Training went on until December 14 when we all loaded onto whatever ship or boat we were assigned to and embarked for our final and fighting destination. We joined other craft as we steamed toward Lingayen Gulf in what was the largest single amphibious operation of the Pacific War, and probably second, in size only, to the Normandy invasion in Europe.
Regimental Headquarters and several companies were fortunate in being placed aboard a rather large troop ship where there was some elbow room, as well as adequate toilet facilities, fresh eggs and beer. We sailed for three weeks, stopping once at New Caledonia to assemble with other ships, after circling to enable slower vessels to catch up.
The operation was no mystery to the Japanese who found many more targets than they had planes. In fact, our protection from accompanying carriers was excellent, and only a few Japanese kamikaze planes broke through to dive onto one of our ships. The panorama of hundreds of vessels of all shapes and sizes was awesome, and as we looked to the horizon where more and more ships kept appearing, we sensed that nothing could stop us and that the end of the war was surely in that flotilla.
Journey From Bougainville to Luzon
Colonel White briefed the staff and company commanders a few days before landing, a briefing which was informed, we thought, by intelligence from ashore via friendly Filipinos. White showed us the map, circled where each company was to hit, specifically ‘‘ x’’ing out a small corner where my unit was to land and set up Regimental Headquarters. This time, I was going in with the first wave, and White pointed out that opposition would be sporadic, but fierce. The latest intelligence indicated that the Japanese 58th Independent Mixed Brigade had dug in near my unit’s destination. This was the gang involved in the Rape of Nanking and White shifted a rifle company to my detachment because of the expected confrontation. ‘‘ Frankel’’ he said with a gleam in his eyes. ‘‘ You will have the honor of commanding that part of our Regiment which will have the hardest time. ’’ I thought to myself that this was one honor I could do without, and I also made certain I carried a G. I. shovel with me so that the minute I hit the beach, I could start digging a foxhole to protect myself against enemy fire. I planned, if necessary, to dig all the 150 miles to Manila.
We circled the beaches the morning of January 9 while those beaches were being subjected to heavy naval bombardment. As I was climbing down the net from the large ship to the smaller Higgins (assault) boat which carried about 30 men, I slipped, but was caught by my supply sergeant who quietly remarked that of course I wouldn’t want to miss this invasion because of a broken leg. I thought to myself that I’d make that trade quickly. We started sailing toward land, but were advised that the Navy had another half hour of shelling before we would go in, so the assault boat circled. The water was rough; I have a queasy stomach; and in about 10 minutes, I was seasick. Shells were whistling overhead and we thought that some of those shells were incoming from Japanese emplacements near the beaches. However, seasickness is one of the worst maladies I’ve ever had, and I got up from my squatting position in front, leaned my head over the side, and threw up. The company commander in the boat screamed at me: ‘‘ Frankel, get your goddamn head down or it’s going to be knocked off. ’’ I slowly reassumed my sitting position, looked at him and retorted: ‘‘ I hope so. ’’ I almost meant it.
Finally, we went in; the front section of the boat cranked down, and we charged the beach. The shelling was still intense, and I figured it was both ours and theirs, so as I hit dry land, I pulled out my shovel and began digging like hell. I honestly believed I set a foxhole digging record, for in less than a minute, I was almost underground, frantically throwing the wet sand all around the hole. Suddenly, I heard a strange noise as the bombardment quieted. This was the sound of human voices yelling ‘‘ Veectorie’’. I looked up, and to my astonishment I recognized the friendly faces of a dozen Filipinos who were then swarming all around us. ‘‘ Where are the Japanese? ’’ I asked. ‘‘ All gone . . . two days ago . . . running to Manila. ’’ Our Intelligence, as usual, was flawed; there was no opposition to our landing and the only casualties I noted were a few dead horses, goats and sheep.
It was about 150 miles from the beaches at Lingayen Gulf to the outskirts of our principal target, Manila. The Japanese were retreating as fast as they could, and we were running after them, as fast as our legs and jeeps and trucks could keep up. There were isolated incidents where, more by accident than design, the Japanese flight got caught between irregularly advancing American troops. These sporadic clashes slowed us down for a day, now and then, but the results were inexorably and monotonously the same: The Japanese were eliminated down to the last bleeding holdout; and the American troops moved in for their souvenirs, buried their dead, ate their rations, and kept churning ahead.
The Luzon Campaign