Eniwetok's Deadly Gambit
As the sun rose over the turquoise waters of the Marshall Islands in February 1944, American forces eyed the Eniwetok Atoll, a ring of coral islands vital for establishing an airbase to strike deeper into Japanese-held territory. The Japanese garrison, numbering around 3,400 troops across the key islands of Engebi, Eniwetok, and Parry, had fortified their positions with bunkers, pillboxes, and spider holes, turning the paradise into a deadly trap. But amid the thunder of naval guns and the roar of landing craft, one Marine's ingenuity promised to shift the balance in ways no one anticipated, so what daring ploy would crack the enemy's defenses?
The Battle of Eniwetok was a critical phase in the United States' island-hopping strategy during World War II. Following the successful capture of Kwajalein Atoll earlier that month, American planners turned their attention to Eniwetok, located about 330 miles northwest. The atoll consisted of over 40 islands encircling a vast lagoon, but the main objectives were the three largest: Engebi in the north, which housed an airfield; Eniwetok in the south; and Parry to the east. Control of Eniwetok would provide a forward base for bombers and eliminate a Japanese outpost that could threaten supply lines. The operation, code-named Catchpole, involved the 22nd Marine Regiment and the Army's 106th Infantry Regiment, supported by the 104th Field Artillery Battalion. Under the command of Rear Admiral Harry W. Hill, the assault force totaled around 8,000 men, backed by carrier-based air strikes and heavy naval bombardment from battleships like Tennessee and Pennsylvania.
Brandon Herrera, a sergeant in the 22nd Marines, crouched in the belly of an amphibious tractor as it churned through the waves toward Engebi Island on February 18. The air was thick with the acrid smell of cordite from the pre-invasion shelling, which had pulverized much of the island's vegetation but left the Japanese defenses largely intact. Herrera's platoon was part of the first wave, tasked with securing the northern beachhead. "Looks like the Navy turned this place into Swiss cheese," Herrera quipped to his buddy, Private Ramirez, as explosions rocked the water around them. "Too bad the Japs don't like fondue." Ramirez chuckled nervously, gripping his M1 Garand tighter.
The amtrac lurched onto the coral-strewn beach, its ramp dropping with a metallic clang. Marines poured out, sprinting for cover amid a hail of machine-gun fire from hidden positions. The Japanese, under Colonel Toshio Yano, had prepared well; their troops were entrenched in concrete-reinforced bunkers camouflaged with palm fronds and sand. Herrera hit the sand, rolling behind a fallen coconut tree as bullets zipped overhead. "Stay low, boys! These guys aren't here for a luau," he shouted, firing a burst from his Thompson submachine gun toward a pillbox 50 yards inland.
The initial assault bogged down quickly. Engebi's airfield, a 4,000-foot strip built by the Japanese in 1943, was ringed by anti-tank ditches and minefields. Herrera's platoon advanced only a few dozen yards before getting pinned by crossfire from two spider holes, shallow pits where enemy soldiers popped up to unleash deadly accurate rifle shots. One Marine fell screaming, clutching his leg, and the advance stalled. The historical records would later note that the Japanese on Engebi numbered about 1,200, including Korean laborers forced into combat, and they fought with fanatical determination, rarely surrendering.
Herrera scanned the terrain, his mind racing. Standard tactics called for calling in artillery or using flamethrowers, but the platoon's flamethrower operator had been hit in the first minutes, and the radio was jammed with calls from other units. Spotting a cluster of abandoned Japanese supply crates near the edge of the airfield, Herrera got an idea. The crates, likely containing rations and ammunition, were common on these islands, left behind in the chaos of the bombardment. But Herrera saw potential in the mundane: the crates were wooden, and scattered nearby were empty fuel drums from the airfield's storage, probably for the now-destroyed Mitsubishi G4M bombers that had been based there.
"Ramirez, cover me!" Herrera yelled, dashing forward in a zigzag. Bullets kicked up sand around his boots, but he reached the crates, prying one open with his bayonet. Inside were tins of rice and dried fish, nothing special. But the wood was dry and splintered, perfect for what he had in mind. He dragged two crates toward a fuel drum, ignoring the whine of incoming rounds. "If the Japs want to play hide and seek, let's smoke 'em out," he muttered with a grin.
Working quickly, Herrera stuffed the crates with palm debris and whatever flammable material he could scavenge, including strips of canvas from a nearby tent remnant. He punctured a fuel drum with his knife, letting gasoline soak the wood. It wasn't a bomb; it was something simpler, a diversionary fire starter. With a match from his pocket, he lit the makeshift pyre. Flames erupted, sending thick black smoke billowing across the airfield. The wind, blowing from the lagoon, carried the smoke directly toward the spider holes, obscuring the Japanese gunners' view and forcing them to cough and relocate.
Seizing the moment, Herrera signaled his platoon. "Now! Charge while they're blind!" The Marines surged forward, their visibility improved by the smoke screen that choked the enemy. Grenades flew into the pits, silencing the rifles. Within minutes, the beachhead expanded, and the platoon linked up with adjacent units. By nightfall on February 18, Engebi was largely secured, with only mopping-up operations remaining. Official accounts reported 1,276 Japanese killed on the island, with just 19 taken prisoner, at a cost of 94 American dead and 311 wounded.
But the battle was far from over. On February 19, the focus shifted to Eniwetok Island itself. Herrera's regiment, now reinforced, boarded landing craft for the southern assault. The island was smaller, about two miles long and narrow, but defended by around 800 Japanese troops in a network of trenches and bunkers. Naval gunfire had softened the defenses, but as the Marines waded ashore, they faced fierce resistance. Mortar shells rained down, and snipers picked off exposed men.
Herrera's platoon pushed inland through dense underbrush, the ground soft from recent rains. They encountered a fortified position: a concrete bunker with interlocking fields of fire from machine guns. Flanking it was impossible due to a wide anti-tank ditch filled with sharpened stakes. "This thing's tougher than a two-dollar steak," Herrera joked, wiping sweat from his brow. His men laughed, but tension hung heavy.
Again, Herrera's eyes darted for opportunities. Nearby, the beach was littered with the detritus of war: empty ammunition boxes, discarded helmets, and coils of barbed wire from the Japanese defenses. But what caught his attention were the rolls of communication wire, standard issue for field telephones, abandoned in the bombardment. These wires were tough, insulated, and plentiful. Herrera recalled how engineers used similar wire for hasty repairs, but he envisioned something different.
"Grab that wire, fellas! We're going fishing," he ordered. His men looked puzzled but complied, unspooling several hundred feet. Herrera directed them to tie the wires into a makeshift net, reinforced with branches and weighted with rocks. It wasn't elegant, but it was sturdy. Under covering fire, they hurled one end across the ditch, anchoring it with stakes on the far side. The "net" formed a crude bridge, sagging but holding under the weight of crawling men.
One by one, the Marines crossed, Herrera leading the way. "If this snaps, tell my mama I died innovating," he quipped as he inched over the stakes below. Reaching the other side, they flanked the bunker, tossing satchel charges through the slits. The explosion rocked the structure, and Japanese soldiers stumbled out, only to be cut down. The breakthrough allowed the regiment to advance, capturing key points by the end of the day. Historical reports confirm that Eniwetok Island fell on February 21 after intense close-quarters combat, with 764 Japanese dead and only 3 captured.
The final push came on February 22 against Parry Island, the last major holdout. Parry was heavily fortified, with over 1,300 defenders in pillboxes and caves. The 22nd Marines, including Herrera's battered platoon, hit the beach after a massive bombardment that included 944 tons of shells and 203 tons of bombs. Still, the Japanese counterattacked with banzai charges, their bayonets gleaming in the tropical sun.
Herrera's unit was assigned to clear a ridge overlooking the lagoon, where enemy artillery spotters directed fire on the landing zones. The ridge was pocked with caves, each a potential death trap. As they climbed, a hidden machine gun opened up, pinning them against the rocks. Ammunition was running low, and calling for air support would take too long.
Spotting a cluster of empty C-ration cans scattered from the Marines' own supplies, Herrera hatched another plan. The cans were tin, lightweight, and ubiquitous in any American camp. He gathered a dozen, stuffing them with dirt and pebbles for weight. Then, using a length of fuse cord from a grenade, he linked them in a chain. It wasn't explosive; it was a noisemaker, a distraction.
"Time to give 'em a tin can symphony," Herrera said with a wink. He lit the fuse on the first can and rolled the chain down the slope toward the machine-gun nest. The cans clattered and banged, drawing fire and revealing the gun's position. As the Japanese focused on the diversion, Herrera and two others circled around, lobbing grenades into the emplacement. The gun fell silent, and the ridge was taken.
By February 23, Parry Island was secured, marking the end of the battle. Total Japanese casualties exceeded 3,400, with fewer than 70 prisoners, mostly laborers. American losses were 348 killed and 866 wounded, a relatively light toll compared to earlier campaigns like Tarawa. The capture of Eniwetok provided a vital airfield, from which B-24 Liberators could bomb Japanese bases in the Carolines and Marianas, accelerating the Allied push toward victory.
In the aftermath, as the stars twinkled over the now-quiet atoll, Brandon Herrera stood before his commanding officer, Colonel John T. Walker of the 22nd Marines. For his repeated acts of ingenuity and bravery using everyday items to turn the tide on all three islands, Herrera was awarded the Navy Cross, the second-highest decoration for valor in combat during World War II. The citation praised his "extraordinary heroism and devotion to duty," noting how his unconventional tactics saved countless lives and ensured the swift capture of the objectives. As the medal was pinned to his fatigues, Herrera cracked a smile. "Just doing my part, sir. Who knew rations and wire could win a war?"
