They Called His Artillery Mission ‘Suicide’ — Until One Marine Saved 2 Lives in One Second

They Called the Mission Suicide — Until One Marine Saved Two Lives in One Second

Mount Yayatake, Okinawa — April 15, 1945.
At 7:30 a.m., Private First Class Harold G. Gonzales pressed his body against jagged volcanic rock on the lower slopes of Mount Yayatake, watching Japanese mortar rounds explode in precise clusters across the hillside above him. He was 19 years old. He had been on Okinawa for 14 days. And he was volunteering for a job that few Marines survived more than once.

Gonzales was a forward observer — an artillery spotter whose task was to move ahead of friendly lines, locate enemy positions, and call in artillery fire. On Okinawa, that role came with brutal statistics. In the first four days of fighting around Mount Yayatake, seven observer teams had been sent forward. Five were forced back under fire. Two reached their positions. Both took casualties.

Yet the mission remained essential. Without forward observers, artillery fire was blind. And blind artillery meant Marine infantry advancing uphill into fortified Japanese positions with no suppression — a near-certain massacre.

A Fortress of Stone and Fire

Mount Yayatake dominated the Moto Peninsula, controlling the northern approaches to the Okinawa invasion beaches. Japanese forces under Colonel Udo had turned the mountain into a fortress of caves, spider holes, and camouflaged bunkers. Anti-aircraft guns had been repurposed for direct fire. Mortars were pre-registered on every likely avenue of approach.

The Sixth Marine Division had been fighting uphill for four days. Progress was measured in yards. Casualties were measured in dozens.

Gonzales was part of an eight-man observer team from Battery L, 4th Battalion, 15th Marines. That morning, their commanding officer asked for volunteers to push even farther forward — to establish an observation post within direct line of sight of the Japanese defensive network.

Three men were selected. One officer. Gonzales. And another enlisted Marine.

They would carry field telephone wire instead of radios, which were unreliable in the broken volcanic terrain. If the wire was cut, they would be isolated. There would be no backup.

Everyone understood what that meant.

Moving Under the Barrage

At 7:55 a.m., American artillery opened a preparatory barrage. As shells screamed overhead, the three Marines left cover and began moving uphill, stringing telephone wire behind them as they advanced.

The plan depended on speed. It also depended on the enemy staying underground during the barrage.

That assumption proved fatal.

At 8:27 a.m., the first Japanese rifle shot cracked across the slope. It struck rock less than ten feet from the officer. The message was unmistakable: they had been seen.

Mortar fire followed minutes later. Japanese crews walked rounds across the hillside with methodical precision, bracketing the advancing Marines. One round detonated exactly where they had stood seconds earlier.

They reached their first observation point just in time.

From there, Gonzales saw the truth that maps had failed to show. The Japanese defensive line was much closer than expected — less than 160 yards away. He could see individual soldiers moving between firing ports. He could count machine-gun nests, mortar pits, and communication trenches.

If Marine infantry attacked this slope without suppression, they would be slaughtered.

Artillery That Finally Found Its Eyes

The officer connected the field phone. Gonzales unfolded his map and began marking targets.

Within minutes, American 105mm artillery shells began impacting the ridge. The first salvos were off. Adjustments were made. Then the fire found its mark.

A machine-gun bunker took a direct hit. A communication trench collapsed. Secondary explosions indicated ammunition stores detonating.

But success brought danger.

Japanese infantry emerged from hidden positions and began advancing toward the observer team. They understood exactly what they were facing. Kill the observers, and the artillery would go silent.

Grenades landed near their position. Rifle fire chewed rock above Gonzales’ head. The third Marine was wounded by shrapnel but kept fighting.

The officer made a decision few would make: they had to move even closer.

Pushing Into the Kill Zone

The team advanced again, sprinting across open ground under direct fire, dragging wire behind them like a fragile lifeline. Each movement brought them deeper into a zone where extraction would be impossible.

They finally reached a narrow ravine less than 80 yards from Japanese lines. From there, Gonzales could see everything — cave entrances, reserve assembly areas, command posts.

It was a target-rich environment.

American artillery responded with devastating precision. Mortar pits vanished. Ammunition caches exploded. Entire sections of the Japanese defensive network collapsed.

But Japanese infantry was closing in.

By 9:51 a.m., enemy soldiers were within grenade range.

The Second That Defined a Life

At 10:27 a.m., as Gonzales knelt beside the officer in a crater barely large enough to hold them both, a Japanese grenade landed three feet away.

There was no time to throw it clear.

No time to escape.

Gonzales saw the grenade, understood the distance, understood the blast radius — and understood that the officer beside him and the field telephone between them were the only link keeping artillery fire alive.

He did not hesitate.

Gonzales threw himself forward and covered the grenade with his body.

The explosion killed him instantly.

The officer survived. The field telephone survived. The artillery connection survived.

Moments later, the officer called in the final fire mission — targeting a command post Gonzales had identified. The shells struck with deadly accuracy, destroying Colonel Udo’s forward headquarters and shattering Japanese coordination across the sector.

The Mission Completed

Japanese infantry reached the crater a minute later. They found one Marine dead and another still calling artillery fire. The officer was wounded and the line eventually went silent — but the damage had been done.

When Marine infantry assaulted Mount Yayatake later that day, they faced fierce resistance — but not annihilation. The positions that should have killed them had been suppressed or destroyed.

Three days later, the mountain fell.

More than 700 Japanese soldiers were killed. The northern approaches to the Okinawa beachhead were secured.

Harold Gonzales did not live to see it.

Recognition Earned in Three Seconds

Gonzales’ body was recovered on April 16. He was 19 years old.

In 1946, President Harry S. Truman signed the Medal of Honor citation recognizing his actions. The medal was presented to his sister, Marie, in San Francisco.

Gonzales remains the only Hispanic Marine to receive the Medal of Honor during World War II.

The citation used formal language — “conspicuous gallantry,” “intrepidity,” “indomitable spirit.” But those words struggle to capture what happened in a single second on a volcanic slope in Okinawa.

A teenager saw a grenade.
He knew the math.
And he moved forward instead of away.

Because he did, two Marines lived.
Because he did, artillery kept firing.
Because he did, hundreds of others came home.

Sometimes history turns not on hours of combat or sweeping offensives — but on one second, and one decision made without hesitation.