The 19-Year-Old MARINE Who Turned a Two-Man Bazooka Into a 30-Minute Massacre on Iwo Jima’s ‘Meat Grinder’ Hill

 

The volcanic air stank of sulfur and cordite. It was 9:00 a.m., February 26th, 1945 — the seventh day of the invasion of Iwo Jima — and Private First Class Douglas Jacobson was pinned behind jagged black rock on the western slope of Hill 382, the most fortified position on the island.

The Marines called it the Meat Grinder. And that wasn’t a nickname — it was a warning.

From his position, Jacobson could see the ground littered with bodies. Marines from Company I, 3rd Battalion, 23rd Regiment, 4th Marine Division — his brothers — lay sprawled where they’d fallen. The air was alive with the mechanical scream of Japanese 20mm anti-aircraft guns that had been lowered to ground level, scything through the assault line like industrial saws.

A two-man bazooka team had crawled forward to take one of those guns out. Jacobson watched as they moved in short bursts, the loader clutching four M6A3 rockets in a canvas satchel, the gunner dragging the tubular launcher. They’d barely advanced fifteen yards when a flash erupted from the Japanese position. The next second, both Marines dropped in the ash, motionless.

Jacobson didn’t move. Nobody did.

It was suicide to stand up. The enemy had overlapping fields of fire carved into the mountain. They had spent eight months digging in, transforming the island’s eight square miles of volcanic wasteland into an interlocking maze of tunnels, pillboxes, and blockhouses — a subterranean fortress built under the command of Lieutenant General Tadamichi Kuribayashi, the brilliant, relentless architect of Japan’s defense.

Artillery hadn’t touched them. Naval bombardments had turned the beaches into moonscapes, but Kuribayashi’s men had been waiting underground. The moment the Marines climbed out of their landing craft, the hill came alive — machine guns, mortars, and anti-tank cannons opening in perfect coordination.

Five days into the invasion, more than 30,000 Marines had hit the beaches. Nearly half were already dead or wounded.

Now Company I was being chewed apart.

Jacobson was only nineteen years old, barely out of high school, his skin burned raw by the sulfur wind, his hands trembling on the grip of his rifle. He had enlisted in the Marine Corps Reserve at seventeen, lying about his age. He’d grown up in Port Washington, New York, spent summers as a lifeguard on Long Island, working part-time in his father’s drafting shop. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be designing blueprints — not climbing a volcano under enemy fire.

But now, at nineteen, he had fought through three island campaigns — Roi-Namur, Saipan, Tinian — and somehow, despite everything, he had survived.

Until now.

The Japanese 20mm gun fifty yards ahead was cutting the company to pieces. Every time someone tried to move, the weapon chattered again, its shells exploding against the rock with a whip-crack metallic hiss. The Marines were stuck in open ground, the volcanic sand so soft it swallowed their boots and made crawling impossible.

And there — half-buried in the ash, lying between two dead Marines — was the bazooka.

Jacobson could see it glinting in the morning light. The steel tube looked ordinary, almost harmless. But he knew better. The bazooka was a two-man weapon — one man to aim and fire, one to load and connect the ignition wire. Alone, it was a death trap. The backblast could burn a man alive if he misjudged the angle.

Nobody operated it solo.

Nobody — until that moment.

Jacobson glanced to his left. The company’s platoon sergeant shouted over the gunfire, pointing at the enemy gun. Jacobson nodded once.

Then he ran.

He didn’t think about dying. He didn’t think about anything at all. His boots pounded the volcanic sand, his heart thundering in his chest. Rounds hissed past his head. The 20mm cannon turned toward him, spitting fire.

Jacobson dove behind a ridge of broken rock, skidding into cover, the bazooka in his hands. The launcher was warm from the sun, rough and heavy — thirteen pounds of steel. The dead loader’s canvas bag still hung around his neck, four rockets inside.

He slung it over his shoulder and breathed once, steadying himself.

The M6A3 rocket was almost nineteen inches long, its warhead a cone of shaped explosive capable of melting armor at six thousand meters per second. It wasn’t made for concrete or rock. It was made to kill tanks. But right now, it was all he had.

He loaded the rocket himself — something no Marine had ever been trained to do — twisting the electrical wire around the contact spring and praying he hadn’t misaligned it. Then he raised the tube to his shoulder.

The Japanese gun opened fire again. The air filled with screaming metal.

Jacobson fired.

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At 09:00 on February 26th, 1945, Private First Class Douglas Jacobson crouched behind volcanic rock on the western slope of Hill 382, watching the bazooka team ahead of him take fire from a Japanese 20 mm anti-aircraft gun. 19 years old, three island campaigns, zero decorations.

 The Japanese had fortified Hill 382 with 16 hardened positions, each one designed to kill Marines in overlapping fields of fire. Jacobson had enlisted in the Marine Corps Reserve at 17, lying about his age to get into the fight. He worked as a draftsman for his father back in Port Washington, New York.

 Spent summers as a lifeguard on Long Island beaches. Now he was part of company I, Third Battalion, 23rd Marines, Fourth Marine Division, pinned down on the most fortified hill on Ewima. The island was 8 square miles of volcanic ash and death. 5 days earlier, 30,000 Marines had stormed ashore expecting light resistance. Intelligence had been catastrophically wrong.

 The Japanese commander, Lieutenant General Tatamichi Kuribi Bayashi, had spent 8 months turning Ewoima into a fortress. 18 km of tunnels, concrete pill boxes, hidden artillery, and Hill 382, the highest elevation north of Mount Surabbachi, anchored the entire defensive system. Marines called this sector the meat grinder. The name was not metaphorical.

 In the 7 days since the landing, the 23rd Marines had lost nearly half their strength. Company after company had tried to take Hill 382. Every assault ended the same way. Japanese gunners waited until Marines crossed open ground, then opened fire from positions the bombardment had failed to destroy. Sherman tanks burned. Flamethrower teams died before reaching their targets. Entire squads vanished into the volcanic ash.

 Hill 382 rose 125 ft above the black beaches. The Japanese had carved the summit into a maze of interconnected bunkers and fighting positions. 57 mm anti-tank guns commanded every approach. Machine gun nests covered the flanks. Light tanks sat buried in crevices, invisible until they fired. And at the base of the hill, a 20 mm anti-aircraft gun swept the killing ground with devastating effect.

Jacobson watched the twoman bazooka team move forward. The loader carried four M6 A3 rockets in a canvas bag. The gunner held the launcher itself. A steel tube 4 1/2 ft long, weighing 13 lb. They advanced 15 yd. The anti-aircraft gun opened fire. Both Marines went down. The bazooka fell into the ash.

 Company I was stuck. Without that anti-aircraft gun destroyed, the entire assault would collapse. The company had already lost 17 men killed and 26 wounded in the first 30 minutes of the attack. The Japanese defenders were invisible. Every rock could hide a rifle pit. Every depression could conceal a machine gun nest. Marines were dying without ever seeing the enemy. Jacobson looked at the bazooka lying in the open.

 It was designed for two men, one to aim and fire, one to load the rocket and connect the electrical ignition wire. Nobody operated a bazooka alone. The back blast alone could injure an isolated gunner. The weight made solo operation nearly impossible, and reloading under fire was a two-man job, but the two men were dead.

 If you want to see how Jacobson’s decision turned out, please hit that like button. It helps us share these forgotten stories with more people. Subscribe if you haven’t already. Back to Jacobson. The anti-aircraft gun fired another burst. Three more Marines dropped. Company I had been fighting for Hill 382 for over an hour.

 The Japanese positions seemed impenetrable. Higher command was watching. Failure here meant failure across the entire fourth marine division front. And beyond Hill 382 lay the amphitheater, Turkey knob and the ruins of Minami village. All of them bristling with enemy guns. Jacobson grabbed his rifle and moved toward the bazooka. The volcanic ash gave no cover.

Japanese riflemen had clear lines of sight. One marine had already tried to recover the weapon. He made it 5 yards before a sniper found him. Jacobson kept moving. He reached the bazooka, grabbed it. Four rockets remained in the dead loader’s bag. He slung the canvas over his shoulder and lifted the launcher tube. 13 lb of steel.

 Four rockets at 11 lb each. 67 lb total. and he had to run. The anti-aircraft gun tracked him. Jacobson ran. The anti-aircraft gun fired. Rounds tore through the air inches from his head. He dove behind a cluster of shattered rocks 30 yards from the Japanese position. Volcanic dust covered his uniform. The bazooka tube was hot from the morning sun.

 He had never fired a bazooka alone. Training taught a strict protocol. Gunner takes position. Loader inserts rocket from the rear. Loader connects ignition wire to the contact spring. Loader taps gunner’s helmet. Gunner ensures back blast area is clear. Gunner fires. The process required coordination between two trained men working in sequence. Jacobson had no loader.

 He set the launcher tube on the ground, pulled one M6 A3 rocket from the canvas bag. The rocket measured 19 in long. Its shaped charge warhead contained 1.6 and six lbs of high explosive. Six stabilizing fins folded against the body. He inserted the rocket into the rear of the tube until it locked.

 Then he pulled the coiled wire from the rocket’s tail assembly and wrapped it around the contact spring mounted on the launcher. His hands moved fast. The Japanese gun crew knew someone was behind the rocks. They were adjusting their aim. Jacobson lifted the launcher onto his shoulder. The weight pulled him off balance. He braced his left hand under the tube.

 right hand gripped the wooden stock trigger mechanism. The ladder sight showed graduations for 100, 200, 300, and 400 yards. He estimated the anti-aircraft gun at 80 yards. The rear of the tube was open. When he fired, the back blast would erupt behind him in a cone of superheated gas extending 15 m. Anyone standing there would be burned. But there was nobody behind him. He was alone.

 He rose from cover, sighted, pulled the trigger. The electrical circuit closed. The rocket motor ignited inside the tube. The M6 A3 shot forward at 80 m/s. Fire and smoke erupted from both ends of the launcher. The recoil was minimal, but the blast wave hammered his ears. The rocket crossed 80 yards in 1 second. It struck the anti-aircraft gun’s shield dead center.

 The shaped charge detonated. A jet of molten copper penetrated the steel at 6,000 m/s. The warhead exploded. The gun and its fourman crew disintegrated in a flash of orange flame. Company eye started moving forward. Jacobson dropped flat. Reloaded. He worked the process backwards alone without help. pulled the second rocket from the bag, inserted it from the rear, connected the wire, lifted the tube.

 The entire reload took him 40 seconds. A trained twoman team could do it in 12. Two Japanese machine gun positions opened fire from higher up the slope. They had been waiting for the Marines to advance. Now they cut down three men in the first burst. Company I went to ground again. Jacobson saw the muzzle flashes.

 Both guns were dug into earthcovered imp placements 70 yards uphill. The positions were invisible from the front. Only their firing gave them away. He moved right, flanking the first position. Volcanic rock gave partial cover. The machine gun tracked other targets, suppressing the main marine advance. Jacobson reached a position 40 yard from the imp placement. He could see the barrel now, traversing left and right.

 He shouldered the bazooka, aimed, fired. The rocket hit the earth and cover and penetrated before detonating. The machine gun and its crew vanished in the explosion. Dirt and debris rained down the slope. The second machine gun swung toward him. Jacobson was already moving.

 He dove behind a depression in the ground as bullets tore through the space where he had been standing. His ears rang from the bazooka’s back blast. He had two rockets left. The second machine gun was now hunting him specifically. He crawled 20 yards left. The gun crew was trying to locate him. They fired bursts at suspected positions. Jacobson waited until they paused to reload. Then he stood, shouldered the launcher.

 The machine gun crew saw him. They swung the barrel. Jacobson fired first. The rocket struck the gun mount. The explosion was smaller this time, but effective. The machine gun fell silent. Jacobson saw one Japanese soldier crawl from the wreckage, wounded. A Marine rifleman from Company I shot him.

 Three targets down, 13 to go. But now Jacobson faced a bigger problem. Ahead, blocking the route to the summit, stood a reinforced blockhouse built from concrete and volcanic rock. Artillery had failed to destroy it, and inside were at least a dozen Japanese defenders with rifles and grenades. He had one rocket left. The block house sat 50 yards uphill.

 Its walls were 3 ft of reinforced concrete faced with volcanic rock. The structure measured roughly 12 ft x 15 ft. A single firing slit faced downs slope covering the approach with interlocking fields of fire from the machine gun positions Jacobson had just destroyed.

 American naval gunfire had hit this blockhouse repeatedly during the pre-invasion bombardment. 16-in shells from battleships, 8-in rounds from cruisers. The structure showed scorch marks and concrete chips, but the walls still stood. And inside, Japanese defenders waited with rifles ready. Jacobson had one M6 A3 rocket. The shaped charge could penetrate armor, but concrete was different. The warhead would blow a hole in the wall.

 Whether that hole would be large enough to neutralize the position was uncertain. He needed a different solution. He moved laterally across the slope, staying low. The blockhouse firing slit faced southwest, covering the main marine avenue of approach. If he could reach the northern side, he might find a blind spot.

 The Japanese had built their defenses, assuming attackers would come from the beach. They had not expected a lone marine to flank their positions from within their own defensive perimeter. Jacobson crawled 40 yards through volcanic ash and shattered rock. His uniform was black with dust. The bazooka tube scraped against stone behind him.

 Company I remained pinned down, taking sporadic fire from other positions higher on hill 382. He reached the northern face of the block house. No firing slits on this side. The structure had been built into the hillside using the natural slope for additional protection, but the rear entrance was visible. A low opening barely three feet high covered by a wooden frame. Jacobson set down the bazooka.

 He still had the one- loaded rocket, but firing it into the entrance from 10 ft away would be suicide. The back blast in the confined space would kill him as surely as it would kill the Japanese inside. He needed the rocket for something else. He pulled a fragmentation grenade from his belt. Then he picked up the bazooka again and moved to within 15 ft of the entrance.

 He could hear voices inside, Japanese, at least six men, maybe more. He shouldered the launcher, aimed at the wooden entrance frame, fired. The rocket hit the frame, and detonated. The explosion blew the entrance open, collapsing part of the rear wall. Dust and smoke poured from the opening. Jacobson dropped the bazooka tube and pulled the pin on his grenade.

 He counted two seconds, then threw it through the smoking entrance. The grenade detonated inside the blockhouse. Screams, then silence. Jacobson waited. Nothing moved. He circled to the firing slit, looked inside. The interior was devastated. Bodies. Rubble. The position was neutralized. Four targets down. 12 to go. But now he had no rockets. The bazooka was useless without ammunition.

He picked up his rifle and started back down the slope toward company eyes’s position. As he moved, he passed the bodies of the original bazooka team. The loader’s canvas bag was still there. Jacobson checked it, empty. He looked across the volcanic ash field.

 200 yd back near where company I had started the assault. He could see the supply point, ammunition crates, medical supplies, and boxes of bazooka rockets stacked behind a low wall of sandbags. The entire area was under Japanese observation from higher positions. Mortar fire had been falling there intermittently all morning. Three Marines had already been killed trying to bring ammunition forward. Jacobson started moving toward the supply point.

He stayed low, using every depression and rock cluster for cover. Japanese snipers were active. One round cracked past his head. Another hit the ground two feet to his left. He reached the supply point, found a crate marked M6 A3 rockets, pulled it open, 12 rockets inside, packed in individual cardboard tubes. He grabbed four, shoving them into the canvas bag he had taken from the dead loader.

 A mortar round hit 30 yards away. Shrapnel winded overhead. Jacobson ran back toward the slope, carrying the bazooka tube in one hand and the bag of rockets in the other. Company I was still pinned down. Higher on hill 382. A second pillbox had opened fire. This one was smaller than the block house but just as deadly.

 Fiveman crew, heavy machine gun, and a perfect position covering the eastern approach. Jacobson loaded a fresh rocket. The pillbox was 90 yards uphill. He found cover behind a cluster of rocks and began his approach. The Japanese inside had seen him destroy the blockhouse. They knew what was coming. The pillbox crew opened fire early. Too early.

 Jacobson was still 80 yards out when the first burst kicked up volcanic ash 10 ft to his right. They were nervous. The blockhouse destruction had rattled them. Nervous defenders made mistakes. Jacobson zigzagged uphill using the terrain. The pillbox machine gun tracked him, but the gunner was firing in short bursts trying to conserve ammunition. Each burst gave Jacobson 3 seconds to move before the next one came.

 He covered 15 yards, then 20. The gun fell silent. Reloading, he dove behind a depression and shouldered the bazooka. The pillbox was now 65 yd away. He could see the concrete structure partially buried in volcanic rock. The firing slit was narrow, designed to minimize exposure while maintaining a wide field of fire. But narrow slits created a problem for defenders. limited traverse.

 The machine gun could only swing so far left or right before hitting the concrete edges of the opening. Jacobson moved right, forcing the gun crew to adjust their position. The barrel swung to track him. He kept moving. The barrel reached its maximum traverse. The firing stopped. The crew was repositioning the gun mount inside the pillbox.

 Jacobson stopped moving. Aimed. Fired. The rocket crossed the distance in under a second. It entered the firing slit and detonated inside the pillbox. The shaped charge warhead was designed to penetrate armor inside a confined concrete space. The effect was catastrophic. The explosion blew out through every opening. Fire and smoke erupted from the entrance. The machine gun went silent.

 Jacobson waited. Nothing moved inside. He reloaded and moved forward cautiously. At 20 yards, he could see into the entrance. The fiveman crew was dead. The interior was destroyed. Spent brass from the machine gun covered the floor. Five targets down. 11 to go. Company I was advancing again. Jacobson could see Marines moving up the slope in small groups, using the positions he had cleared as cover points.

 They were making progress. But ahead, the terrain became worse. Hill 382’s western face was a maze of volcanic rock formations, shattered terrain, and interconnected defensive positions. The Japanese had spent months preparing these defenses. Every approach was covered.

 Every avenue of advance channeled attackers into kill zones. Jacobson moved higher. 50 yards ahead. He spotted an earthcovered rifle imp placement. Not a pillbox, not a bunker, just a hole in the ground with overhead cover made from logs and volcanic rock. Two Japanese riflemen inside firing at the advancing marines below. The imp placement was crude but effective. Artillery bombardment had failed to destroy it because the earth covering absorbed the blast.

 Direct fire could not reach it because of the angle and the riflemen inside had excellent visibility across the entire western slope. Jacobson flanked left. The rifle imp placement was positioned to cover downslope targets. The defenders were not watching their flanks. He reached the position 40 yards away, slightly above the imp placement.

 He loaded a rocket, aimed downward at the overhead cover, fired. The rocket hit the logs and earth covering, penetrated, and detonated inside. The imp placement collapsed. The firing stopped. Six targets down, 10 to go. But now, Jacobson faced the most dangerous section of Hill 382. Ahead, forming a semic-ircular defensive perimeter around the summit approach, sat six interconnected positions, each one supporting the others.

 Rifle pits, machine gun nests, mortar positions, all carefully sighted to create overlapping fields of fire. The Japanese had designed this cluster as the final killing ground. Even if attackers broke through the lower defenses, this perimeter would stop them. The 23rd Marines had tried to assault this position twice already. Both attempts had failed with heavy casualties.

Jacobson had three rockets left, six targets. The mathematics were simple. He would run out of ammunition before he ran out of positions. He needed to go back for more rockets. The supply point was now 300 yd behind him. The entire route was exposed to Japanese observation from the summit. Mortar crews had zeroed in on the most obvious paths.

 Snipers covered the open ground, and the Japanese defenders in the sixth position cluster had certainly seen him by now. They would be waiting for him to return. Jacobson started moving downhill. He stayed in the depression lines, avoiding the ridges. A mortar round hit 50 yards to his left, then another closer. The Japanese were bracketing him. The next round would find the range.

 He sprinted the last 100 yards to the supply point, grabbed another four rockets. A mortar round impacted 20 yards away. Shrapnel screamed overhead. He threw himself flat as a second round hit even closer. Then he ran back uphill, carrying 67 lb of weapons and ammunition while Japanese mortars walked across the slope trying to kill him. Jacobson reached the cluster of six positions at 10:30 in the morning. He had been fighting for 90 minutes.

 His uniform was soaked with sweat despite the cool February air. His ears rang from the bazooka’s repeated back blast. His shoulder was bruised from the launcher’s recoil. He had four rockets, six targets. He would need to make choices. The six positions formed a defensive arc roughly 60 yards across. The Japanese had built them to support each other.

 If he attacked the leftmost position, the others would have clear shots at him. If he attacked from the center, all six could engage simultaneously. The positions were spaced 15 to 20 yards apart, close enough for defenders to provide mutual support, but far enough that a single rocket could not destroy multiple imp placements. Jacobson studied the layout.

 The rightmost position was a rifle pit, two men. The second was a machine gun nest, partially concealed behind volcanic rock. The third and fourth were mortar positions. The fifth was another rifle pit. The sixth was a reinforced observation post with a clear view of the entire western slope. He made his decision. Take the observation post first.

 Without spotters, the other positions would be fighting blind. He moved wide right, circling outside the defensive perimeter. The route took him through broken ground studded with sharp volcanic rock that tore at his uniform. Japanese defenders in the positions were focused downs slope, watching for the main marine advance.

 They were not expecting an attack from their flank. Jacobson reached a position 70 yard from the observation post. He loaded a rocket, shouldered the launcher, and fired. The rocket hit the observation post’s reinforced wall and detonated. The explosion collapsed one side of the structure.

 Jacobson reloaded immediately, fired a second rocket into the smoking ruins. The observation post disintegrated. Two Japanese soldiers stumbled out wounded. Marine riflemen from Company I, now advancing up the slope, shot both. Jacobson did not wait to see the result. He was already moving toward the next position, the rifle pit. Two Japanese soldiers with Arisaka rifles. They had seen the observation post explode.

 They were scanning the flanks, trying to locate the threat. Jacobson was 40 yards away when one of them spotted him. The soldier raised his rifle. Jacobson dove behind cover as the shot cracked past. He had two rockets left. Five targets remaining. He could not waste ammunition on a twoman rifle pit.

 He pulled a fragmentation grenade from his belt, waited 3 seconds, then stood and threw. The grenade arked through the air and dropped into the rifle pit. The explosion killed both defenders. Four rockets expended, two grenades used, eight positions destroyed, eight to go. The remaining four positions in the cluster opened fire. Machine gun rounds tore through the air around Jacobson. Mortar crews were adjusting their aim.

 He could hear the distinctive thump of rounds leaving the tubes. He had maybe 10 seconds before they landed. He ran left away from his last position. The mortars hit where he had been. shrapnel whine through the air. He kept moving, found cover behind a low ridge of volcanic rock. The machine gun in the second position was tracking him. Short bursts, disciplined fire. The gunner was skilled. Jacobson could not move without exposing himself to that gun.

 He loaded his third to last rocket. The machine gun nest was 50 yards away, built into a natural depression in the slope. Good cover. Good fields of fire. Difficult target. Jacobson waited for the machine gun to fire, counted the burst. Five rounds. The gunner was conserving ammunition.

 During the pause, Jacobson rose, aimed, and fired. The rocket hit the depression edge and detonated. The machine gun went silent. Jacobson did not know if he had destroyed the position or just suppressed it. He reloaded. A Japanese soldier appeared from the smoking position, running toward the next rifle pit. Jacobson shot him with his M1 Garand. The soldier fell. Two rockets left.

 Three positions remaining in the cluster. Two mortar pits and one rifle pit. The mortar crews were the priority. They were dropping rounds on company I, preventing the Marines from advancing. Jacobson moved uphill, angling toward the first mortar position, 60 yards away. The crew was reloading. They had not seen him yet.

 He shouldered the bazooka, aimed, fired. The rocket hit the mortar pit dead center. The explosion was massive. The mortar tube launched into the air, tumbling end over end before crashing back to Earth 30 yard away. Two Japanese soldiers died instantly. A third crawled from the wreckage, his uniform on fire.

 One rocket left, two positions remaining. Jacobson reloaded his final M6 A3. The second mortar position was 40 yardds uphill. The rifle pit was between him and the mortar. Three Japanese soldiers in the rifle pit. Two in the mortar position. Five men, one rocket. He made a choice. Jacobson aimed at the mortar position, fired his last rocket.

 The M6 A3 hit the mortar pit and detonated. The twoman crew died instantly. The mortar tube flipped backward from the blast, its base plate torn from the ground. 12 positions destroyed. The rifle pit remained. Three Japanese soldiers in the pit saw Jacobson. They opened fire with their Arisaka rifles. Rounds snapped past his head.

 He dropped the empty bazooka tube and unslung his M1 Garand. Eight rounds in the clip. Three targets at 40 yards. He fired. The first soldier dropped. Fired again. The second soldier fell back into the pit. The third soldier tried to climb out and run. Jacobson shot him in the back. The six position cluster was destroyed.

 13 enemy positions neutralized since 0900. The route to Hill 382’s summit was open. Company I began advancing past the positions Jacobson had cleared. Marines moved in small groups, weapons ready, expecting more resistance. But the Japanese defensive line had broken. The positions Jacobson destroyed had been the anchor points. Without them, the remaining defenders higher on the hill were isolated.

 Jacobson looked down slope. To his left, across a shallow ravine, another marine company was pinned down. He could see Marines crouched behind rocks, unable to move. They were taking heavy fire from a position Jacobson could not see from his angle. The company was part of the 24th Marines, attached to support the 23rd’s assault.

 They had been trying to advance up the eastern approach to Hill 382, while Company I attacked from the west. But something had stopped them. The entire company was stuck 200 yd from the summit. Jacobson had no more bazooka rockets, but he could see what was holding up the advance. A pillbox, concrete and volcanic rock built into the hillside overlooking the eastern approach.

 The firing slit faced directly down the ravine, creating a killing field no marine could cross. He picked up the empty bazooka tube, started moving down slope toward the supply point again. His legs achd. His shoulder throbbed from the launcher’s repeated recoil. He had been fighting for nearly 2 hours without water. The supply point had moved forward.

 Marines had dragged ammunition crates up the slope as Company I advanced. Jacobson found the new position behind a cluster of rocks 70 yards downhill. More M6 A3 rockets. He loaded four into the canvas bag. Then he moved across the ravine toward the pinned down company. The route took him through exposed ground.

 Japanese snipers were still active. One round hit the volcanic ash two feet to his right. Another cracked overhead. He reached the Marine Company’s position. A captain saw him coming with the bazooka and pointed uphill toward the pillbox. Jacobson nodded. He had already identified the target.

 The pillbox was 80 yard away, elevated 15 ft above the ravine floor. Its position gave the defenders perfect observation and fields of fire. The concrete structure showed no damage from the naval bombardment, and the firing slit was positioned to cover every approach route. Jacobson moved right, working his way up the ravine’s edge. The pillbox crew was focused on the Marines directly below them.

 They were firing methodical bursts from what sounded like a type 92 heavy machine gun. 7.7 mm, 600 rounds per minute, effective range 800 m. At this distance, the gun was devastating. Jacobson climbed higher, using dead ground to mask his movement. The Pillbox crew could not depress their gun low enough to engage targets directly beneath their position.

 He exploited that blind spot, moving through terrain they could not cover. He reached a position 50 yard from the pillbox, slightly below its level. He loaded a rocket. The angle was difficult. Firing upward reduced the rocket’s effective range and accuracy, but the pillbox slit was visible, 3 feet wide, 18 in tall.

 If he could put a rocket through that opening, the shaped charge would detonate inside. He aimed, compensated for the upward angle, fired. The rocket climbed, hit the concrete wall 2 ft above the slit, detonated. Chunks of concrete rained down, but the pillbox was intact. The machine gun kept firing. Jacobson reloaded, adjusted his aim downward. Fired again. The second rocket entered the firing slit and detonated inside the pillbox.

 Fire and smoke erupted from every opening. The machine gun fell silent. The position was destroyed. 14 positions down, two to go. The marine company below began advancing. They moved quickly, exploiting the silence from the pillbox. Within minutes, they had crossed the ravine and were climbing toward the summit. But Jacobson heard something that stopped him. A different sound. Mechanical grinding.

 The distinctive noise of an engine in tracks on volcanic rock. A Japanese tank was moving up from the eastern base of Hill 382. The tank was a type 95 Hago, light tank, 7 tons, diesel engine, 37mm main gun. Two type 97 machine guns, crew of three. The Japanese had been using these tanks as mobile pill boxes on Euoima, positioning them in crevices and depressions where American naval gunfire could not reach them. This one was moving up the eastern slope, grinding through volcanic ash at 8 kmh.

 Its turret traversed left and right, searching for targets. The tank commander had spotted the Marine advance and was moving to intercept. Jacobson watched from 70 yards away. The tank was below him, working its way up a shallow draw that led toward the summit. Behind the tank, he could see the Marine Company he had just helped.

 They were advancing in the open, unaware of the threat. The tank stopped. The turret swung toward the Marines. The 37mm gun elevated. Jacobson loaded a rocket. The Type 95’s armor was thin. 14 mm on the front, 12 mm on the sides, 6 mm on the top. The M6 A3’s shaped charge could penetrate up to 100 mm of steel. The tank was vulnerable from any angle.

 But tanks were dangerous targets, even light tanks. The Hago had a crew trained to operate under fire, and if Jacobson missed, the tank would turn its guns on him. He aimed at the turret. The Japanese tank commander was visible through the open hatch, scanning for targets. Jacobson fired. The rocket hit the turret’s left side and detonated.

The shaped charge penetrated the thin armor and exploded inside. The turret mechanism jammed. Smoke poured from the hatch. The tank’s engine kept running, but the gun could no longer traverse. The tank was damaged, but not destroyed. The whole machine guns were still operational. One of them opened fire, spraying rounds across the slope.

Marines dove for cover. Jacobson reloaded. The tank was trying to reverse, backing down the draw to escape. The driver could not see Jacobson’s position. The damaged turret blocked his view up slope. Jacobson moved left, flanking the tank.

 He reached a position 60 yard away with a clear shot at the tank’s rear, the engine compartment, the thinnest armor, 6 mm. He aimed, fired. The rocket hit the engine deck and penetrated. The explosion was immediate. The diesel fuel ignited. Fire erupted from the engine compartment and spread into the crew compartment through the damaged turret. Two Japanese crewmen bailed out, their uniforms burning.

 Marine riflemen shot both. The tank burned. Black smoke rose into the morning sky. 15 positions destroyed. One to go. Jacobson had one rocket left. He looked uphill toward the summit of hill 382. The final Japanese position was visible now. A large block house bigger than the others. Concrete walls, multiple firing slits.

 The structure dominated the summit approach. This was the last strong point. If he could destroy it, hill 382 would fall. He started climbing. The slope was steep. Volcanic ash gave way under his boots. He was exhausted. Two hours of continuous combat. 67 pounds of equipment. No water. No rest. Behind him. Company I and the attached marines from the 24th were advancing together. Now they had linked up at the ravine.

Combined strength maybe 80 men, enough to take the summit once the last blockhouse was neutralized. Jacobson reached a position 40 yards from the block house. He could see Japanese soldiers moving inside through the firing slits, at least six men, maybe more. They had rifles, grenades, and they knew he was coming. The block house had been built to withstand naval bombardment.

 Its walls were 4 ft thick, reinforced concrete mixed with volcanic rock. The roof was covered with additional layers of earth and stone. A direct hit from a battleship’s 16-in gun had failed to destroy it. Jacobson had one rocket. He studied the structure. The firing slits were narrow, too narrow to guarantee a rocket would enter. If he missed, the rocket would detonate against the exterior wall.

 The explosion might damage the structure, but would not neutralize it, and the Japanese inside would kill him before he could reload. He needed a different approach. Jacobson moved right, circling toward the blockhouse’s rear. The route took him through exposed ground. Japanese soldiers inside could see him through the firing slits. They opened fire. Rifle rounds cracked past his head.

 He dove behind a cluster of rocks. From this angle, he could see the blockhouse entrance, a reinforced door, steel frame, wooden panels. The door faced away from the main American advance. The Japanese had not expected anyone to reach this side of their defenses. Jacobson loaded his final rocket, aimed at the door, fired. The rocket hit the steel frame and detonated.

 The door blew inward. The explosion collapsed part of the entrance structure. Smoke and dust poured out. Jacobson dropped the bazooka tube, drew his M1 Garand, pulled two grenades from his belt, and charged the smoking entrance. Jacobson threw the first grenade through the shattered entrance. The explosion echoed inside the blockhouse. He threw the second grenade, another detonation.

Then he entered, rifle ready. The interior was chaos. Smoke, debris, bodies. Japanese soldiers wounded from the grenade blast. Jacobson fired. Worked through the blockhouse room by room. The fighting was close, brutal, handto hand in some corners. His M1 Garand ran empty. He drew his pistol, kept moving. Within 2 minutes, the blockhouse was silent.

16 enemy positions destroyed. 75 Japanese defenders killed. 30 minutes of continuous action from 0900 to 0930. Then another 90 minutes clearing the remaining positions up the slope. Private first class Douglas Jacobson, 19 years old, had broken the Japanese defensive line on Hill 382. Behind him, Company I reached the summit. Marines poured through the gap Jacobson had created.

 By noon, the 23rd Marines held the high ground. By 1300 hours, they had begun clearing the reverse slope. Hill 382, the anchor of the entire Japanese defensive system on Ewima, had fallen. The cost had been severe. Company I had lost 43 men killed or wounded. The 23rd Marines as a whole suffered 50% casualties since landing on February 19th, but Hill 382 was American ground now.

 Jacobson walked down the slope at 1400 hours. His uniform was torn. His face was black with volcanic dust and powder residue. He carried the empty bazooka tube in one hand. A Navy corman checked him for wounds. Minor cuts, bruises, severe dehydration, no serious injuries. Someone asked him how he had done it. Jacobson said he did not know.

He had one thing in mind, getting off that hill. The battle for Ewima continued for three more weeks. The island was not declared secured until March 16th. 6,821 Marines died. 17,000 were wounded. Of the 21,000 Japanese defenders, only 216 surrendered.

 27 Marines and sailors earned the Medal of Honor at Euima, more than any other single battle in American history. Douglas Jacobson was promoted to corporal in April 1945. He returned to the United States in September and reported to headquarters Marine Corps in Washington. On October 5th, 1945, President Harry Truman presented him with the Medal of Honor during a ceremony at the White House.

 Jaclyn Lucas, the youngest Medal of Honor recipient from Euima, received his medal the same day. Jacobson was discharged in December 1945. He reinlisted in April 1946, attended officer candidate school at Quantico, commissioned as a second lieutenant in March 1954, served in Japan, Okinawa, China, Vietnam.

 Before retiring, his commanding officer informed him he was the only officer in the Marine Corps without a high school diploma. Jacobson took the GED exam, passed, received his diploma in 1967, then retired as a major after 24 years of service.

 He moved to New Jersey, worked as a real estate agent, married a teacher he had met in Okinawa, moved to Florida in 1987, rarely spoke about the war unless someone asked. Douglas Jacobson died on August 20th, 2000 in Port Charlotte, Florida. Congestive heart failure and pneumonia. He was 74 years old. He is buried in Arlington National Cemetery. The state of Florida named a veterans nursing home after him. The Douglas T.

 Jacobson State Veterans Nursing Home in Port Charlotte stands today caring for veterans who followed the same path he walked. 16 positions, 75 enemies, 30 minutes, one Marine, one bazooka meant for two men. Hill 382 fell because Douglas Jacobson refused to stop. If this story moved you the way it moved us, do me a favor, hit that like button.

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