Motors were gunning, pumping out stinking clouds of blue smoke when we climbed down the ladder into the cramped hold. After a morning up top washed by a steady sea breeze, our eyes burned. Below, it was close and hot as hell. We were burdened with combat packs, carbines, sidearms, first aid kits, KA-BAR knives, two canteens each, struggling to keep a foothold on the pitching deck.
I believed I was going to come back in one piece. There were guys I knew, Marines I fought alongside, who got a feeling their time was up. Once they got it you couldn’t talk them out of it. When we had been fighting to hang on to Walt’s Ridge on New Britain, Lonnie Howard said, “Burgin, if anything happens to me, I want you to take my watch.”
“You’re crazy,” I told him. “You’ll be okay. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
That night one of our artillery shells hit nearby. The shrapnel killed Howard and another Marine, Robert McCarthy.
Me, I was anxious and wary that morning off Peleliu. But I never thought for a minute I wouldn’t make it.
[We were in] one of the older amtracs, the ones without a drop-down back end. When we rolled up on the beach we’d have to scramble over the sides. That’s when the Japs would have a clear shot at us.
There were about twenty of us, plus the driver, probably a Navy man, all jammed together like toes in a shoe. While we waited, sailors topside looked us over, giving us the thumbs-up and shouting encouragement that we couldn’t hear over the noise. Finally the big clamshell doors of that LSTÑLanding Ship, Tank cranked open. Number 13 shuddered, and we followed the other amtracs down the ramp, nosed into the water, and floated out into the bright morning sun.
It was a little past eight o’clock.
An amtrac at sea wallows like a buffalo. The flat-bottomed Higgins boats could do twelve knots. We barely managed four and a half, which is about as fast as a man can walk. Think of us walking to shore under fire. We circled for half an hour until the beach master dropped his red flag, the signal to form up and head for shore. Our battleships and cruisers had been working over the island since dawn, guns cracking like thunder. They paused long enough for the Dauntless dive bombers and TBMs to sweep in and dump their bombs. Then they started up again. After our wave got under way, a couple LSTs that were parked out on our flanks sent swarms of rockets screeching over our heads. I’d never heard a sound like that before. Something like cloth ripping. A curtain of black smoke hung over the whole beach. It looked like the island was on fire.
Somewhere along our way in Jap artillery found the range and started working us over. The last thousand yards we were under fire the whole way. Over the general racket I couldn’t hear bullets dinging Number 13, but we kept our heads down anyway. Shells were smacking the water all around us, raising big spikes of foam.
Reprinted by arrangement with NAL Signet, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., from ISLANDS OF THE DAMNED by R. V. Burgin with Bill Marvel.
Copyright © 2010 by R. V. Burgin and Bill Marvel
Review by Edward M. Coffman
The World War II battlefields in the Pacific were Islands of the Damned for those who fought there. R. V. Burgin, a Marine veteran of Cape Gloucester, Peleliu and Okinawa has aptly entitled his memoir. The terrain and climate and the savagery of an enemy who prepared to fight to the death compounded the sights, sounds, emotions and confusion of war. In this book, the author starkly relates what he saw and felt during those terrible months of battle.
A Texas farm boy, Burgin graduated from high school in 1941 and worked a couple of jobs before he enlisted in the Marine Corps in the fall of 1942. The Marines needed to fill up divisions rapidly so instead of a 12-week boot camp, he endured the hazing and tough training in only six weeks. Without a leave, he went straight to specialized training in mortars then shipped out in March 1943. He joined Company K, Fifth Marines in Australia where the First Division was recuperating from the Guadalcanal campaign.
After seven months of advanced training there and in New Guinea, he experienced his first combat at Cape Gloucester in New Britain. On his third day, he shot and killed a Japanese soldier. Later, during a banzai charge, he bayoneted another. He successfully coped with the difficulties of remaining alert at all times for an enemy who could approach unseen within a few feet in the thick undergrowth. In the four months of this campaign with the tension and horror of jungle combat and the miserable conditions of rain, mud and shortage of food, Burgin lost whatever naïveté he may have had about war.
The division then went to a miserable camp where the veterans and replacements resumed training. One of the replacements in Burgin’s mortar section was Eugene B. Sledge—author of the classic memoir With the Old Breed at Peleliu and Okinawa, in which he mentions Burgin in his acknowledgment as well as in the text.
In the fall of 1944, the First Division invaded Peleliu. After a month of combat against an enemy in superb defensive positions, heavy casualties, loss of leaders, confusion, friendly fire incidents, food and water shortages in the intense heat and damp, the division suffered 30% casualties and only 85 of the 235 men in Burgin’s company were left.
He considered Peleliu his hardest battle but others gave Okinawa that distinction. During that campaign in the spring of 1945, K Company saw virtually no action for the first month but had to fight viciously to take one well defended ridge after another in the last two months. During three weeks of the bitter fighting, Burgin was in a hospital with a bad flesh wound in his neck and concussion but he got back in time for a bitter two-day fight at Kunishi Ridge where his company suffered 33 casualties.
That was the end of his war which haunts him to this day.
Hardcover: 320 pages
Publisher: New American Library/Div Of Penguin ( March 02, 2010 )
Item #: 33-2688
ISBN: 9780451229908
Product Dimensions: 6.0 x 9.0 x 0.71 inches
Product Weight: 16.0 ounces

I don't intend any disrespect to the author for his and millions of others in the Greatest Generation for all they did in World War II. Unfortunately, his story, as told in Islands of the Damned, is just about as exciting as reading about a trip to the local Wal-Mart. It has many facts about the author and his war in the Pacific but is told in a very manner of fact way. There is no evidence of emotion to the events that surrounded him. When he killed his first Japanese soldier, it appears it meant nothing to him. Other than to say "He was a good marine'" the deaths of his buddies appears to have had little effect on his. Similarly, the death of his brother elicits no reaction.
Mr. Burgin's story would have benefited from a good editor; someone who knew how to make his important story interesting to readers.
Reviewer: Hill F
You hear the joy in his writing when he talks about Florence or he talks about his unit. And yet you hear the tears he so badly wants to shed when he talks about someone getting wounded or killed. I laughed and cried all the way through this book and plan on reading it again and again. It should be required reading in school instead of Shakespeare or Keats. This is the history of the USA!!! Long may she live and long may her banner wave, if for no other reason than these young men died for us to still be free. Thank you R V Burgin.
Reviewer: Rayne M