779, visible from greater distance.

 Rosenthal photographed that second flag raising, the image that would become the most iconic photograph of the Pacific War, reproduced on posters, stamps, and eventually the Marine Corps War Memorial in Arlington. Stein was not present for either flag raising. He was on the hospital ship receiving treatment for his wounds. Surgeons removed shrapnel fragments from his arm, leg, and torso, small pieces of Japanese grenade that had turned into projectiles.

 They treated him for blood loss with plasma transfusions and fluids. They bandaged his torn feet, treating the infections that had developed from running barefoot through contaminated volcanic ash. They told him his war was over. He would be sent to a rear area hospital in Hawaii or possibly back to the continental United States for extended recovery. His wounds were serious enough to warrant stateside evacuation.

But on February 25th, news reached the hospital ship that affected Stein more profoundly than any wound. The fifth marine division had moved north from Suribachi toward the center of the island, assaulting fortified positions in the volcanic highlands. They were attacking a position designated Hill 362A in the American battle plans. The fighting was catastrophically brutal.

The 28th Marines were taking casualties at rates that approached 50% in some companies. Company A had lost 30% of its strength in two days of combat. Stein’s platoon sergeant was dead, killed by a mortar round. His squad leader was dead, shot by a sniper. Marines he had trained with in Hawaii. Men he had shared foxholes with on Ewima’s first terrible day were dying on a nameless volcanic hill in the center of the island.

 On February 26th, against explicit medical orders, Tony Stein left the hospital ship. He climbed down a cargo net into a landing craft that was returning to the beach with supplies. He told the boat crew he had been cleared to return to duty, released by the surgeons. He had not been cleared.

 He was awall from the hospital ship, technically a deserter, subject to court marshal, but nobody stopped him. The boat crew didn’t question a marine who wanted to return to combat instead of seeking safety. He reached the beach at 1,400 hours. He found a supply sergeant and requisitioned new boots. His original pair had been discarded as destroyed.

 His feet were still bandaged underneath, wounds not fully healed, but he could walk with pain. He grabbed an M1 Garand rifle from a supply dump. The stinger was gone, either destroyed in combat or being used by another marine. It didn’t matter. Stein was going back to his unit with whatever weapon he could carry.

 He walked north across Ewima, six miles through volcanic ash and past the wreckage of battle. Past destroyed Japanese positions, their concrete structures collapsed or blown apart. Past burned out American tanks, M4 Shermans immobilized by mines or anti-tank guns, some still smoldering. past scattered equipment, helmets, rifles, packs, all the debris of combat, past graves registration teams collecting American dead, working methodically to identify bodies and prepare them for burial.

 He reached company A’s position at Hill 362A on February 27th. The company had been reduced to 63 men from its original strength of 240. The survivors were exhausted in ways that transcended physical fatigue. They had been fighting continuously for eight days with no rest, no relief, just endless combat against an enemy that refused to surrender and preferred death to dishonor.

Stein reported to the company commander, who was shocked to see him, but put him back on the line immediately. Company A needed every rifle, every man who could still fight. Questions about medical clearance and AWOL status could wait until after the battle, if anyone survived to ask them.

 For the next two days, Stein fought in the brutal close quarters combat around Hill 362A. No stinger, just an M1 Garand and fragmentation grenades. The fighting was different without the improvised machine gun. Slower, more deliberate, requiring different tactics. But Stein was still effective, using his mechanical understanding and combat experience to identify enemy positions and eliminate them methodically.

 On March 1st, 1945, Company A was assigned a reconnaissance patrol to locate a complex of Japanese pill boxes that had been harassing the regiment’s advance with long range machine gun fire. The patrol consisted of 19 Marines under the command of a lieutenant. Corporal Tony Stein was designated assistant patrol leader, second in command. Their mission was straightforward.

 Move forward approximately 400 yardds into unsecured terrain. Locate the enemy positions. Gather intelligence on their strength and disposition. And return with actionable information. No direct assault was planned, just reconnaissance, observation, and return. Standard procedure for gathering battlefield intelligence.

 At 0700 on March the 1st, the patrol moved out from Company A’s lines. The terrain was volcanic ridges and ravines carved by ancient eruptions, creating complex topography, perfect for ambush. Japanese soldiers had established concealed positions throughout this area. Snipers in spider holes, machine gun nests in caves, mortar teams positioned to deliver indirect fire on any American units that advanced. The patrol moved slowly and carefully.

Advance 20 yards. Stop. Observe the terrain ahead. Listen for sounds of enemy movement or preparation. Advance 20 more yards. Repeat. The Marines understood the Japanese defenders were watching them, tracking their movement, waiting for the optimal moment to open fire. The question wasn’t if they would be engaged, but when.

 At Oro745, the patrol reached a ridge line overlooking a small valley carved into the volcanic landscape. Stein moved to the front of the formation to get a better view of the terrain ahead, using his combat experience to identify potential enemy positions.

 Through the volcanic rock formations and ash deposits, he could see what appeared to be camouflage positions, possibly pill boxes, possibly cave entrances. The patrol needed to move closer to confirm and gather the intelligence their mission required. Stein signaled the patrol to advance carefully. He stepped forward, M1 Garand at the ready, scanning the terrain ahead for threats. His feet, still bandaged from the barefoot runs 8 days earlier, achd with every step, the wounds not fully healed.

 The shrapnel wounds in his right arm and leg, sustained when the grenade exploded near him on February 20th, had not fully healed either. But he moved forward because that was what the mission required, what his marines needed. At 0752, a single shot rang out across the volcanic landscape. The bullet struck Corporal Tony Stein in the head. He dropped instantly, falling to the volcanic ash without sound.

 The shot had come from a concealed position approximately 200 yards northeast. A spider hole or cave entrance providing perfect concealment and a commanding field of fire. The patrol couldn’t see the shooter, couldn’t identify the position to return fire effectively. A Navy corman reached Stein within seconds, moving under fire to provide medical treatment.

 But there was nothing medical science could do. The wound was immediately fatal. Corporal Tony Stein, Medal of Honor recipient, though the medal had not yet been awarded, died on the volcanic ash of Ewima at E0753 hours on March 1st, 1945. He was 23 years old. The patrol returned fire toward the suspected sniper position, rifles and automatic weapons concentrating on the general area.

 Marines called in mortar support and high explosive rounds saturated the suspected location. Whether the sniper died in the bombardment was never confirmed. Japanese soldiers rarely left bodies where Americans could find them, evacuating their dead through tunnel systems when possible. The patrol completed its mission despite the loss.

 They identified the pillbox complex, gathered intelligence on its construction and armament, and returned to company A with information that would be used to plan assault operations. But they carried Tony Stein’s body back with them, refusing to leave him in enemy territory. News of Stein’s death spread quickly through the 28th Marines and beyond.

 The barefoot corporal, who had made eight trips to the beach on February 19th, evacuating wounded Marines and resupplying ammunition under fire. the Marine who had refused evacuation after being wounded continuing to fight despite blood loss. The tool and die maker from Dayton who had built a weapon from salvaged aircraft parts and used it to destroy more enemy positions than anyone could count.

 the Jewish immigrant’s son, who had proven that American ingenuity and courage could prevail against fortified defenses and fanatical resistance. On March 2nd, Corporal Tony Stein was buried in the fifth Marine Division cemetery on Ewima, a temporary burial ground that would hold thousands of American dead before the island was secured. A simple wooden cross marked his grave, painted white with his service number, rank, and unit, stencled in black.

 No mention of the stinger, no mention of the medal of honor that would later bear his name. Just another marine in a field of white crosses. The battle for Ewima continued for another 24 days after Stein’s death. The fighting remained brutal until the end. The 28th Marines pushed north, clearing cave complexes and fortified positions meter by meter. American casualties mounted steadily by March 26th when the island was finally declared secure.

Nearly 7,000 Americans were dead and 20,000 wounded. Japanese casualties were catastrophic. Of the 21,000 defenders, fewer than 1,000 survived to surrender. The rest died in their positions, committed suicide rather than surrender, or remained sealed in caves that became their tombs. The tunnel systems beneath Ewima became mass graves holding thousands of bodies that would never be recovered.

 But on February 19th, during those first critical eight hours of combat, Tony Stein and his improvised weapon had made a measurable difference. His barefoot runs had saved nine wounded Marines who would have died on the beach without immediate evacuation. His suppressive fire had allowed Company A to advance when other units were pinned down by Japanese machine guns.

 His mechanical ingenuity had given the Marine Corps a weapon that for one day changed the tactical equation on the battlefield. The five other Stingers built by Mel Grevich saw combat on Euoima. Two were destroyed by enemy fire, hit by Japanese machine guns or grenades, and damaged beyond field repair.

 One jammed permanently from overheating, the barrel warping so severely the weapon couldn’t be restored to operation. The other two survived the battle, but were lost in the chaos of equipment disposal after the war ended. When surplus weapons were being scrapped or stored, field modifications like the Stinger were typically destroyed rather than preserved.

 They weren’t standard issue, didn’t fit into official inventory categories, and represented potential legal liability if they had been responsible for American casualties through malfunction. None of the original six stingers exist today in any museum or private collection. They were ephemeral weapons born from battlefield necessity and dying with the battle.

 But the legend of the stinger lived on in Marine Corps history and oral tradition. Armorers and mechanics heard the story and passed it along. the toolmaker from Ohio who salvaged aircraft machine guns and turned them into infantry weapons that shouldn’t have worked but did. Who ran barefoot through volcanic ash to keep his platoon supplied with ammunition.

 Who refused evacuation when wounded and returned to combat from a hospital ship. who died leading a reconnaissance patrol after earning the Medal of Honor through actions that redefined courage under fire. In May 1945, Lieutenant Colonel Chandler Johnson, commander of the Second Battalion, 28th Marines, submitted a formal recommendation that Corporal Tony Stein, be awarded the Medal of Honor, the nation’s highest military decoration for valor in combat.

 The recommendation detailed Stein’s actions on February 19th in precise language. The eight trips to the beach under fire, the nine wounded Marines evacuated, the enemy positions destroyed with the improvised weapon, the barefoot runs that kept company A supplied when other units were running out of ammunition.

 The recommendation was endorsed by every officer in the chain of command who reviewed it. Regiment division fleet Marine Force Pacific and finally Admiral Chester Nimttz, Commander and Chief Pacific Fleet. Everyone who reviewed the afteraction reports and witness statements agreed that Corporal Tony Stein had demonstrated conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty, the legal standard required for the Medal of Honor.

 On February 19th, 1946, exactly one year after Stein’s heroic actions on Euima’s Beach, his widow Joan received his Medal of Honor in a ceremony at the Ohio State House in Columbus. Ohio Governor Frank Laosa presented the medal, reading from the official citation in a voice that broke with emotion.

 Joan Stein stood in the governor’s office, overwhelmed by the weight of the decoration and the memories it represented. Memories of her husband’s determination, his courage, his refusal to accept limitations. Tony’s mother, Rose, attended the ceremony, tears streaming down her face throughout the proceedings. Her son, the Austrian Jewish immigrants child who had dropped out of high school to work as a toolmaker supporting his family during the depression, had received America’s highest recognition for military valor. The Medal of Honor citation written in

the formal language that military awards require read in part, “The first man of his unit to be on station after hitting the beach in the initial assault, Corporal Stein, armed with a personally improvised aircraft type weapon, provided rapid covering fire as the remainder of his platoon attempted to move into position.

When his comrades were stalled by a concentrated machine gun and mortar barrage, he gallantly stood upright and exposed himself to the enemy’s view, thereby drawing the hostile fire to his own person and enabling him to observe the location of the furiously blazing hostile guns. The citation continued. Determined to neutralize the strategically placed weapons, he boldly charged the enemy pill boxes one by one and succeeded in killing 20 of the enemy during the furious singlehanded assault.

It detailed each of his eight trips to the beach, the wounded Marines he evacuated, and his refusal to seek medical treatment despite his own wounds. It mentioned the personally improvised aircraft type weapon, but did not use the name Stinger. That name existed only in Marine Corps oral history, passed from veteran to veteran, never officially documented.

Tony Stein’s remains stayed on Euima in the fifth Marine Division cemetery until 1948. In December of that year, after bureaucratic delays and logistical challenges of repatriating thousands of American war dead from Pacific battlefields, his body was returned to Dayton for burial with full military honors.

 The funeral ceremony at Our Lady of the Rosary Church drew hundreds of mourners, veterans from multiple wars, family members, civilians who had never met Stein but understood what he represented about American courage and sacrifice. He was buried in Calvary Cemetery in Dayton, the only Medal of Honor recipient from that city during World War II. His grave marker lists his rank, unit, and the decoration he earned.

Visitors still leave coins and small American flags at the grave site, following the military tradition of honoring the dead. In 1972, the United States Navy commissioned USS Stein, a Knoxclass frigot numbered FF1065 in his honor. The ship served for 21 years participating in operations across the Pacific and Indian oceans from the Vietnam War through the end of the Cold War.

 It was decommissioned in 1993 and eventually scrapped, but the name Tony Stein lived on in naval records and the memories of sailors who served aboard her. The Marine Corps preserved his story in training materials and historical accounts used at every level of professional military education. At Paris Island, the Recruit Depot, where new Marines begin their transformation from civilian to warrior, drill instructors teach about improvisation and adaptation in combat.

 Tony Stein’s story is part of that curriculum. The marine who saw a problem and engineered a solution, who refused to accept that something couldn’t be done simply because regulations said it shouldn’t be done. The Stinger itself became a legend in military firearms history and the subculture of forgotten weapons.

 Ian McCollum of Forgotten Weapons, the prominent YouTube channel documenting unusual and historical firearms, created content about the weapons design and operational history. The Canadian War Museum built a functional replica for educational purposes, demonstrating to modern audiences what Stein and Grevich had accomplished with basically tools and mechanical knowledge in a Hawaiian maintenance shed in 1944.

 They had taken an aircraft machine gun designed for 300 mph airirst streams and adapted it for ground combat in ways that professional armorers said were impossible. They had solved the Marine Corps’s fire power problem with salvaged parts and ingenuity, creating a weapon that delivered three times the rate of fire of standard machine guns at a weight that allowed individual Marines to advance with assault units.

Military historians continue to debate whether the Stinger had strategic or even tactical significance in the larger battle of Euoima. Six weapons distributed across one regiment employed for only a few days before being destroyed or lost. The mathematical impact on an operation involving three Marine divisions and 70,000 men seems minimal.

But those six weapons made a critical difference to the Marines who fought alongside them. The suppressive fire allowed advances that would otherwise have stalled under Japanese machine gun fire. The psychological impact of 1,200 rounds per minute kept enemy defenders heads down at moments when seconds meant the difference between life and death.

What is not debatable, what cannot be questioned by any serious historian is Tony Stein’s personal courage and his representation of fundamental American values. Eight trips under fire when he could have stayed in relative safety. Nine wounded Marines evacuated who would have died without his intervention.

barefoot runs through volcanic ash because boots were slowing him down and every second mattered. Refusing evacuation when wounded because his platoon still needed him. Returning from a hospital ship to rejoin his unit when he should have been convolesing. leading a reconnaissance patrol that cost him his life because the mission required someone with experience and skill.

 The barefoot corporal from Dayton represents something fundamental about the Marine Corps ethos that transcends individual battles or wars. Improvise, adapt, overcome. When standard equipment fails or proves inadequate, build something better. When wounded, continue fighting until the mission is complete or your body physically cannot continue.

 When ordered to rest and recover, evaluate whether your unit needs you more than you need recovery and make the hard choice. When faced with impossible odds and fortified positions that doctrine says require heavy weapons or air support, charge forward with whatever you have and make it work through courage and determination. Tony Stein was 23 years old when he died on Ewima’s volcanic highlands.

 He had been a marine for 2 years and 5 months. He fought in two major campaigns, Bugenville and Ewima. He killed more enemy soldiers than official records could accurately count because in the chaos of combat, attribution becomes impossible when multiple Marines engaged the same target. He saved nine lives on a single day through actions that defied every instinct for self-preservation.

And he did it all with a weapon. he helped build in a maintenance shed in Hawaii. A weapon that shouldn’t have worked but did because mechanical principles don’t care about regulations and suppressive fire doesn’t require official approval. The tool maker who became a marine, who became a legend, reminds us that freedom requires not just defense but innovation.

that sometimes the best solutions come from breaking every rule in the manual and trusting practical engineering over institutional caution. That courage isn’t the absence of fear but the decision to act despite fear because others are depending on you. that the distance between an ordinary man and an extraordinary hero is simply the willingness to do what needs to be done regardless of cost or consequence.

 Tony Stein built a weapon from salvaged aircraft parts that experts said would fail. He carried it into battle barefoot and used it to save his brothers. And when Japanese defenders couldn’t believe what they were seeing, couldn’t believe the volume of fire, couldn’t believe a marine was advancing alone against fortified positions, couldn’t believe someone was running back and forth across a battlefield eight times under concentrated fire. Reality didn’t care about their disbelief.

20 of them died before they understood that American ingenuity and courage had just rewritten the rules of infantry combat, one improvised weapon and one determined marine at a time. The volcanic ash of Ewima holds his memory. The Medal of Honor preserves his name, and the Marine Corps carries forward his spirit that when the mission requires innovation, when brothers need help, when the enemy seems overwhelming, you improvise, adapt, overcome, and charge forward. Because that is what Marines do. That is what Tony Stein did. And that is why his story endures.