At 7:30 on September 18th, 1944, Private Firstclass Arthur Jackson was on his knees, not pinned down behind Coral, not crouched in a shell crater, on his knees, hands bound behind his back, an Imperial Japanese officer’s shin gau blade pressed cold against the side of his throat.

His olive drab utility shirt was soaked through with sweat and someone else’s blood. His leather cartridge belt, empty, dug into his waist. His head was tilted back, jaw set, eyes closed, not in surrender. 19 years old. Zero confirmed kills. Around him, a line of Japanese infantrymen stood at ready positions in the tall grass.

Arisaka rifles shouldered, steel helmets cutting dark shapes against a smoke choked sky. Bodies of fallen Marines lay scattered across the open field. Still, broken, finished. The officer behind Jackson said something in Japanese. Sharp, final. This was the execution. What happened in the next 7 minutes would never fully make it into the history books.

But let’s back up because to understand what Jackson did after that blade touched his throat, you first have to understand what had already been done to his regiment in the 72 hours before it. 3 days earlier on September 15th, 1944, the First Marine Division had waited ashore on Pelleu, a volcanic island in the western Pacific roughly the size of two central parks.

Major General William Rupertus had told his men to pack light. He expected the island secured in 4 days, maybe less, and he called it a rough but fast operation. He was wrong by 70 days. Colonel Kuno Nakagawa had spent months turning Pleu into a killing machine. His 10,000 defenders did not meet the Marines on the beach with banzai charges.

No suicidal sprints into American fire. Instead, Nakagawa had built a fortress 500 yardds of interconnected tunnels, reinforced concrete pill boxes embedded into coral ridges with walls 3 ft thick, and overlapping fields of fire that covered every approach. And he let the Americans come to him. On D-Day alone, nearly 1,300 Marines fell before the sun went down.

By September 18th, the day Arthur Jackson ended up on his knees with a sword at his throat, the First Marine Regiment had absorbed 70% casualties. Seven out of every 10 men who had landed with that regiment were dead or wounded. Jackson’s unit, the Seventh Marines, had pushed south into the most fortified sector of the island.

Their objective was the airfield. And between them and that airfield stood 12 reinforced concrete pill boxes arranged in a half moon arc across the southern peninsula. Each one housing between five and 35 enemy soldiers. The Marines had tried everything. Grenades bounced off the concrete walls and rolled back.

Rifle fire sparked uselessly against the slits. Three men had died just trying to find an angle of approach that wouldn’t get them killed in the first two seconds. But tanks couldn’t reach this sector. The coral ridges were too steep, the approaches too narrow. Artillery couldn’t be called in without killing the Marines already pinned down in front of the bunkers.

The math was brutal, and it was simple. A man sprinting across open ground covers roughly 15 yd per second under combat stress. The nearest pillbox sat 150 yd away. That was 10 seconds of exposure minimum. A single Japanese Type 92 machine gun fires 450 rounds per minute in 10 seconds. And one gun pours 75 bullets into a kill zone.

Each pillbox had at least two. Crossing that ground wasn’t a gamble. It was arithmetic with one outcome. Every officer on that ridge knew it. Every sergeant knew it. Jackson knew it. But Jackson also knew something the mathematics didn’t account for. He knew that somewhere in the geometry of those bunkers, somewhere in the angles the Japanese engineers had so carefully calculated, there was a flaw, a gap, uh, a blind spot that no one had been desperate enough to find yet.

And he knew one other thing, the thing that mattered most. He knew that the officer standing behind him with a sword at his throat had just made the last mistake of his life. If you want to see more of stories like this, please hit that like button and subscribe. It helps us share more forgotten stories from World War II, 3 days before the sword touched his throat.

Arthur Jackson had watched an entire regiment bleed out on white coral sand. September 15th, 1944, D-Day on Pleio. Jackson was part of the Seventh Marines, held in reserve while the First Marine Regiment hit the beaches first. From his landing craft, he could hear it before he could see it. A sound like the world tearing apart at its seams.

When the smoke shifted, he saw the first Marines on the beach, or what was left of them. Oh, they weren’t advancing. They were dying in organized rows. Colonel Nakagawa’s gunners had pre-sighted every inch of those beaches. They had calculated the angles, mapped the kill zones, and waited. Now they were collecting the result of that patience with mechanical efficiency.

Marines who made it off the ramps were cut down in the surf. Marines who reached the sand were cut down on the sand. The ones who found cover behind coral outcroppings found that the outcroppings had already been accounted for. Mortars walked the rounds right onto them.

Jackson watched a machine gun position on the left flank engage a cluster of seven Marines who had bunched together behind a wrecked Amtrak. The gun fired for 4 seconds. When it stopped, none of the seven were moving. By noon on D-Day, nearly 1,300 Marines had fallen on those beaches. By nightfall at the first marine regiment, the regiment that had gone in first, the regiment full of men who had packed light because their general told them this would be fast, had taken casualties that in any previous war would have ended the operation entirely. Companies that landed with 200 men were down to 60. Platoons were being led by corporals because the lieutenants were gone. Jackson didn’t sleep that first night. Nobody did. He lay in a shallow scrape in the coral. He listening to the island breathe. The distant crack of sniper

fire, the thud of Japanese mortars, the occasional scream that cut through the darkness and then stopped. He was 19 years old, 3 days removed from the last hot meal he could remember, and he was doing the math that every marine on that island was doing in the dark. At these casualty rates, the numbers only went one direction.

By September 18th, his regiment had pushed into the southern sector. But the objective was the airfield, a flat stretch of coral runway that the military planners in Washington had drawn circles around on maps. Control the airfield. Control the island. Control the island. Control the central Pacific.

The logic was clean and strategic and completely indifferent to the fact that between the seventh Marines and that airfield sat 12 reinforced concrete pillboxes that had already swallowed every solution the Marine Corps had thrown at them. A Jackson’s platoon had gained 200 yd that morning before the left flank locked up entirely. One pillbox.

That’s all it took. one position hullled down in the coral ridge at the edge of a natural clearing with interlocking fire that covered 180 degrees of approach. Every time a marine moved, that gun spoke. Three men had already died trying to find a flanking route. The platoon sergeant had called back for tanks.

The answer came back the same as it had the last three times. Terrain too broken. I know armor available in this sector. He called for artillery. Same answer. Marines too close to the target. Danger close denied. The platoon wasn’t advancing. It wasn’t retreating. It was shrinking.

Jackson had his BAR, a Browning automatic rifle, 19 lb loaded, capable of putting 20 rounds down range in under 3 seconds. He’d been carrying it for 2 days without firing it in anger. He looked at the pill box. He looked at the open ground between his position and the bunker. Ye. He looked at the two men to his left, a corporal named Davis, who had a compress pressed against a wound in his thigh, and a private whose name Jackson didn’t know yet who was shaking so hard his helmet was vibrating against the coral.

He thought about the mathematics. He thought about the 10 seconds. He thought about 150 bullets pouring into a kill zone. Then he stood up. He didn’t announce it. He didn’t ask permission. He came up out of the coral with the bar already firing from the hip, but walking rounds directly into the firing slit of the pillbox at a dead sprint.

The gun inside swung toward him. He could see the muzzle flash could feel the rounds cutting the air to his left and right as the Japanese gunner tried to track a moving target. But Jackson wasn’t running in a straight line. He was cutting angles, changing his approach every three strides, making himself a problem the gunner’s fixed position couldn’t solve cleanly.

The mathematics, it turned out he had an assumption built into them. They assumed the man crossing the open ground was running scared. Jackson wasn’t running scared. He was running angry. And there is a difference in how a man moves when he’s angry that a machine gun cannot account for. He covered the ground in something under 12 seconds.

hit the dead angle beside the bunker’s firing slit where the gun literally could not depress far enough to hit him and pressed his back against 3 ft of concrete, chest heaving, the ears ringing from his own fire. Inside the pillbox, he could hear the Japanese crew scrambling, recalibrating, coming to terms with the fact that the marine they’d been trying to kill was now standing 6 in from their wall.

Jackson pulled a grenade, counted two, and fed it through the firing slit. The concussion came through the concrete like a punch. Then silence from inside. He didn’t stop moving. Stopping was dying. He was already turning, already identifying the next position, already reading the ground between here and there.

But something had shifted in the way he was seeing the battlefield. Something the sprint had taught him. When he’d pressed against the concrete to avoid the gun, he’d looked up and there in the top of the bunker, he’d seen a shaft roughly 8 in square cut into the roof for ventilation. The Japanese engineers had thought of everything when they built these pill boxes.

Overlapping fire, 3-foot walls, reinforced ceilings, and they had thought of every threat that came from the front. They had not thought about a man standing on top of their roof. But that realization came later. First, there was the second bunker, the large one, the one the platoon had been warned about, the one housing 35 soldiers that the intelligence reports had identified as the anchor of the entire defensive line.

This one Jackson couldn’t take alone, not directly. The position was too deep, too well-manned, and the approach is too exposed, even with his hipfire technique. But he’d picked up something on his sprint. He’d seen where the bunker’s dead ground was, the depression in the coral, 10 yards to the east, where the pillbox’s geometry created a blind corridor.

He went back to his platoon, grabbed two men, and explained what he needed in about 20 words. They moved while Jackson suppressed. Two Marines with satchel charges crawled through the dead ground while the BAR kept the firing slits busy and the charges went against the rear wall. The one side the Japanese had built slightly thinner, trusting their tunnel network to protect their backs.

White phosphorus grenades followed through every opening they could find. White phosphorus doesn’t negotiate. It burns at 5,000° and it sticks to everything it touches. And inside a sealed concrete box, it fills every cubic inch of breathable space with chemical fire. The satchel charge went last, and the rear wall came apart in a single compressed moment of sound and pressure, and the bunker that had anchored the Japanese left flank ceased to exist as a military problem.

35 men gone. Jackson was already moving before the dust finished falling. He was at the next bunker when the pattern clicked into place completely, and he’d taken a grenade hit. A fragment had opened a cut above his left ear that was bleeding freely into his collar, and he’d climbed to the top of a smaller pill box to avoid the counter fire.

He was lying flat on the concrete roof, trying to stay below the sightelines when he felt the ventilation shaft under his chest. Same design, same 8-in square, different bunker, same engineer, same assumption that nothing threatening would ever come from directly overhead. Uh, Jackson pulled the pin on a grenade and counted three full seconds this time, burning down the fuse until there was almost nothing left and dropped it straight down the shaft.

The idea was to prevent the crew inside from throwing it back out. The idea worked. He stayed on the roof. He dropped the next one immediately, then the next. The Japanese crew never had time to organize a response because there was no response available. There is no doctrine for a man lying on your roof.

Because the people who wrote the doctrine never imagined a man would get there. Jackson moved from rooftop to rooftop. This was when the mathematics finally broke in his favor. The pill boxes had been engineered to kill men approaching from the front. From above, they were just concrete boxes with holes in them.

Jackson moved with his bar slung across his back and his grenade bag in his right hand, crawling across hot coral, bleeding from the head, and systematically taking apart a defensive network that had stopped an entire Marine regiment. The temperature on the rock had climbed past 105°. The coral cut through his uniform at the knees and elbows, adding new bleeding to old bleeding. His canteen was empty.

His left eye was starting to blur from the blood running into it. He didn’t stop. Between the fourth and fifth bunkers, he hit the corridor. The intelligence men had a name for sections of ground like this, and they called it a corridor of death, which was accurate in the way that calling the ocean wet is accurate.

Technically true, but not really describing the experience of drowning in it. 8 ft of open ground, roughly 40 yards long, running between two pill boxes whose overlapping fields of fire covered every inch of it. The Japanese engineers had designed this gap deliberately. It looked like a route. It was a trap.

Any marine who saw the gap and thought they’d found a way through became the most efficiently killed marine on the island. Jackson spent 6 minutes studying it. He was lying behind a coral outcrop, chin in the dirt, watching the firing patterns. The left pillbox fired in a fixed arc. The gun crew wasn’t adjusting.

The right pillbox had a wider sweep, but a slower rate. When the left gun fired, the right gun paused. It was a half-second pause. Are probably the crew ducking from the concussion of their own weapon. Probably a habit they developed without knowing it. half a second. At a sprint that was two yards of ground, Jackson moved on the pause, not once, not in a single desperate sprint.

He moved in four separate bursts, each timed to the left gun’s fire cycle, pressing flat to the coral in the half-second windows and coming up again before the right gun swept back across his position. Four bursts, 20 seconds of total exposure. I scattered across 2 minutes of waiting. He came through the corridor bleeding from three separate places with dirt in both eyes and a bar magazine he wasn’t certain had any rounds left.

He pressed against the eastern wall of the right pillbox. Breathing in shallow pulls and waited for his vision to clear. Somewhere behind him, across the open ground he just turned into a pathway, the Marines of his platoon were watching. Some of them had stood up without realizing it. The corridor was open and the left flank of the Japanese line was cracking and Arthur Jackson, 19 years old, out of water, running low on ammunition, bleeding from his head and both arms, was already looking at the next bunker.

He was not done. He was not close to done. He heard the tunnel before he saw it. A scrape of bootle coral, a shift of weight in the earth beneath him. in Jackson had just cleared the sixth bunker and was pressed against its eastern wall, reloading when the ground to his left moved.

A concealed hatch roughly 2 ft square, flush with the coral surface, hinged from below. It came up fast, and the soldier who came through it was already committed to the thrust, bayonet fixed, driving upward at the angle a man uses when he expects to catch his target standing still. Jackson wasn’t standing still, that he dropped to a knee the moment he’d heard the scrape, and the bayonet passed through the space where his midsection had been a half second before, close enough that the blade dragged across his cartridge belt and left a pale scratch in the leather. He put the butt of the bar across the soldier’s helmet before the man could recover his balance. The soldier went down. Jackson went into the tunnel. This was not a decision most men would make. The tunnel was dark, roughly 4 ft high. D and connected to a network that Colonel Nakagawa had spent months

constructing beneath the volcanic rock of Pleu’s southern peninsula. Going in meant trading every advantage Jackson had accumulated. open ground, sight lines, the ability to move in any direction for a cramped underground passage where the man who hesitated for a single second would die in it.

Jackson went in anyway as because he understood something about the tunnel network that made staying outside more dangerous than going in. These passages connected the bunkers. If he left them intact, the Japanese could reinforce any position he’d cleared, move men through the rock itself, and undo in 20 minutes what had taken him the better part of 2 hours to accomplish.

The corridor he’d opened would close. The dead would have died for a temporary inconvenience. He cleared the tunnel in sections. the moving with the bar held low using the muzzle flash to read the space ahead of him in strobe lit snapshots. There were three chambers and two connecting passages.

He encountered four soldiers in the process. None of them prepared for the fact that an American marine had entered their subsurface network through the access point they’d used to launch an ambush. He was back above ground in 11 minutes, emerging through the original hatch, and then he sealed the entrance behind him with the last of the C2 explosive he’d been carrying since the second bunker.

The tunnel network in this sector was finished. He stood in the coral heat and did an inventory. The bar had half a magazine, maybe eight rounds. His grenade bag had two left. The cut above his ear had clotted into a dark crust that pulled tight when he turned his head.

his right knee, which he’d slammed against the tunnel floor during the close quarters work, and had swollen enough that he could feel it against the inside of his trouser leg. His canteen had been empty for over an hour. He needed ammunition, and there was only one place on this section of the battlefield to find it. The dead were everywhere.

Marines and Japanese both scattered across the coral in the postures that men fall into when their bodies stop working mid-motion. Jackson moved through them without ceremony and without hesitation because there was no time for either. But he was looking for M1 Garands, the standard Marine Infantry rifle, because the 30-06 cartridge it used was the same caliber as the BAR.

The magazines weren’t compatible, but the rounds were. And Jackson had learned somewhere in his training, or perhaps simply figured it out in the last 2 hours, that you could strip clips from a grand and handload a bar magazine one round at a time. It was slow. It was tedious.

His fingers were slick with blood and coral dust, and he dropped rounds twice. I’d heard them click against the rock and lost them in the crevices. He worked through it. He stripped four garans, hand loaded two full bar magazines and a third that was 3/4 full and stood up from the last body with 47 rounds and no particular plan except to keep moving north toward the sound of the guns that were still firing.

He had been on this assault for nearly 80 minutes. He heard the counterattack before his platoon’s forward observer reported it. Is a change in the noise profile of the battle. More fire coming from the north, from the direction of the tunnel network’s main hub, from the ground between the cleared sector and the positions Jackson hadn’t reached yet.

Nakaagawa had been watching the breach develop through the reports coming back from his surviving bunker crews, and he’d done what any competent commander does when his line cracks. He’d sent reserves to seal it. A company of Japanese infantry, somewhere between 80 and 100 men, was moving through the broken coral toward the gap Jackson had spent the morning creating.

Jackson found a natural firing position in the rubble of the second bunker he’d destroyed, a low wall of shattered concrete that gave him a clear line of sight across the most likely approach route. He settled the bar on the lip of the wall, adjusted his position to take the weight off his swollen knee, and waited. And the waiting was the hardest part.

Not because of fear. Whatever mechanism produces fear in a man had apparently burned through its fuel supply somewhere around the fourth bunker, but because his body was beginning to send signals, he could no longer fully ignore. His vision in the left eye came and went in pulses.

The hand holding the pistol grip of the BAR had developed a tremor he had to consciously suppress. The 105 degree heat radiating off the coral pressed down on the back of his neck like a physical weight. He controlled his breathing. He watched the ground. When the first element of the counterattack came into his field of fire, he shot in short controlled bursts. Three rounds pause.

Three rounds pause. not spraying, not panicking, making every burst count because he had exactly 47 rounds and somewhere between 80 and 100 problems moving toward him across open coral. And the disciplined fire achieved what undisiplined fire never does. It made the advancing company believe they were facing more than one gun. They spread out.

They slowed down. They began moving by bounds. One element covering while another advanced, which is the correct tactical response to suppressive fire, and also the response that costs the most time. Time was what Jackson needed. Time for his platoon to read what was happening and push forward into the gap.

on time for the breach to become a penetration before it could be sealed. He burned through the first magazine and loaded the second. He burned through the second and loaded the third. When the third magazine ran dry, he had a Japanese type 99 rifle he’d picked up off the tunnel floor and seven rounds in it.

Dyni used all seven before the lead elements of the counterattack stopped advancing and the marines of his platoon came up through the cleared sector on his left flank and the tactical equation changed permanently. The breach held. The counterattack stalled, then broke, then retreated back through the coral in the direction it had come from.

Jackson sat with his back against the concrete rubble and let a corman tape his head without arguing about it for the first time all morning. and the corman wanted to pull him back to the aid station. Jackson listened to the entire case, waited for the man to finish, and asked him for water instead.

He drank, reloaded from the supplies the advancing platoon brought with them, and looked north. Three bunkers remained. They sat in a triangular formation on the last high ground before the airfield approach, mutually supporting, positioned so that each one covered the dead ground of the other two. The Marines called it the triangle.

The men who had tried to take it on D-Day and D +1 and D plus2 had names, and those names were now on casualty lists. The triangle had not moved. It had not weakened. It had sat on that volcanic rock for 3 days and eaten every solution the Marine Corps had attempted to feed it. Jackson studied it for 4 minutes.

Then he started crawling. He went on his elbows and his good knee, dragging the bad one, keeping his profile below the sightelines of the nearest bunker by staying in the depression that ran along the base of the coral ridge. The rock under his elbows was volcanic and it was 105° and it pulled at the skin of his forearms like sandpaper every time he moved.

He covered 40 yards in something close to 6 minutes, which is a long time to be moving across ground that people are trying to kill you on. and he arrived at the base of the first triangle bunker with new blood on both elbows and a clarity of purpose that had burned away everything except the next three problems in front of him.

He went up the side of the bunker the same way he’d learned to go up the others, using the concrete’s own surface irregularities as handholds, keeping his weight low, moving in the window between the first and second bunker scanning cycles. The ventilation shaft was there. Same design and same 8 in of opening.

Same assumption by the engineers that their enemy would always be below them. He dropped two grenades and was off the roof before the second one went off. The second bunker he took from the eastern approach, using the first bunker’s destruction as cover. the smoke, the dust, the momentary disruption to the second crew’s situational awareness that comes when the position 30 yards away stops existing.

Be he was through the firing slit with a grenade before the crew had fully processed what had happened to their neighbors. The third bunker was the hardest. His leg had stopped cooperating in any meaningful way. He was moving it through an act of will rather than muscle function, dragging it behind him through the coral dust.

And the blood loss from the accumulation of the morning’s wounds had reduced his world to a narrow tunnel of focus with darkness pressing in at the edges. He had one grenade left. He had one magazine in the bar and he didn’t know how many rounds were in it because he’d lost count somewhere during the counterattack and hadn’t had the clarity to recount since.

He reached the third bunker. He climbed it. He found the shaft. He dropped the last grenade, counted 3 seconds of fuse, and let it go. The southern peninsula’s last major stronghold fired its guns for approximately four more seconds after the grenade went in. Then it stopped. The triangle, which had consumed 3 days, and an uncountable number of Marines, was silent.

Jackson came down off the roof and sat on the coral and did not move for a while. The men who reached him first said he looked like a man who had come back from somewhere that didn’t have a name yet. His uniform was more blood and coral dust than fabric. The leather cartridge belt was empty.

Both sleeves were torn off at the elbows, and the cut above his ear had opened again during the crawl to the triangle and dried again and opened again, and there were three distinct layers of dried blood on the left side of his face, like rings on a tree. He was 19 years old. He had been on the assault for approximately 90 minutes.

He had destroyed 12 pill boxes, cleared an underground tunnel network, held a breach against a company-sized counterattack, and killed approximately 50 enemy soldiers, and he went to the aid station under his own power. Arthur Jackson came home from the Pacific in 1945 and became a mailman in Phoenix, Arizona.

This is the part of the story that people find hardest to hold alongside the rest of it. The image of the man who crawled across 105° volcanic rock to take the last fortress of Paleo, walking a mail route in the Arizona heat, sorting packages, exchanging pleasantries with the people on his circuit who had no idea what he’d done or what he carried.

And he didn’t talk about Paleu. He didn’t talk about the Medal of Honor that President Truman hung around his neck in 1945. The citation of which described his actions in the careful compressed language that official documents use when the truth is too large to fit in a paragraph. He built a quiet life. He wanted a quiet life.

He had earned a quiet life in a way that very few people ever do. Then in 1961, the quiet life ended. Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. A Jackson was working in a security capacity at the naval base when he encountered a man he believed and would maintain until the end of his life that he correctly believed was a Soviet intelligence operative gathering information on base infrastructure.

The details of what happened next remain partially classified. What is known is that a confrontation occurred, that it ended with the man dead, and that Arthur Jackson acted in what he stated was self-defense. The military and political machinery that processed this event was not interested in self-defense.

It was 1961, the height of the Cold War, and an incident at Guantanamo involving a dead man of uncertain allegiance, was exactly the kind of thing that the people who manage uncomfortable truths are built to make disappear quietly. Jackson was cleared of criminal wrongdoing, but the incident was buried, classified, sealed, filed somewhere between inconvenient and forgotten. He went back to Phoenix.

He went back to the male route. For decades, he carried both things simultaneously. The Medal of Honor and the Silence. The public record of a man who had done the impossible on a volcanic island in the Pacific, and the private record of a man who had been used and discarded by the same government that had decorated him.

He attended ceremonies. He shook hands. He posed for photographs with the medal and gave the answers that people wanted to hear about duty and courage and what it means to serve. He never talked about Guantanamo, not publicly, not in interviews, not to the historians who wrote about Pleio and asked him to walk them through the sequence of events on September 18th, 1944.

In his later years, Jackson found a way to release at least part of what he’d been carrying. He began attending ceremonies at naval installations, meeting with young sailors and marines, talking to them about the things that mattered when everything else was stripped away. At one such ceremony, and he presented the flag that had flown over his Medal of Honor presentation to a graduating class of enlisted men.

It was the closest he came in public to passing something on. He died in 2022 at the age of 97. The New York Times ran an obituary. The Marine Corps issued a statement. Various military history channels produced segments. Everyone noted the Medal of Honor. Most noted the 50 enemy soldiers.

A few noted the 12 pill boxes. Almost none of them mentioned Guantanamo. I Arthur Jackson did not wait for permission on September 18th, 1944. He did not wait for a solution that might never come. He did not wait for someone else to decide that the mathematics were beatable. He stood up out of the coral with a 19-lb rifle and he ran at the thing that was killing his people.

And he kept running at it for 90 minutes until it stopped. The quiet life he built afterward, the mail route, the Arizona heat, as the decades of carrying two separate and incompatible truths was not a lesser story than Pleu. It was the same story continued. The story of a man who absorbed what the world handed him and kept moving because stopping was the one thing he had decided somewhere on a volcanic island in the Pacific that he would not do.

The sword at his throat on the morning of September 18th had been the beginning of 7 minutes that changed the course of the battle for Paleu. He what came after those 7 minutes lasted the rest of his life. If you want to see more of stories like this, please hit the like button and subscribe. It helps us share more forgotten stories from World War II.

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