40 Thieves on Saipan

The Elite Marine Scout-Snipers in One of WWII's Bloodiest Battles

Joseph Tachovsky, Cynthia Kraack

• Publisher: Regnery History
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN: 9781684510481
• eBook ISBN: 9781684510672
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: World War II
• Index: History

Winner of The 2020 Best Book Award for Military History -- American Bookfest An elite platoon of Marine Scout-Snipers, Lieutenant Frank Tachovsky's "40 Thieves" were chosen for their willingness to defy rules and beat all-comers. When two Marines got into a fight, the loser ended up in the infirmary, the winner in the brig. Tachovsky wanted the winner on his team—a brush with military law was a recommendation. These full-blooded men were trained in a ruthless array of hand-to-hand killing techniques and then thrown into the battle for Saipan—Emperor Hirohito's "Treasure" and the bulwark of the Japanese Empire in the Pacific—where they would wreak havoc in and around, but mostly behind, enemy lines. They witnessed inhuman atrocities; walked into an ambush after the cunning Japanese used wounded Marines as bait; endured body-punishing extremes of heat, hunger, and thirst; fought a relentless enemy who would not surrender; and watched best friends die. Now Tachovsky's son Joseph tells their remarkable story—a story he didn't even know until after his father's death—reported from an extensive documentary record, including priceless mementos his father kept, and from exhaustive interviews with survivors who served under Lieutenant "Ski." This is how America won the war in the Pacific, where "uncommon valor was a common virtue." 40 Thieves on Saipan: The Elite Marine Scout-Snipers in One of World War II's Bloodiest Battles is true history. It's also an adventure you don't want to miss.

CHAPTER ONE A Mustang

“Out of all the lieutenants in the Sixth, Ski was chosen to form and train this platoon. He’d paid his dues on Tarawa and the Solomons and was highly decorated. It was my understanding that he was a Mustang. That’s the most respected you can get as an officer, to come up through the ranks like he done.”

—Bob Smotts

January 11, 1944

Sixth Marine Regiment, Parker Ranch, Territory of Hawaii

He wouldn’t be asked. He would be told. But had he been asked, First Lieutenant Frank Tachovsky would have accepted. Declining a job offer was never an option in the Corps.

Since entering combat, the former Pennsylvania steelworker had gained a reputation as a rugged Marine. Frank was a “Mustang,” having risen rapidly through the ranks from buck private to first lieutenant. Both the men he served with and the men who made the decisions recognized his quick mind and ability to remember the smallest details with accuracy. In training or battle, he displayed a certain kind of toughness, a determination to make orders happen. Like a true mustang he had a wild streak. He was more resourceful and possessed better survival instincts than his fresh-out-of-school counterparts. The boys he led appreciated that. They showed it by never referring to him by his rank, but respectfully and affectionately shortening his name to “Ski.” Frank liked it. He’d have it no other way.

There wasn’t a lot of down time at Parker Ranch on the big Island of Hawaii where the brass had sent these Marines. Keeping fit and training for the next battle might save a man’s life. From 0900 until taps, the sounds of pounding boots and barking voices filled the camp. In a rare break Frank sat at his so-called desk constructed of lumber acquired through “Marine methods” and struggled to write a letter to his wife.

They had met at Mike Lyman’s in Los Angeles months before he shipped out. Like thousands of wartime newlyweds, Frank and Roxie had learned more about each other through V-Mail than time spent together. The Marines had honored him with the duty to lead men in a gruesome business, but what he wrote to a young wife embedded with her parents at their family hotel in a small Wisconsin shipbuilding town demanded more finesse. Finally, Frank began, “My Dearest Roxie.”

That was as far as he got before Harry Edwards, his company captain, knocked on the tent post. “Colonel Murray wants to see you, Ski.”

Frank understood the unspoken “now,” pushed the letter aside, grabbed his garrison cap, and walked beside Edwards across the camp in a slight but steady drizzle.

It had been almost one month since the Sixth Regiment arrived at their new, desolate training area. After the seventy-four-hour hell of Tarawa, every one of the Marines had expected to return to New Zealand for rest and recuperation. Instead, the brass sent them to this remote spot for more training.

This wasn’t the Hawaii of palm trees and grass-skirted hula dancers that families back in the States imagined. Saddled between the snow-covered volcanic peaks of Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa, this was just about the coldest corner of paradise. Hot, dry, dusty days flowed into bitter cold nights, when each Marine had only one coarse green woolen blanket for warmth.

Walking quietly past row upon row of pyramid tents, Ski interrupted the silence, “One of my boys wrote home that he finally figured out why they call this a rest camp. Because it’s so far away from the rest of the world.”

Their boondockers collected mud as they walked. Around them, enlisted men were taking advantage of the rare rainfall by hurrying outside with bars of soap to clean themselves and the rags they called uniforms. Gear hadn’t caught up with them yet. They had been wearing the same dungarees since Tarawa, and despite numerous washings, the scent of death still lingered in the tattered fabric.

Instead of heading to Murray’s Second Battalion encampment, Ski and Edwards veered toward Regimental Headquarters. Before entering, Ski looked at a crude plaque engraved on a fifty-gallon oil can lid hanging on a post.

CAMP TARAWA

In Honor of the Fallen

Marines killed on Tarawa: 2200

Marines wounded on Tarawa: 2100

Japs killed on Tarawa: 5000

All within 74 hours of fighting

A gust of damp, cool air moved into the pyramid tent with the two men—not enough to disrupt the haze of smoke that hung above the senior officers who sat or stood scattered, puffing away on pipes, cigarettes, and cigars. Behind a simple, tidy desk in their midst, a short man with a neatly trimmed cavalry-style mustache sat silent and straight-backed.

The wind did not ruffle the man behind the desk. Nothing ruffled Colonel James Riseley, the Sixth Marine Regiment’s newly assigned leader—rigid, by the book, and a proper officer. His men referred to him as “Gentleman Jim.”

Frank automatically assumed a position in front of the desk and snapped to attention. Save for the striking of a match, the reflexive spat of a tobacco leaf from a tongue, or the clearing of a throat, the room was quiet. Occasional sounds of camp life drifted in—a six-by-six transport truck backfired loudly, a jeep screeched to a halt nearby with its radio blaring, fresh Marine recruits in crisp dungarees marched past, double time, chanting,

The worms crawl in

The worms crawl out

The worms play pinochle on your snout.…

and the bellowing of an exasperated drill sergeant pierced the air as he prodded the green boots with vulgarities and, “No! Your other left!”

Riseley glanced at his wristwatch and at exactly 0900 ordered, “At ease.”

Clasping his hands behind his back and widening his stance, Frank stood in a minimally less rigid position.

Before Riseley spoke again, the noiseless room was entertained by the nearby jeep’s radio playing Kay Kyser’s “Who Wouldn’t Love You?”

Frank fought back the smile that usually came to his lips when he heard that particular song. Back in San Diego, before he had shipped out to the Pacific, Roxie had sung the lyrics to him. “You’re the answer to my every prayer, dah-link,” she had crooned, affecting a poor Russian accent, “Who vouldn’t love you, who vouldn’t care?”

Frank stiffened. He couldn’t let his mind wander to that place, not here, not now. “Therein madness lies,” his married buddy Doc Webber often counseled.

Colonel Murray began the meeting. “Lieutenant, you’re being put up for a Silver Star.”

“A Silver Star?” An award for valor surprised him. “What for?”

“What for?” Murray replied. “For cleaning out that pillbox on Tarawa.…”

“Single-handed,” Edwards added.

Caught off-guard, Frank took a moment to scan the room of weathered faces—Bill Jones, John Easley, Bill Kengla, Ken McLeod. He wondered why all the regimental brass were present.

He drew a deep breath. “Thank you, Colonel Murray. The Japs had a pretty good spot, but there really wasn’t much to it. I was only doing my job.”

“Well, you did one helluva job,” Edwards nodded. “That pillbox had all of I Company and half of your own platoon pinned down. And you took it out on your own.”

“With all due respect, sirs, I don’t deserve it.… I didn’t do anything that any other Marine wouldn’t have done.”

“You couldn’t have done what you did without deserving a Star,” Murray stated. “If any other Marine would have done what you did, then any other Marine would be awarded the Star as well. So, you’re being put up for it nonetheless.”

“Well, thank you, sirs,” Frank acquiesced, intuiting that something else had brought him there.

Riseley cleared his throat to speak. “Our regiment will be spearheading the next invasion, and it’s been decided that we’re going to form a Scout-Sniper Platoon.” He took a cigar from a wooden box labeled “Flor de Murias” clipped the end, lit it, and savored the smoke in his mouth.

“Cigar, Lieutenant?” he offered. “Or should I call you Ski? That’s what they call you around here, isn’t it? Ski?”

“Yes sir,” Frank said, accepting the cigar and putting it in his shirt pocket for later. “Don’t mind if I do, sir. Thank you.”

Riseley continued. “This unit will be a new breed of jungle fighter, modeled after British Commandos, specially trained in Black Death techniques. Living and working behind enemy lines possibly for days at a time, Silent Killing will be a better option than an M1. Scouting enemy locations, fortifications, and mapping them, doing whatever damage can be covertly done, and taking the fire to facilitate the advance of our line companies will be just one job. The other is acting as bodyguards of the command post.” Riseley paused before adding, “Meaning me. The man chosen to organize, train, and lead the Scout-Snipers will report directly to me and my XO, Colonel McLeod.”

Looking at the ash on his cigar instead of at Ski, Riseley now spoke rapid fire. “It’s going to be a rugged job, and I need someone to lead the platoon. Someone like you. I’m new to the Sixth, but I’ve read through your fitness reports, and all your COs think highly of you. Very highly.”

Riseley read from one report: “ ‘An excellent young officer. Rugged. Particularly courageous under fire.’ Colonel Kengla, after Guadalcanal.”

Lieutenant Frank Tachovsky. From the collection of Joseph Tachovsky

Setting that one aside, he rifled through the stack and quoted from another, “ ‘The service of this officer under enemy fire on Tarawa was outstanding. Excellent when the going gets tough. Excellent leader. Men like him.…’ Colonel McLeod.” Looking up from another report, Riseley said, “Colonel Murray calls you rugged as well.”

A grin slid across Ski’s face before he could stop it, “I don’t know about that, sir.” In Marine Corps parlance, rugged meant tough. A rugged situation would be particularly dangerous, and a rugged person was one tough sonofabitch.

Setting the papers aside, Riseley looked up. “As Napoleon once said, ‘In war it’s the man who counts, not men.’ Based upon your fitness reports and the recommendations of the battalion COs, I think you’re the right man for the job. Are you the right man, Ski?”

Frank snapped to attention and barked, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“All right then,” Riseley nodded his head. “Welcome aboard. You can choose the men you want from the entire regiment. Any questions?”

“No, sir. No questions.”

“Dismissed.” Riseley returned his gaze to the papers in front of him.

CHAPTER TWO The Dumb Hayshaker

“I first met Ski in 1941. We were ready to board a ship that was going to take us God-knows-where. We left San Diego and ended up on Iceland. We saw it all together from Iceland, New Zealand, Guadalcanal, Tarawa, Saipan, and Tinian. Some of the best men I’ve known in my lifetime were Marines, and Ski was a cut above the rest.”

—Bill Knuppel

January 11, 1944

Parker Ranch

Stepping out of Regimental Headquarters, Ski glanced upward to the gray, overcast sky and let out the long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Taking a slow step forward on the muddy ground, he started back to his tent and the letter to Roxie. But his new job took priority over finishing that compulsory daily ritual.

“A new breed of jungle fighter.…” Riseley’s words echoed in his mind.

Ski’s mind raced… he would need a platoon sergeant, a true right-hand man, someone he could count on and trust when the going got tough. And it sure as hell would. The soft rain dampened Ski’s uniform and chilled him. He checked on the cigar, still dry in his shirt pocket, and thought more about the task at hand.

A right-hand man he thought. Or men.

Ski first met Bill Knuppel and Bob Skeffington in July of 1941 while they were all stationed at Camp Baldurshagi, an outpost in the North Atlantic. In June of that year President Roosevelt had finally given in to Winston Churchill’s repeated pleas for assistance in Britain’s war against Germany and sent the First Marine Brigade to Iceland. The hastily organized group of Marines, consisting mainly of the Sixth Regiment, replaced the British soldiers there, the same Brits that had been driven out of Dunkirk. Those troops were needed back home to prepare for Germany’s anticipated cross-channel invasion.

On December 7, 1941, Knuppel, Skeffington, and Ski ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Epigraph
• A Note from the Authors
• Prologue: Four Woodpeckers
• Chapter One: A Mustang
• Chapter Two: The Dumb Hayshaker
• Chapter Three: Mr. Kansas City
• Chapter Four: Borawski Done It
• Chapter Five: Ellie, Tilly, Roxie, and Ruth
• Chapter Six: Sweet Dreams
• Chapter Seven: I Got Me a New Boss
• Chapter Eight: A Full-Blooded Bunch
• Chapter Nine: Old Dead Dog!
• Chapter Ten: The Black Death
• Chapter Eleven: Pololu
• Chapter Twelve: A Three-Day Pass
• Chapter Thirteen: Red Sky at Night
• Chapter Fourteen: Arello and Duley
• Chapter Fifteen: A Pact and a Premonition
• Chapter Sixteen: Red Sky at Morning
• Chapter Seventeen: The Kitchen Sink
• Chapter Eighteen: Hell Is on Us
• Chapter Nineteen: All the Devils Are Here
• Chapter Twenty: Dark Eyes
• Chapter Twenty-One: Evans, Arello, and Johnson
• Chapter Twenty-Two: The Road to Garapan
• Chapter Twenty-Three: Emerick
• Chapter Twenty-Four: Kenny
• Chapter Twenty-Five: Dyer
• Chapter Twenty-Six: Oliver
• Chapter Twenty-Seven: Seven Lives
• Chapter Twenty-Eight: Good-Byes
• Epilogue: Every Day for the Rest of Your Life
• The Making of 40 Thieves on Saipan
• About the Authors
• Index
• Copyright