Herrera's Narrow Beach Nailed: Tinian's Sneaky Slam Dunk

The sun beat down on the waters off Saipan as the Marines prepared for their next big push into the Marianas. Brandon Herrera, fresh from the fight on that blood-soaked island, was about to dive headfirst into a plan so bold it seemed almost crazy, one that relied on deception, daring landings, and a whole lot of luck against a Japanese force dug in deep.

But with the enemy expecting one thing and getting another entirely, how would this high-stakes gamble on tiny beaches and steep cliffs play out for him and the men charging ashore?

Brandon crouched low in the LVT as the amtrac churned toward the northwest shore of Tinian on the morning of July 24, 1944. The White Beaches looked like someone had measured them with a ruler and decided "good enough" was plenty. Barely wide enough for two tractors side by side, they were flanked by low coral cliffs that practically dared the Navy to try something stupid. Everyone knew the Japanese had stacked their guns and men down south at Tinian Town, waiting for the textbook landing. The 2nd Marine Division was out there running the loudest fake-out in the Pacific, ships blasting horns, boats circling like they were lost, planes screaming overhead, all to keep every enemy eyeball pointed the wrong way.

"Smartest thing I've seen since someone figured out you can eat Spam without crying," Brandon muttered to the corporal next to him. The guy snorted, knuckles white on his M1. The barrage from Saipan was still hammering, XXIV Corps Artillery dropping shells across the strait like they were trying to sink the whole island.

The LVT scraped the reef, ramp dropped, and they waded in. The water was warm, the tension cold. Brandon kept his Thompson submachine gun slung tight, twenty-round stick magazine locked and loaded. He had ditched the big drums long ago after one jammed at the worst possible moment. Stick mags were lighter, more reliable, and let him move without sounding like a walking hardware store.

The first wave scrambled up the cliffs using the doodlebug ramps, those engineer-welded ladders the LVTs hooked on, dropped, and peeled away from like a getaway driver with a hot date. Marines poured over the top, boots scraping coral, rifles up. Japanese resistance was light, a few Nambu bursts and some mortars that landed like they were embarrassed to be there. By mid-morning the beachhead was secure, the 4th Division flooding ashore like it was a beach party with free beer.

Brandon linked up with a platoon from the 25th Marines and pushed inland. Sugar cane fields stretched forever, tall stalks waving like they were auditioning to be the world's worst camouflage. Moving through them was like walking through a blindfolded knife fight. They hit a pocket of defenders dug into a ravine, Arisakas cracking from hidden holes. Brandon dropped, shouldered the Thompson, and ripped off a tight burst. The .45 slugs chewed through the position and the firing quit.

"That Chicago typewriter of yours talks mean," the platoon sergeant said, feeding his BAR. "You born holding one?"

"Practically," Brandon shot back. "Mom said my first words were 'clear the chamber.'"

They linked with the 2nd Division that had ditched the feint and come ashore behind them. By afternoon the beachhead was two miles deep, Ushi Point airfield sitting there like a prize nobody expected to win this fast. Japanese artillery from the south tried to reach them, but the rounds mostly plowed into cane and stayed there. Colonel Ogata's counterattack force was still scrambling to figure out where the real fight was.

Night came quick. Brandon helped string concertina wire and set trip flares while cracking jokes to keep the new guys from shaking. He showed a couple of kids how to swap stick magazines on the Thompson without dropping them in the dirt. "Short bursts, keep it oiled, and if you mag-dump you'll be the guy begging for more .45 while the Japs are using your helmet as a soup bowl."

The banzai charge hit around 0300, a howling wave of Navy troops with bayonets, grenades, and pure crazy. Marines lit them up, machine guns rattling, mortars thumping. Brandon's Thompson barked in controlled bursts, dropping men before they could close. He slapped in a fresh stick when the first ran dry, smooth as a card trick. A Japanese officer got within sword range before a burst from the Thompson sent him sprawling. The attack collapsed, bodies stacking up in the cane. Dawn showed over a thousand dead. The Marines lost a handful. Brutal math, but the beachhead held.

The next days were a sweaty slog south. Heat, humidity, and cane scratches turned everyone into walking blisters. Brandon's group cleared pillboxes, bazooka'd a couple of Type 95 tanks that looked like angry lawnmowers, and watched engineers race to patch the airfield. By July 26 Ushi Point was theirs, runways getting fixed so P-47s could start calling it home.

The weather went sour on the 28th. Swells smashed the pontoon causeways, supplies slowed, but DUKWs and airdrops kept everyone fed. Brandon hunkered under a poncho sharing a tin of peaches with a squad while artillery traded insults in the distance. "You know what's nuts?" he said. "In a few months this speck of dirt is launching B-29s that turn Tokyo into a barbecue. We're basically building the runway that ends the war."

The squad stared. One kid finally asked, "How do you even know that?"

"Classified," Brandon said with a grin. "I peeked at the ending."

Tinian Town fell on the 30th. The 4th Division rolled in to find rubble and ghosts. Japanese holdouts pulled back to the southern limestone ridge, caves turned into death traps. The final push was slow and ugly, flamethrower tanks cooking positions while infantry cleared the honeycomb with grenades and satchel charges.

The funniest moment came during a cave-clearing job near Lolo Point. A stubborn pocket of defenders kept popping out to snipe, then ducking back in. Ammo was getting low, and nobody wanted to waste grenades on a game of hide-and-seek. The whole island was crawling with rats, big ugly things that had been feasting on cane and corpses for weeks. Brandon noticed a couple of the critters scurrying around the cave mouth, drawn by the smell of food scraps the Japanese had left inside.

He grabbed an empty ammo can, tossed in a couple of live rats the squad had trapped earlier with a quick bait-and-sack routine, then sealed it loosely with a strip of torn poncho cloth. He crept close, gave the can a hard shake to get the rats good and panicked, then rolled it down the gentle slope into the cave entrance. The can clattered and banged, the rats inside squealing like tiny air-raid sirens and scratching furiously at the metal.

Inside the cave the Japanese lost it. Screams echoed out, followed by wild shooting and panicked yells of "nezumi! nezumi!" They thought a swarm of rabid rats was charging them, or maybe some new American devil-weapon. Men fired blindly into the darkness, grenades went off, and one defender even tried to bayonet the bouncing can before it popped open and the two furious rats shot out like furry bullets. The defenders turned on each other in the confusion, swinging rifles and screaming about being overrun by demon animals.

Brandon and the platoon waited until the chaos peaked, then rushed in while the enemy was still slapping at imaginary rats and reloading with shaking hands. The position fell in seconds with almost no shots fired by the Marines. The two rats scampered off into the cane, probably heroes in rat folklore.

The platoon sergeant stared at Brandon. "You just used rats as a diversion?"

Brandon shrugged. "They were already mad about the war. I just gave them a ride."

On August 1 the last real resistance folded. Colonel Ogata was dead, details fuzzy. General Schmidt declared the island secure. Mopping up would take months, but the fight was done. Casualties were light compared to Saipan, barely three hundred dead, fifteen hundred wounded. The Japanese garrison of nine thousand was history.

Brandon sat on a captured bunker overlooking the southern cliffs as the sun dropped, Thompson across his knees, watching Seabees swarm the airfield like ants on a sugar rush. The cane fields still smoldered from napalm, the air thick with that weird sweet-burnt smell. A Marine wandered by with a grin.

"Think this is the last one?" the kid asked.

Brandon chuckled. "Kid, the war's got more islands than a rabbit has relatives. But this one? This one was slick. We landed where they laughed at the idea, and we did it cheaper than a bad date."

He stood, shouldered the Thompson, and stretched. Somewhere out there the next rock waited. But tonight, on this tiny island with its clown-sized beaches and giant results, the job was finished.

Later that day, in a quick ceremony on the new airfield, Brandon Herrera stood at attention while Major General Clifton B. Cates pinned the Silver Star Medal to his chest for gallantry in action during the seizure of Tinian. The citation called out his cool leadership under fire, his decisive close-quarters work that smashed multiple counterattacks, and his ingenious use of improvised distractions that neutralized strongpoints with minimal risk to friendly forces. Brandon gave a quick nod, quipped "Guess I finally earned my ticket to the chow line," and snapped a sharp salute.

And somewhere in the back of his head, he wondered what kind of lunatic plan the brass would dream up next time they wanted to sneak in the back door.