They Called It “Suicide Point” — Until This Marine Shot Down 12 Japanese Bombers in One Day

“From Suicide Point to Victory: How One Marine Changed the Course of Air Defense in the Pacific”

Renova Island, Solomon Islands — July 4th, 1943, dawned gray and humid over the Pacific, but what unfolded that morning would etch itself into Marine Corps history. For years, this small stretch of beach at the northern tip of Renova had been ominously nicknamed “Suicide Point.” Just two days earlier, 59 Americans had died here, caught off guard by a sudden Japanese bombing raid. But that day, Private First Class Evan Evans, a 22-year-old Marine from Richmond, Indiana, would prove that even one determined gunner could turn a death trap into a fortress.

The morning sky revealed the approaching enemy: 16 Japanese Mitsubishi G4M “Betty” bombers, escorted by 180 fighters, descending toward Renova with deadly intent. Evans, crouched behind sandbags with his 90mm M1 anti-aircraft gun, watched the formation through clouds and early morning haze. His battalion, the 9th Defense Battalion, had only been on the island three days, and just hours earlier, their radar sets had been knocked out during previous attacks. Evans had yet to record a single aircraft shot down, but everything was about to change.

Two days prior, on July 2nd, Japanese bombers had swept in over the island, catching Marines completely unprepared. Radar was offline, gun directors were calculating intercepts manually, and 59 men perished on the sand as fires raged through fuel dumps, ammunition stores, and a field hospital. The attack left Renova in smoldering ruins, and the beach earned its grim nickname.

This time, the 9th Defense Battalion had a critical advantage: operational radar. The SCR268 radar sets, hastily repaired overnight in the rain, allowed gun crews to track enemy planes with precision. Evans and his crew—Loader, Rammer, Fuse Setter, and Gunner—stood ready, running through drills they had practiced thousands of times, but now under the most terrifying conditions imaginable: with their friends’ lives at stake and the fate of the island hanging in the balance.

By 8:45 a.m., the radar detected the formation inbound from Rabaul, 120 miles away. The order to fire was given, and a symphony of thunder erupted as 12 anti-aircraft guns unleashed a storm of 24-pound shells. Each gun fired every three seconds. Evans’s hands moved automatically, loading, ramming, setting the fuse, and firing in rhythm with his crew. The lead Betty bomber, descending at 8,000 feet, became the first target. An 18-second flight of the shell ended in a perfect strike. Shrapnel tore through the bomber’s right engine, and flames consumed it within seconds. The bomber tumbled into the waters four miles northwest of Renova. One down. Fifteen to go.

What followed was an extraordinary display of marksmanship and nerve. Battery C, Evans’s gun position, tracked one bomber after another, coordinating with the other batteries across Renova. By 9:30 a.m., 12 of the 16 bombers had been destroyed. The remaining four fled in disarray, damaged and low on fuel, forced to ditch over the Solomon Sea. Not a single bomb had fallen on the island itself. Just 88 rounds of anti-aircraft fire had obliterated nearly the entire attacking force—a staggering success given that most units considered a 2% hit rate exceptional.

Lieutenant Colonel William Shier, commanding the 90mm gun crews, surveyed the aftermath. He counted the kills alongside his exhausted men, noting the unprecedented success. In one engagement, one battalion had achieved what no American anti-aircraft unit in the Pacific had: a 90% destruction rate against a Japanese bomber formation. Radar-directed fire had proven its devastating effectiveness.

The consequences of that morning’s heroics extended far beyond Renova’s beach. Japanese commanders, receiving reports from the surviving bombers, quickly realized that daylight raids against American positions in the New Georgia Group had become suicidal. The mathematics of Pacific air combat had shifted dramatically. Renova was no longer a death trap—it had become a fortress defended by American ingenuity, technology, and courage.

In the weeks that followed, the 9th Defense Battalion’s success at Renova enabled uninterrupted artillery support across Blanch Channel, directly contributing to the American advance on Munda Airfield. By August 5th, Munda fell, and within 72 hours, Marine and Army engineers had made it operational. American fighters were soon launching missions from the captured airfield, and Japanese air raids in the region dwindled, unable to penetrate the now-lethal anti-aircraft defenses established by Evans and his comrades.

Despite their monumental achievement, Evans and the other gun crews received little in the way of medals or public recognition. Anti-aircraft gunners were often viewed as performing routine duties, even when their impact was anything but routine. Evans continued his service through the battles of Guam and the Korean War, eventually leaving the Marines in 1953 as a staff sergeant with 11 years of service. His battalion’s total for the war reached 46 confirmed kills, with the legendary July 4th, 1943 engagement remaining the pinnacle of their wartime accomplishments.

Decades later, in 1993, Evans reached out to the National Archives, seeking a photograph of his 90mm gun to show his grandchildren. Archivist Alan Walker discovered a single surviving image of Evans and his crew standing beside the gun that had made history. The photograph, cataloged as 127GW, preserved the names and faces of the men who had turned Suicide Point into a “killing ground” for Japanese bombers. For Evans, seeing himself at 22 years old, standing beside the gun, brought back decades of memories, some painful, some proud, all unforgettable.

Evan Evans passed away in 2004 at age 83. Roy Boon and John Gamberowski, his fellow gunners, had died earlier, yet the story of their bravery endures. Renova Island is quiet now; the bunkers have collapsed, the jungle has reclaimed the gun positions. But every July 4th, a few remember the day when three young Marines changed the course of air defense in the Pacific.

Their story is a reminder that heroism often comes in unexpected forms. It is found not only in charging across beaches under fire but in the precision of a 90mm gun, the calculation of a radar plot, and the steady hands of men determined to protect their comrades and their position. Evans, Boon, and Gamberowski proved that courage combined with technology could shift the balance of war, even in the face of overwhelming odds.

Renova Island’s transformation from Suicide Point to a symbol of American resilience stands as a testament to the men who fought there. Through their actions, the tactics of anti-aircraft warfare evolved, the Japanese learned a harsh lesson, and the Pacific campaign moved closer to an Allied victory. Today, thanks to historians, archivists, and the Marines themselves, their story lives on—etched not only in military records but in the collective memory of a nation that owes its freedom to men willing to stand firm when everything seemed lost.