Hugh Doran Fricks
First Lieutenant Hugh D. Fricks served as a platoon leader and recon officer in Dog Company, First Battalion, 6th Marines.
He was killed in action at the battle of Tarawa on 23 November 1943.
Branch
Marine Corps Reserve
Service Number O-11196
Current Status
Accounted For
as of 16 March 2020
Recovery Organization
History Flight 2019 Expedition
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History
Hugh Doran Fricks was the youngest of three sons raised by Dr. Lunsford Davidson Fricks and the former Grace Beene. Born on the nineteenth of January, 1921, during his father’s tenure as the surgeon in charge of the US Public Health Service in Memphis, Tennessee, Hugh made his first cross-country trip while still in grade school. The family packed up their belongings, bidding goodbye to their native South, and moved to Washington State for “L. D.’s” new job as director of public health in Seattle.[1] Hugh was enrolled at John Muir Elementary School for a few years before Dr. Fricks was reassigned once again. This time the family traded in rainy, gray Seattle for tropical Hawaii.
The Fricks took up residence on Kamokuakulikuli Island – or “Sand Island” as the haoles said – in 1935. Sand Island was also known as “Quarantine Island” as it housed the largest medical holding facility in the territory. Dr. Fricks was known as an expert in contagious diseases – specifically malaria – and the station was an ideal place to spend his remaining years before retirement, researching and indulging his passion for horticulture. (He was so successful at beautifying the quarantine station that the Honolulu Advertiser ran a special feature, “Paradise on Sand Island,” in 1937.)[2]
Hawaii was an idyllic place for the Fricks boys, too. Patton and Hugh attended Punahou Preparatory School; Hugh, in particular, developed into an athlete on the tennis court, swimming pool, and football field. At the age of fifteen, Hugh was allowed to sign on with the crew of the steamer SS Islander and made trips to Fanning Island and Christmas Island as an able seaman.
Two years in Honolulu passed quickly. In 1937, Dr. Fricks announced his retirement after forty years in the medical profession; he handed over his beloved island to a colleague, and the family moved back to Seattle. Hugh graduated from Franklin High School with the class of 1938 and followed Patton to the University of Washington. His freshman year ended on a tragic note, however, with the death of his mother in April 1939. When he returned to classes in the autumn, Hugh’s mind was not on his studies and he nearly flunked out of the college of Arts & Sciences. Switching to Economics & Business restored some of his interest and he joined the wrestling team, but the youngest Fricks boy was hardly a model student.[3]
It isn’t known whether Hugh went to college intending on a military career, but he must have considered the possibility. Pat was a member of “Compass and Chart” – a collegiate group for aspiring Naval officers – and Lunsford Junior held a reserve commission in the Marine Corps. One or both of the brothers likely spoke to Hugh, for in October of 1939 he joined the Marine Corps Reserve as a buck private. While on inactive duty, attended drills every week at Seattle’s Canadian National Dock, learning to salute, march, and shoot (he was rated an expert with a small-bore rifle). For a few months, it was something to do on weekends while he wasn’t studying or preparing for a collegiate wrestling match.
Then, in late 1940, Private Fricks was called to active duty. He withdrew from the university, put his personal affairs in order, and reported as ordered to Marine Corps Base San Diego. On the sixth day of November, he joined an organization that would define the rest of his life: Company D, First Battalion, 6th Marines.
The 6th Marines – called “the Pogey Bait 6th” by those looking for trouble – was a well-seasoned outfit with a lineage dating back to the Great War.[4] They’d served in Central America and in China, most recently providing security to Shanghai’s International Settlement. San Diego was their home for the last of the peacetime years, and while training took place every day, the overall atmosphere was “carefree times… combat, privation, separations, killing, and maiming, i.e., war, were not really thought about or discussed. Indeed, it wasn’t even comprehended. The Marines were having so much fun few people could see the storm clouds gathering on the horizon of their lives.”[5] By the time Hugh Fricks joined the ranks, the regiment was beginning to swing about to a wartime footing. The old 2nd Marine Brigade became the new 2nd Marine Division; with dire news from Europe in every paper and radio broadcast, the good times in “Dago” and training on Kearney Mesa became monotonous. Some Marines acted out. In April of 1941, Fricks found himself in hot water for disobeying an NCO and was fined ten dollars for insubordination; this did not, however, impact his promotion to Private First Class just days later.
PFC Fricks was down at the San Diego docks when a most exciting order reached his battalion commander: the 6th Marines were to prepare immediately “for temporary shore duty beyond the seas.” It could not have come at a more appropriate time: 1/6 was at that moment conducting a practice embarkation on the USS Fuller. LtCol. Oliver Jones halted his men at once, and the training exercise became a working party as they unloaded the dummy cargo and prepared for the real thing. Because their orders didn’t name a destination, they packed for warm and cold climates. The Fuller departed San Diego in convoy on the evening of 31 May 1941.[6] Hugh Fricks was once again at sea.
After the initial excitement of departure, shipboard life assumed its own dull routine. The Marines were not even allowed on deck to observe the passage through the Panama Canal; the darkened ships went through at night to conceal the movement of troops. The journey, which included ports of call in Charleston, South Carolina, and Argentia, Newfoundland, lasted five long weeks. On 7 July 1941, the ships anchored in Reykjavik harbor. The Marines had arrived in Iceland to relieve a British garrison and keep the island safe from German invasion – or succumbing to the influence of fascist fifth columnists. For the next five months, PFC Fricks’ company occupied Camp MacArthur a few miles outside of Reykjavik itself. They lived in Nissen huts heated by a single stove, swam in the warm rivers, and ate Army rations supplemented with local mutton. William K. Jones notes that several Marines struck up relationships with local girls, but found liberty overrated: getting to town was difficult, and once there, facilities were always crowded. Enlisted men like Fricks were barred from the only fancy hotel – reserved for officers – and senior NCOs quickly staked claims to the runner-up restaurants and bars. “Most Marines,” said Jones, “didn’t even make the effort to go into town after the first visit.”[7]
Few specific details are available about PFC Fricks’ experiences in Iceland, but they likely revolved around manning a machine gun on guard duty, work details, camp construction, and the occasional burst of excitement or resentment over rumors and changing orders. Combatting the doldrums was a real concern. “Dealing with their own and their Marines’ sheer boredom became a real problem for both junior and senior commanders,” notes Colonel James A. Donovan. “Mail call, though the letters and packages often arrived late in battered and tattered condition, very often wet, was a highlight in a day’s schedule. Enlisted marines were issued two free cans of beer per day from the post exchange, an event which also broke the monotony. As always, card games for high stakes were a popular pastime. Most of the gamblers’ pay “rode the books” as there was no place to spend it. Because there was little to read, one company commander often to a book to his men’s huts and read to them as they and their salty and grizzled NCOs sat at his feet and listened with rapt attention.”[8] Army personnel arrived; the Marines thought they would be relieved in September, but to their chagrin found they would be on the island “indefinitely.” Their spirits sank further as winter approached and the available daylight shrank to only four hours.
The month of December 1941 held three major events for Hugh Fricks. Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor, and the subsequent declarations of war by Japan and Germany, simultaneously provided justification for all the work in Iceland – and a profound sense of being on the wrong side of the world to see any action. “The men, trained and indoctrinated as amphibious assault troops, were perturbed when they heard the news of Pearl Harbor while huddled around the stoves in their Nissen huts,” wrote one historian. “Were they to be left forgotten in the wrong ocean?”[9] Ten days later, Fricks joined the ranks of NCOs with a promotion to corporal. And on New Year’s Eve, a fight broke out when a drunken PFC attempted to enter the sergeant’s mess. He stabbed two NCOs in the ensuing scuffle and was chased to a nearby tent occupied by “the most ineffectual and least respected second lieutenant in the battalion.” Sergeant Cecil J. Pickens, “boiling mad,” hoisted the officer out of the way and advanced on the PFC, who lashed out and struck Pickens in the heart with his knife. Sergeant Pickens, “one of the best in the battalion,” died on the spot. “The funeral of the popular sergeant, and the investigation and court-martial that followed, cast a pall over the battalion for days,” notes Jones.[10]
Those days, however, would be among their last in Iceland. The need for trained amphibious troops in the Pacific was obvious, and the seasoned men of the 6th Marines would be used to leaven the masses of volunteers crowding recruiting stations across the country. The regiment returned to their old home base in San Diego in March 1942 and turned in the distinctive polar bear patches they’d worn in Iceland. New recruits arrived, and older hands received promotions. Fricks made sergeant in the spring of 1942 and was placed in command of a machine gun squad. A few furloughs were issued, and Fricks might have had an opportunity to visit with his father. Dr. Fricks came out of retirement to help with the war effort and was working for the city health office in Helena, Montana. He certainly heard about Ethel Margaret Collishaw, a Seattle widow who was the subject of the doctor’s affections.
While in Iceland, Fricks caught the attention of his senior officers, and he was recommended for a commission. The 2nd Marine Division established its own Officer Candidate’s Class at Green Farm, and on 9 May 1942 Fricks joined the first round of about sixty NCOs undergoing instruction. The course lasted for a month and covered subjects ranging from Field Sanitation and Terrain Appreciation to Naval Law and Combat Intelligence to Map Reading and Defense Against Airborne Troops. Compared to OCS at Quantico, it was a crash course, but very thorough. Hugh Fricks passed his course work and his physical examination and was commissioned as a second lieutenant in the Marine Corps Reserve on 13 June 1942.[12]
Fricks was a natural officer, and it seemed he had finally found his calling. The battalion commander, Major Russell Lloyd, prepared Fricks’ first fitness report just two weeks after Fricks earned his bars. “[Fricks] is quick to learn,” wrote Lloyd, “and will develop into an excellent officer with a little more confidence.” He also recommended that Fricks be offered a regular commission – an extremely high endorsement, especially after such a short time.[13] Somewhat unusually, Fricks was assigned to a platoon in his old company, D/1/6th Marines. “Mustangs” (as officers commissioned from the ranks were called) often were transferred after their appointment; it was thought beneficial to avoid any fraternization, or ill will, as they commanded their former enlisted buddies. Instead, a mutual respect seems to have developed between the new Lieutenant Fricks and the machine gunners of the Second Platoon. Their training regimen grew more exotic, too, as the battalion spent several days at the Delmar Racetrack for rubber boat maneuvers.[14] Lieutenant Fricks got to enjoy a billet in the Jockey Club, plus the increased social status (and pay) of his new rank.
“Despite the strenuous training and the rapt following of the war news from both Europe and the Pacific, the Marines’ mood was ebullient and contagious,” writes William Jones, himself an officer of 1/6. “Liberty was granted freely. The Saturday night dances at the Commissioned Officers’ Mess at San Diego were crowded. Combat was a tomorrow somewhere in the hazy future.”[15] As summer turned to fall, the name “Guadalcanal” became more and more prevalent in newsreels and slop chute gossip – especially as the other regiments of the 2nd Marine Division were involved.
This “hazy future” drew closer on 19 October 1942 as the First Battalion set sail for the Pacific theater aboard the SS Matsonia. The former luxury liner was converted for troop transport, but still bore some semblance of her civilian status as a grande dame of the Matson line. Lieutenant Fricks shared a small cabin – stripped and reequipped with steel bunks, but a cabin nonetheless – with three other junior officers; it was cramped with all their equipment, but some cabins still enjoyed steward service. At chow time, he went to the dining room and chose his meals from “a bountiful selection on the pre-war daily civilian passenger menu.”[16] There was little room to exercise, but the men stood watches on the 40mm anti-aircraft guns. One night, a lookout reported flares on the horizon, and the Matsonia reported the sighting. The transport didn’t stop, but when reports of Eddie Rickenbacker’s Pacific crash became known, 1/6 decided that they had seen the famous flyer signaling for help.[17] The excitement of the flares was matched by crossing the Equator when all vile polliwogs aboard had to prostrate themselves before King Neptune’s Court for the traditional hazing of seafarers.
The Matsonia arrived in Auckland on 1 November 1942 to great fanfare. “It was really a beautiful spot” recalled Baine Kerr of A/1/6, “the passage into the harbor. There were ferries, and one came out with a band on it, playing. So, we got a big welcome. Then we found out that we were in the wrong place.”[18] The intended destination was not Auckland, but Wellington – 500 miles away. Home would be a former New Zealand army base at Paekakaricki, which was immediately christened “Pie-cock.”[19] Iceland veterans like Hugh Fricks were quick to comment that the galleys, showers, and little huts – especially the individual accommodations for some officers – were much better than Camp MacArthur outside Reykjavik. Soon a regular training schedule was established. Baine Kerr remembered:
We got up before dawn, ran down, did all these exercises, calisthenics and whatnot. It was really very enjoyable. You’d take your platoon or your company out, and you’d do whatever you do – climb up a mountain or go to a range in the forest up there where targets could suddenly be pulled out. It was good training.
Balancing the training was liberty. Hugh Fricks had access to the officer’s wine mess in an old farmhouse near the camp, but the real draw was a train trip to Wellington.[20] Junior officers were barred from the Saint George Hotel (the province of Division staff) or the Hotel Cecil (reserved for the enlisted men) but there were plenty of other attractions: movies, restaurants, and dances with New Zealand girls.
In December, the training schedule began to outpace the liberty calls. Lieutenant Fricks boarded the USS President Hayes just before Christmas; the holiday dinner was served aboard ship as they sailed for Noumea, New Caledonia. It was their final staging stop before the island they’d all heard so much about: Guadalcanal.
Guadalcanal was a bad place. It rained every night, and it had goddamn land crabs. We’re up in the hills, and we were down in the coconut groves, and rain and muggy hot. Everyone who’s ever been on that island came down with malaria.[21]
Hugh Fricks and the 6th Marines arrived at Guadalcanal on 4 January 1943. The campaign was nearing its end, but for the fresh regiment it was a useful primer in the hell of war. “As the 1st Battalion moved in a column of twos up the narrow road through the damp jungle, it encountered its first smells of the battlefield – of unburied, often undiscovered enemy dead in the thick jungle growth,” wrote Major Jones. “Some men gagged. Faces were grim. They were finally near combat.”
The relief took place on a grassy ridge with a wooded ravine to the front. Foxholes marked the outline of the front lines, with occasional machine-gun emplacements interspersed. The area was filthy with half-eaten C-ration cans rotting in the hot sun. A few shallow graves were partially uncovered by the periodic heavy rains. Since the only water available for bathing or shaving was the Matanikau River well to the rear, the veterans of the 2nd Marines were dirty, bearded, and also needed haircuts. They stared at the freshly shaven faces and clean uniforms. Then the derisive taunts began: “Well if it ain’t the Pogey Bait Sixth! How did they get you darlings out of Hollywood?” The 2nd Marines were happy to see the 6th. It meant the scuttlebutt was true that they would soon be leaving “this stinking island.”
The first night on the line most men only pretended to sleep when not on watch.[22]
Lieutenant Fricks’ 2nd Platoon was armed with water-cooled M1917 Browning machine guns. The “Heavies” were, as their name implied, extremely bulky and difficult to transport through jungles. In combat, the platoon would be attached to a rifle company for extra fire support; at night, they were carefully emplaced along a defensive line to provide interlocking fields of fire in case of a charge. The gunners learned very quickly not to fire at night, except in cases of extreme emergency – the staccato sound of the gun and the muzzle flash were beacons to Japanese infiltrators. They spent three nights manning the front lines while Army units attacked along Guadalcanal’s northern coast, and on 14 January the 6th Marines took over the job. Fricks’ battalion was on the advance for the next four days; they killed their first enemy soldiers – up to three dozen in a single day – and suffered their first casualties.[23] Private John R. Pennazoli had the unfortunate distinction of being the first D/1/6 Marine killed in action on 15 January.
As “Willie K.” Jones recalled, “the assault became a pursuit” later in January.[24] The Japanese were evacuating as many able-bodied troops as they could from Guadalcanal; they left behind the sick and the starving to delay the Americans and die with honor. These defenders sometimes coalesced around strong points or defensive positions; sometimes they made desperate and effective stands. Fricks’ buddy Baine Kerr was wounded in one such action. However, they were not able to prevent the inevitable. On 23 January alone, Fricks’ battalion counted 155 Japanese bodies, captured two field pieces, and a massive supply dump. A report on the same day commented, “it is interesting to note our light casualties.”[25] Lieutenant Fricks looked out for every Marine in his platoon; he would later be cited for bringing them through the battle without losing a single man.[26]
Fricks was, it must be assumed, extra vigilant about malaria. His father’s career was based in part on studying the disease, and Hugh likely knew the right precautions to take. However, enforcing preventative measures among the men was a challenge. “The men hated the bitter-tasting atabrine tablets,” wrote Jones. “Although the officers passed out the daily dose and watched each man take a swallow of water from his canteen before moving on to the next man, many held it under their tongue and spit it out at the first opportunity. Few bothered to put on insect repellant or use the mosquito head nets at night, although both were in plentiful supply and readily available. The anopheles mosquitoes swarmed nightly.”[27]
On 1 February 1943, Hugh Fricks received and accepted a promotion to First Lieutenant, with rank dating back to 1 December. Eight days later, Guadalcanal was officially declared secure, and the 6th Marines were officially combat veterans. They happily boarded transports later that month, anticipating another warm welcome from the people of New Zealand and a resumption of the good times enjoyed last fall. Unfortunately, they were the last of the Marine regiments to return, and the recipients of a dirty trick played by the 2nd and 8th Marines. Members of the 6th Marines wear a fourragère over their left arm – an award given to the unit for service in France during World War One. The young ladies of Wellington were told that the braided cord was not a valor award, but a mark of venereal disease. Many a 6th Marine returned to New Zealand to find his girlfriend on the arm of another combat veteran. There was considerable irritation, and more than a few fights.
First and foremost, the regiment needed to heal and recover from its ordeal. Even the relatively brief exposure to jungle conditions had a serious impact on the health of the men, especially those who were careless about their atabrine. “It was not uncommon to walk down the street and see a guy plop over because he was sick and shaking,” noted First Sergeant Lewis Michelony of D/1/6. “You knew what it was…. The hospitals were filled.”[28] Lieutenant Fricks noticed a tropical ulcer on his backside – a complaint so common it was barely worth reporting – but did turn in to sick bay with an acute case of jaundice soon after returning to New Zealand. Then, on 16 April, he started feeling chills and fever, headache and nausea. Fricks hardly needed the doctor’s diagnosis. Despite his precautions, he was sick with benign tertian malaria and would spend almost two weeks recovering in the division hospital.[29] Released at the end of April, he was back again on 10 May, complaining of pain, fever, and headaches. His ulcer was infected and swelled to the size of a man’s palm. The abscess was drained, and by mid-May Fricks was back on regular duty.[30]
Despite his trips to the hospital, Hugh Fricks continued to receive excellent to outstanding fitness reports. In the spring of 1943, LtCol. Russell Lloyd made good on his long-standing plan to offer Fricks a regular commission and told the young lieutenant as much.[31] Fricks was thrilled. He’d found a calling in the Marine Corps, and Lloyd was offering him the chance at a career. Transitioning from the reserves to the regulars was more than simply changing the paperwork. Regular officers were usually college graduates and products of the full course of training at Quantico or The Basic School in Philadelphia. Fricks had a few semesters of college, with questionable grades, and earned his commission through a more ad hoc process in California. While he had the military bearing and know-how for the role, was physically fit, and had the support and recommendation of his superiors, Fricks still had to pass exams in civilian and military subjects before he could be accepted. If he succeeded, he would forfeit his first lieutenant’s rank and revert to a second lieutenant – but that was an acceptable, temporary setback for the prestige of becoming a career officer.
Hugh Fricks wrote to Franklin High School and Washington University, requesting his transcripts. In July of 1943, he sent an official letter to the examining board with his grades; his remarks provide a glimpse at the subjects a Marine officer was expected to know. “It is my desire to take the examination for appointment as a Second Lieutenant in the regular Marine Corps,” he wrote. “It is my belief that I am to be examined in English – Rhetorical Principles, and I am prepared for that examination. The enclosures indicate credits in the below listed subjects: Plane Geometry, Algebra (including Quadratics), English and American Literature, World History, United States History, Geology, Psychology, German.”[32]
The required examination, in College English, was received on 23 August 1943. How Fricks fared on the test – and indeed whether he ever had the chance to take it – is not known. While he dealt with his health issues and the impending commission, field training continued without pause. “Top” Michelony described a typical day:
Our day would start out something like this. We would get up in the morning and have roll call, eat chow, get ready, fall out with all of our equipment, and then go up the “Burma Road,” as we called it, and run squad, platoon, company, and battalion problems. Some days we would have hot lunch brought up; some days we wouldn’t. It was about five miles up the road from the camp. Then we would come back, and for about the last mile we would jog into camp, and this is a battalion with all of their equipment. We got into camp, cleaned the equipment, showered, got ready to eat, and then our day was just about at an end. Some days when we didn’t go out into the field, which were usually when the officers were gone for some reason, we would hold school. We made rubber – boat landings. We had all kinds of training, including night training. You name it, and we did it all. We made a mock landing at Hawke’s Bay and lost quite a bit of equipment over the side; it was an amphibious type of landing.[33]
Then there was the infamous three-day, fifty-mile hike to Foxton. Everyone – from officers and their staff to the newest replacements – put on full marching order and stepped off. “The mortar squads would take their mortars, base plates, the tube; and the machine gunners would carry the heavy machine guns,” remarked Baine Kerr. “Just an ordinary rifleman without any special gear was carrying probably somewhere between seventy and eighty pounds on his back.”[34] All of D/1/6 – Fricks’ platoon included – struggled under the weight of their “Heavies,” but as Michelony recalled “we put the word out, ‘any of you son-of-a-guns that fall out are going to get out of this outfit!’ There was so much pride in that outfit, you can’t believe it. The officers and the NCOs were fantastic; they loved it.”[35]
In September, the entire 2nd Marine Division paraded through Wellington. The Marines marched in battalion mass formation in their green uniforms, with rifles slung, and wearing steel helmets,” wrote “Willie K.” Jones, now commanding 1/6. “The streets were lined with cheering crowds; balconies and office windows along the route of march were filled with pretty waving girls. Memories of Guadalcanal faded into the distance; unit sprit was high. The 6th Marines not only felt like professionals, they also looked professional. They were, to a man, cocky, self-confident, and enjoying themselves.”[36] Whether Hugh Fricks was in any shape to enjoy this spectacle is not known: a relapse of malaria laid him low at the end of the month, and he only recovered in time to join his company for amphibious exercises in early October. He mentioned his illness in a letter home; it would prove to be one of his last. On 28 October 1943, the 2nd Marine Division left New Zealand for good.
“We spent twenty days aboard that ship,” said First Sergeant Michelony of D/1/6. “I was fit to be tied. Boy, just let me go! All of us were like that. We wanted to fight. We would do anything. They could have sent us to Hell, and we could have fought our way out of Hell. Transport life is a boring thing.”[37]
The USS Feland made its way from Wellington to Efate for final rehearsals, then departed for an undisclosed destination. Maps and aerial photographs began appearing on the fantail, depicting a small island shaped like a bird lying on its back. They wouldn’t lean its name – “Tarawa” – until 12 November, when it was far too late to matter. “I had no idea where it was at geographically, and my men didn’t, and we tore that ship apart looking for National Geographics, anything on Tarawa,” said Michelony. “We couldn’t find anything, not a thing. So, actually, we were going to an island that, as geography students, we had never heard of. This was all foreign to us.”[38] Planning and briefings continued, with some unwelcome news for the 6th Marines: “We were going to be held in corps reserve, and I think tears welled up in Bill Jones’s eyes,” said Baine Kerr. “‘Don’t think that that was a reflection on us! We’re the best unit in the whole damn division!’ Everybody was pretty upset about the idea, but I think that they had a reason. The principal reason was that they wanted us to be available wherever trouble might develop.”[39]
At first, it seemed that Betio would present no trouble at all.
Of course, we’re up [on deck] looking at the island, and it looked like it was leveled. It looked like a city dump that was on fire and almost burned out. Trees were bent over, the guns looked like they were [destroyed] – nothing was happening. I thought, “Those son-of-a-guns cheated us! Sonofabitch! They cheated us! We came here to fight, and the damned Navy’s going to get all the credit!” We learned over the loudspeaker system, and from our senior officers, that the 2nd and 8th Marines were going to make the assault landing, and we were pissed off! “Jesus, we’re being cheated! What the hell did we train in New Zealand for? And then to come to this!”[40]
When reports from the beach started coming in, the attitude on the Feland changed. Regimental reserves were committed, then division reserves. Each wave was slaughtered in turn, and the hold on the beachhead was tenuous at best. Through his field glasses, Michelony could see bodies floating in the water. One of the few bright spots on 20 November 1943 was a small foothold on Green Beach, seized by troops under Major Mike Ryan. This stretch of sand comprised Betio’s western shoreline and was relatively free of obstacles.
Lieutenant Fricks and D/1/6 spent the D-Day night aboard the Feland awaiting orders, anticipating attack orders for the next morning. They came later on 21 November: the battalion would land on the fully secured Green Beach using their special training in rubber boats. That afternoon, Fricks put on his personal gear, gathered his platoon, and led them down cargo nets and into tracked landing vehicles. These LVTs swam part of the way to the beach, towing the rubber boats behind, and stopped about a thousand yards from shore at the edge of a coral reef. The men piled into their boats and broke out the paddles, struggling against the outgoing tide.
Soon they spotted the mines. “Nobody told us about them,” remarked Baine Kerr, “so we had to be rather careful. You didn’t want to dip your paddle in too far… you could float right over those things. They were as big as a small washtub in circumference and diameter, and they had big horn that came up. They’d sink a battleship. Well, I don’t know if they could sink a battleship, but they’d sink a big ship, anyway. So, if you tried to come in with the Amtracs there, you would have been blown up.”[41]
One LVT, carrying some of the battalion’s ammunition and supplies along with a contingent of corpsmen, did hit a mine and was flipped over like a broken toy. A number of Marines were collared to help pull out the wounded and salvage what they could. Dusk was falling; when Hugh Fricks landed on Betio, it was already too late to set up a defensive perimeter. He spent the night in a foxhole behind Major Ryan’s men, ducking rifle and machine-gun bullets, and even a few bombs from a Japanese airplane that landed in the battalion area. The next day would be a long and trying one.
Oh Christ, there were pillboxes all over the damn place.[42]
Early on the morning of 22 November, 1/6 attacked “viciously and rapidly,” passing through Ryan’s line and hitting the Japanese defensive positions facing Black Beach on the flank. “The idea was just to go charging down this row of fortifications,” said Baine Kerr, “a whole interconnected series of bunkers.” Hugh Fricks’ platoon attached itself to Company B for the attack; Fricks himself, as the company’s reconnaissance officer, probably did additional duty scouting for positions to best emplace the “Heavies” to provide fire support. One by one, the pillboxes fell, and 1/6 began encountering small groups of stranded Marines. Kerr recalled one group in a tank trap staring numbly at the newcomers, mumbling “Don’t go. Don’t go out there.”[43]
At about 1300 hours, as Company B took over the lead position in the assault, Japanese resistance began to increase. The skipper, Captain George Krueger, was shot through the neck and paralyzed; loss of this officer would cause trouble later on. Equatorial Betio was baking in the heat; Michelony estimated the temperature at 109 degrees even in the morning, and said the sand was “white as snow and hot as red-white ashes from a heated furnace.”[44] They had nearly reached the end of Betio’s airstrip – a large concrete circle for aircraft to turn around – when they encountered another network of fortifications and tank traps. This particular strongpoint was too big to bypass and too tough to take out – although many Marines were felled in a late afternoon attempt. Major Jones decided to pull back his companies and establish a defensive line, leaving the pillboxes for another day.
“We wanted to stop because it takes time to get organized, to get all the machine guns sited, and we would have liked to put out wire,” explained Baine Kerr. “We really wanted to be prepared because you knew that this was a good chance that you would have a banzai attack at night.”[45] Regimental headquarters wanted the attack to continue, but the last abortive attempt accomplished nothing more than the disarrangement of the front line. Critically, Company B was too far ahead of Company A, which caused a gap between their flanks. It was now late afternoon – any defensive preparations would have to be made hurriedly before darkness made movement impossible.
When the battalion finally stopped, it was time for Hugh Fricks to get his “Heavies” into place. However, the Japanese were not about to give the Marines any breathing room.
Private Wayland Stevens, a young D Company gunner, recalled that the first attacks began even before the guns were fully deployed.
About sundown, we were getting ready to dig in for the night and we were waiting for orders to get to our positions when the counterattack began. We all hit the ground and started for cover. At this time Baumbach was killed and at the same time Drumheiser was killed. John Gillen set up his gun and after firing a few bursts, he was also killed and one of the other fellows took over, and he was wounded and had to leave and then I moved over and took over. At that time I saw on the side of the bunker [to his left] one of the squads trying to set up their gun and after a few seconds, I saw one of the boys go down by machine gun fire, and later learned that it was [PFC Robert J.] Hatch. At this time I was relieved of the gun and sent to help another squad.[46]
The first group of Japanese, about fifty men, broke through the screen and found a gap between Able and Baker Companies; they were eventually eliminated after causing several casualties and much confusion. The word finally came down – “prepare to resist a counterattack.” That’s swell, thought Baine Kerr, just an hour late. “We did get the machine guns in – the heavies from the battalion weapons company, and our lights,” he recalled. “The idea is, you set up where you have enfilade or crossfire across your front.” Baker Company’s new commander was struggling and, in Kerr’s estimation, the company “had not gotten their positions well organized at all.” He was particularly concerned about the gap between the company positions, but when he requested a platoon from the reserves, he was told that Charlie Company was not available. “We have no reserve company. So, things were not too great at that point.”[47] Captain “Spook” Specht led his 81mm mortar section, armed only with carbines, and all the headquarters personnel he could scrounge into the breach to hold the line.
First Sergeant Michelony could see the silhouettes of Japanese soldiers outlined against the burning vehicles in the truck park. “They were close enough that we were having verbal abusive language between each other,” he recalled. “They were saying, ‘Marine, you’re going to die,’ and we were saying, ‘Tojo eats shit!'”[48] Other moving shapes proved to be Marines attempting to drag wounded buddies back to safety before the machine guns and mortars began to fire.
Kerr had another problem. “We were short on belted ammunition for the machine guns,” he noted. “We wanted to have to boxes of belted ammunition per gun at a minimum.” The A Company exec spotted a tall, blond officer moving between positions, “checking on the machine guns and making sure they were all properly set up and whatnot.” He recognized Hugh Fricks (“a very fine officer, a great guy”) and turned back to the task of organizing his defense.[49] With the new line established, thanks to officers like Fricks, Specht, and Kerr, the battalion was at last “squared away” in a respectable formation.[50]
Another group of fifty Japanese hit Baker Company at about 2300 hours. Nambu machine guns set up in the truck park kept up a harassing fire all through the night, but the Marines were forbidden to fire back – the muzzle flashes would give their positions away. “It was a heavy fight,” said Michelony. “It was hand to hand…. This is the roughest battle I’ve ever seen, probably among my other experiences. It was one of the roughest, toughest battles ever.”[51] The night sky, constantly brightened by flares and flames, rumbled with the sound of artillery and naval gunfire arcing overhead to slam into the Japanese positions east of the airfield. Through it all, Hugh Fricks rushed from foxhole to foxhole, directing fire when he could and keeping the men connected.
At 0400, the Japanese threw in the towel. Several hundred men gathered for a final mass charge, hoping that their infiltration tactics and suppressing fire had weakened the Marine line to the point of breaking. They hit right on Specht’s platoon of mortarmen, a contest Michelony likened to “300…against forty-five or fifty men…. It was a son-of-a-gun! I mean, they threw everything at us!”[52] The entire battalion opened up with every weapon they had, and called in artillery, mortars, and the big guns of destroyers offshore. At one point it seemed that Baker Company would have to fall back, but when Major Jones yelled “Bullshit! You WILL hold!” the men fought all the harder. Lieutenant Fricks’ gunners gave a good account of themselves – “actually,” commented Major Jones, “[the men] feel that it was the Heavies that saved them that night.”[53]
Finally, as dawn gathered in the east, the firing began to subside. The ground in front of 1/6 was a charnel house of torn and shattered Japanese and American bodies. “When dawn came, in front of our company area we counted over three hundred dead Japanese,” noted Baine Kerr. “We had a good many casualties, too, but you didn’t realize it until you went around and brought the bodies in. They were bringing them all into a little clearing there – a lot of your friends and companions. And that’s the difficult thing.”[54]
First Sergeant Michelony was in charge of record-keeping and needed to know just how bad his company’s losses were. “I told each platoon they would have to send so many men to pick up Japanese and Marines,” he recalled. “Where we were, there was no graveyard. There was a big tank trap, so we laid Japanese down on one side of the tank trap, and on the other side we laid Marines down.”[55] Sergeant Percy O. Robbins and Private Wayland Stevens were on one such burial detail. Stevens recalled the grim duty:
Several of the boys in the platoon went up and picked up the boys that were killed and buried them in the same location, leaving one dog tag on the body and the other on the marker that we placed on the grave. We dug the graves just about four feet deep and before burying any of the boys, we searched them for their personal effects and also to make sure they had identification tags.[56]
Like a good “Top,” Michelony was out with his men – and he did not relish the work any more than they did. “We had gotten parachutes, torn the silk off, and made masks. The smell was sickening, just terrible! There were four men with a poncho, and they would pick up a dead man (or a part of a man), and they would lay him down.”[57]
Stevens continued:
At the time we buried them, we found ourselves some trash wood that we inserted into the ground and then finding some old mess gear we scratched in the names of the dead boys on the mess gear and hung this equipment over the board that signified the grave of the Marine dead. One of the identification tags we left on the body and the other dog tag we just loosely hung the chain over the top of the board and just placed the mess gear bearing the scratched identity of the deceased on that.[58]
Lieutenant Kerr was saddened, but not terribly surprised, to recognize the body of Hugh Fricks among the dead. “We found him dead the next morning,” he said. “He was killed…. We didn’t know it. We didn’t know who had been killed, or hadn’t been killed.”[59] Michelony, who thought Fricks was “a hell of a nice guy,” grimly noted the death, but paid the officer a personal tribute.
When we got to Fricks, I took my mess gear out, and I carved his name and officer number and rank on it, and I put “KIA, 23 November 1943” on it.
We didn’t have crosses then.
Tallying up the dead and wounded on Betio was “the worst job I ever had,” said Michelony. “We marked the man, if he had a toe, by putting the dog tag on his right toe. In some cases, we just put them around their neck…. Nobody told me, from any other war or battle, what you did with your casualties. I never even gave it a thought, but then when it happened, all these things just sort of came to you.” He was glad then that he’d lost his sense of smell.[60]
News of Hugh’s death reached Dr. Lunsford Fricks a month later, just in time for Christmas. The aging surgeon had suffered a stroke and was being treated at the Marine Corps hospital in Seattle when the telegram arrived. “I have assumed [his death] probably occurred during the attack on Tarawa,” he wrote to the Commandant, “but I am still awaiting the detailed information of the circumstances which I was promised.”[61] Instead of an update, he received yet another Western Union telegram. Major Lunsford Fricks Junior, legal officer of the 12th Marines, suffered a pulmonary embolism while encamped on Guadalcanal. He died on 3 March 1944, at the age of thirty-two.[62]
That summer, Dr. Fricks was informed that Hugh would be awarded the Navy Cross for exceptional valor in action. He was confined to his home, recuperating from his stay in the hospital, and so instead of a formal ceremony, the medal and citation were delivered to his home.
The President of the United States of America takes pride in presenting the Navy Cross (Posthumously) to Second Lieutenant Hugh Doran Fricks (MCSN: 0-11196), United States Marine Corps Reserve, for extraordinary heroism and distinguished service while serving as Machine Gun Reconnaissance Officer, First Battalion, Sixth Marines, SECOND Marine Division, in action against enemy Japanese forces at Betio Island, Tarawa Atoll, Gilbert Islands, on 22 November 1943. Defying constant danger from enemy machine-gun and mortar fire while advancing with his battalion, First Lieutenant Fricks conducted various reconnaissances, maintained contact between forward rifle elements and went from foxhole to foxhole pointing out targets and directing machine-gun fire. Tirelessly continuing his perilous task until mortally wounded by an enemy grenade later in the action, he served as an inspiring example to his battalion in delivering a devastating blow to Japanese forces in that sector. His great personal valor, heroic self-sacrifice and brilliant leadership in the face of almost certain death reflect great credit upon the United States Naval Service. He gallantly gave his life for his country.
Lunsford Fricks never fully recovered from his stroke, or from the loss of his two sons. He died in July of 1947.
In just eight years, Patton Fricks lost both of his parents and both of his brothers. As the sole surviving member of the family, the responsibility for settling their affairs fell on his shoulders.[63] For reasons unknown, he wanted nothing to do with the disposition of his brothers’ remains. Lunsford Junior was buried in the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific by administrative decision.[64]
Hugh’s body was never found.
The trench where Hugh Fricks and some thirty other Marines were buried after the battle was marked with hand-made monuments and was even given an official designation: “Grave D” of the East Division Cemetery. This cemetery, one of the largest on Betio, stood just beside the airfield on the 6th Marines’ former field of battle. Men from all regiments were buried there, and a dedication took place in December of 1943. Dozens of cemeteries dotted the small island when the Navy took over the administration of Betio – hardly ideal conditions for constructing and expanding an airfield. The original markers were taken down; in their place, memorial graves were erected. The site of the East Division Cemetery – called “Cemetery 33” by the Navy – became a field dotted with identical white markers. The visual effect was beautiful and sobering: a fitting memorial, the sailors thought, to the dead Marines. Their actions, while well intentioned, doomed hundreds of men to non-recoverable status.
Graves Registration troops came to Betio after the war to exhume and return the remains. The beautiful Navy cemeteries led them to believe the job would be easy – yet they soon discovered that no bodies were buried beneath the markers. After several days of searching, they located one of the original burial trenches –then a second, and a third. Burial rosters prepared for the exhumation teams included a fourth row, but the unit’s records indicated a belief that only three existed, and only three were excavated during the 1940s.
This was, in fact, true. “Grave D” was something of a misnomer; while the name suggested proximity, the real site was several dozen yards away. An archaeological expedition by non-profit group History Flight uncovered the original trench, and the bodies of some thirty Marines. Among them, buried twentieth in line, were the remains of Lieutenant Hugh Doran Fricks. He was finally accounted for on 16 March 2020.
Hugh Fricks has a cenotaph at the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific. His final resting place is pending the decision of his next of kin.
[1] The Fricks family had strong Southern roots: Lunsford Senior was born in Georgia in 1873 and educated at the state university; Grace (1882) and Lunsford Junior (1911) were born in Tennessee, and Patton Fricks entered the world in Louisville, Kentucky.
[2] Ray Coll, Jr., “Paradise on Sand Island,” The Honolulu Advertiser, Magazine Section, 1 August 1937. Dr. Fricks hoped to turn Sand Island into a public park for the people of Honolulu; unfortunately, this never came to pass.
[3] University of Washington report card, contained in Hugh Doran Fricks Official Military Personnel File (OMPF).
[4] LtGen. William K. Jones records the origins of the “Pogey Bait” nickname stemming from service in the Philippines. “It seems the native ladies, referred to uncomplimentarily as “Pogeys,” enjoyed American candy bars so much they would sell their charms for one or more bars. It is reputed that the post exchange supplies loaded hurriedly at San Diego for China duty in 1937 inadvertently included several thousand candy bars but only one case of soap. Although the nickname was not sought, it stuck.” Jones, incidentally, was Fricks’ battalion commander during World War II. Jones, A Brief History of the 6th Marines (Washington, DC: US Government Printing Office, 1987),
[5] Ibid., 31.
[6] Ibid., 35.
[7] Ibid., 40.
[8] Colonel James A. Donovan, Outpost in the North Atlantic: Marines in the Defense of Iceland (Washington, DC: Marine Corps Historical Center, 1991), 23-24.
[9] Lieutenant Colonel Kenneth J. Clifford, The United States Marines in Iceland, 1941-1942 (Washington, DC: Headquarters, U. S. Marine Corps, 1970), 11.
[10] Jones, 46; Casualty Card, Sergeant Cecil James Pickens, 249195.
[11] Dr. Fricks and Ethel Collishaw (married name Allen) were wed on 16 December 1942.
[12] Hugh Doran Fricks, Official Military Personnel File.
[13] Ibid.
[14] The First Battalion in many Marine regiments of the time was designated a “rubber boat battalion” specializing in commando-style landings from lightweight portable boats. This would come in handy at Tarawa.
[15] Jones, 50.
[16] Ibid. Quarters and meals for the enlisted men were much more Spartan but veterans of Iceland rated the Matsonia as a far superior voyage.
[17] This may not be true, as Matsonia arrived in New Zealand on 1 November and Rickenbacker’s crew were not picked up until 13 November. Oral history interviews with Baine Kerr (A/1/6) and Lyle Specht (D/1/6) mention the Rickenbacker connection, so the belief at least was long held by members of the battalion.
[18] Baine P. Kerr, interview conducted by John Daniels, 4 May 1993. World War II Veterans Oral History Collection, National Museum of the Pacific War Digital Archive, last accessed 4 May 2020.
[19] Ibid.
[20] Kerr recalled that drinks at the wine mess were pricey: “two ounces for a dime. That’s actually what a bottle of whiskey cost without any taxes for it.”
[21] Lyle Specht, interview conducted by Richard Byrd, 3 May 1993. World War II Veterans Oral History Collection, National Museum of the Pacific War Digital Archive, last accessed 4 May 2020.
[22] Jones, 54.
[23] 6th Marine Regiment Intelligence Report, 15-16 January 1943.
[24] Jones, 56.
[25] 6th Marine Regiment Intelligence Report, 24-24 January 1943.
[26] “Lieut. Fricks, Marine, Killed In So. Pacific,” unknown Washington newspaper c. December 1943.
[27] Jones, 56.
[28] Lewis Michelony, interview conducted by John Daniels, 2 May 1993. World War II Veterans Oral History Collection, National Museum of the Pacific War Digital Archive, last accessed 4 May 2020.
[29] Interestingly, part of Fricks’ jaundice treatment required stopping his daily atabrine dose, which may have contributed to the rather late onset of his malaria.
[30] Fricks OMPF.
[31] Ibid.
[32] Ibid.
[33] Michelony interview.
[34] Kerr interview.
[35] Michelony interview.
[36] Jones, 63.
[37] Michelony interview.
[38] Ibid.
[39] Kerr interview.
[40] Michelony interview.
[41] Kerr interview
[42] Specht interview.
[43] Kerr interview.
[44] Joseph H. Alexander, Across The Reef: The Marine Assault of Tarawa (Washington, DC: Marine Corps Historical Center, 1993), 36.
[45] Kerr interview
[46] Wayland Stevens, letter dated 20 April 1948, in Robert J. Hatch Individual Deceased Personnel File.
[47] Kerr interview
[48] Michelony interview.
[49] Kerr interview.
[50] Headquarters 2nd Marine Division, “6th Marines Tarawa After Action Report, Reports of Battalion Commanders – Major William K. Jones, 1st Bn. 6th Marines,” 19 December 1943.. Jones reported his satisfaction with the deployment at about 2100 hours, or ninety minutes after the first attack.
[51] Michelony interview.
[52] Ibid.
[53] 6th Marines After Action Report.
[54] Kerr interview.
[55] Michelony interview.
[56] Stevens letter.
[53] 6th Marines After Action Report.
[54] Kerr interview.
[55] Michelony interview.
[56] Stevens letter.
[57] Michelony interview.
[58] Stevens letter.
[59] Kerr interview.
[60] Michelony interview. On D+2 or D+3, Michelony was caught in an ambush and escaped by jumping into a nearby excavation which turned out to be a Japanese cesspool filled with human excreta, viscera, and blood. He was caked with this awful mixture until the battle ended, and never regained his ability to smell.
[61] Dr. Lunsford D. Fricks, Sr., to Commandant, U.S. Marine Corps, 28 January 1944.
[62] Lunsford Dickson Fricks, Jr., Individual Deceased Personnel File.
[63] Lunsford Junior left a widow, but she remarried shortly after the war, thereby ceding any right to determine what became of his remains.
[64] Lunsford Fricks IDPF. Correspondence included in this file indicates that multiple attempts to reach Patton were made, but he “preferred to do nothing” about the matter.
Decorations
Purple Heart
For wounds resulting in his death, 23 November 1943.
Next Of Kin Address
Wartime address of Dr. Lunsford Fricks.
Doctor Fricks was working as Helena’s City Health Officer at the time.
Location Of Loss
Lieutenant Fricks was killed in action along Betio’s southern shore.
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I could not stop reading this story. Brave men, all of them. May they all Rest in Peace.