This is a historical account of the Battle of Iwo Jima (World War II), told in narrative form and intentionally avoiding graphic detail.

On the morning of February 26th, 1945, Private First Class Douglas Jacobson crouched behind volcanic rock on the western slope of Hill 382, watching the bazooka team ahead of him take fire from a Japanese 20 mm anti-aircraft gun.

Nineteen years old. Three island campaigns. Zero decorations.

The Japanese had fortified Hill 382 with sixteen hardened positions, each one designed to kill Marines in overlapping fields of fire.

Jacobson had enlisted in the Marine Corps Reserve at seventeen, lying about his age to get into the fight. He’d worked as a draftsman for his father back in Port Washington, New York. Spent summers as a lifeguard on Long Island beaches.

Now he was part of Company I, Third Battalion, 23rd Marines, Fourth Marine Division—pinned down on the most fortified hill on Iwo Jima.

The island was eight square miles of volcanic ash and death.

Five days earlier, thirty thousand Marines had stormed ashore expecting light resistance. Intelligence had been catastrophically wrong.

The Japanese commander, Lieutenant General Tadamichi Kuribayashi, had spent eight months turning Iwo Jima into a fortress: eighteen kilometers of tunnels, concrete pillboxes, hidden artillery—and Hill 382, the highest elevation north of Mount Suribachi, anchoring the entire defensive system.

Marines called this sector the meat grinder.

The name was not metaphorical.

In the seven days since the landing, the 23rd Marines had lost nearly half their strength. Company after company had tried to take Hill 382.

Every assault ended the same way.

Japanese gunners waited until Marines crossed open ground, then opened fire from positions the bombardment had failed to destroy.

Sherman tanks burned.

Flamethrower teams died before reaching their targets.

Entire squads vanished into the volcanic ash.

Hill 382 rose one hundred twenty-five feet above the black beaches. The Japanese had carved the summit into a maze of interconnected bunkers and fighting positions.

Fifty-seven-millimeter anti-tank guns commanded every approach.

Machine-gun nests covered the flanks.

Light tanks sat buried in crevices, invisible until they fired.

And at the base of the hill, a 20 mm anti-aircraft gun swept the killing ground with devastating effect.

Jacobson watched the two-man bazooka team move forward.

The loader carried four M6A3 rockets in a canvas bag.

The gunner held the launcher itself: a steel tube four and a half feet long, weighing thirteen pounds.

They advanced fifteen yards.

The anti-aircraft gun opened fire.

Both Marines went down.

The bazooka fell into the ash.

Company I was stuck.

Without that anti-aircraft gun destroyed, the entire assault would collapse. The company had already lost seventeen men killed and twenty-six wounded in the first thirty minutes of the attack.

The Japanese defenders were invisible.

Every rock could hide a rifle pit.

Every depression could conceal a machine-gun nest.

Marines were dying without ever seeing the enemy.

Jacobson looked at the bazooka lying in the open.

It was designed for two men—one to aim and fire, one to load the rocket and connect the electrical ignition wire.

Nobody operated a bazooka alone.

The back blast alone could injure an isolated gunner.

The weight made solo operation nearly impossible.

Reloading under fire was a two-man job.

But the two men were dead.

The anti-aircraft gun fired another burst.

Three more Marines dropped.

Company I had been fighting for Hill 382 for over an hour. The Japanese positions seemed impenetrable.

Higher command was watching.

Failure here meant failure across the entire Fourth Marine Division front.

And beyond Hill 382 lay the Amphitheater, Turkey Knob, and the ruins of Minami Village—each of them bristling with enemy guns.

Jacobson grabbed his rifle and moved toward the bazooka.

The volcanic ash gave no cover.

Japanese riflemen had clear lines of sight.

One Marine had already tried to recover the weapon.

He made it five yards before a sniper found him.

Jacobson kept moving.

He reached the bazooka.

Grabbed it.

Four rockets remained in the dead loader’s bag.

He slung the canvas over his shoulder and lifted the launcher tube.

Thirteen pounds of steel.

Four rockets at eleven pounds each.

Sixty-seven pounds total.

And he had to run.

The anti-aircraft gun tracked him.

Jacobson ran.

The anti-aircraft gun fired.

Rounds tore through the air inches from his head.

He dove behind a cluster of shattered rocks thirty yards from the Japanese position.

Volcanic dust covered his uniform.

The bazooka tube was hot from the morning sun.

He had never fired a bazooka alone.

Training insisted on a two-man routine—one Marine to aim and fire, another to load and manage the ignition. Doing it alone was considered reckless, but doctrine didn’t matter on that slope.

Jacobson had no loader.

He set the launcher tube on the ground, pulled one M6A3 rocket from the canvas bag.

The rocket measured nineteen inches long. Its shaped-charge warhead contained about one and a half pounds of high explosive. Six stabilizing fins folded against the body.

He inserted the rocket into the rear of the tube until it locked.

Then he pulled the coiled wire from the rocket’s tail assembly and wrapped it around the contact spring mounted on the launcher.

His hands moved fast.

The Japanese gun crew knew someone was behind the rocks.

They were adjusting their aim.

Jacobson lifted the launcher onto his shoulder.

The weight pulled him off balance.

He braced his left hand under the tube.

His right hand gripped the wooden stock trigger mechanism.

The ladder sight showed graduations for one hundred, two hundred, three hundred, and four hundred yards.

He estimated the anti-aircraft gun at eighty yards.

The rear of the tube was open.

When he fired, the back blast would erupt behind him in a cone of superheated gas extending fifteen meters.

Anyone standing there would be burned.

But there was nobody behind him.

He was alone.

He rose from cover.

Sighted.

Pulled the trigger.

The electrical circuit closed.

The rocket motor ignited inside the tube.

The M6A3 shot forward at eighty meters per second.

Fire and smoke erupted from both ends of the launcher.

The recoil was minimal, but the blast wave hammered his ears.

The rocket crossed eighty yards in a second.

It struck the anti-aircraft gun’s shield dead center.

The shaped charge detonated.

The blast punched through the shield and shattered the gun position.

When the smoke thinned, the 20 mm gun was silent.

Company I started moving forward.

Jacobson dropped flat.

Reloaded.

He worked the process backwards alone without help—pulled the second rocket from the bag, inserted it from the rear, connected the wire, lifted the tube.

The entire reload took him forty seconds.

A trained two-man team could do it in twelve.

Two Japanese machine-gun positions opened fire from higher up the slope.

They had been waiting for the Marines to advance.

Now they cut down three men in the first burst.

Company I went to ground again.

Jacobson saw the muzzle flashes.

Both guns were dug into earth-covered emplacements seventy yards uphill.

The positions were invisible from the front.

Only their firing gave them away.

He moved right, flanking the first position.

Volcanic rock gave partial cover.

The machine gun tracked other targets, suppressing the main Marine advance.

Jacobson reached a position forty yards from the emplacement.

He could see the barrel now, traversing left and right.

He shouldered the bazooka.

Aimed.

Fired.

The rocket hit the earth cover and penetrated before detonating.

The machine gun and its crew vanished in the explosion.

Dirt and debris rained down the slope.

The second machine gun swung toward him.

Jacobson was already moving.

He dove behind a depression in the ground as bullets tore through the space where he had been standing.

His ears rang from the bazooka’s back blast.

He had two rockets left.

The second machine gun was now hunting him specifically.

He crawled twenty yards left.

The gun crew was trying to locate him.

They fired bursts at suspected positions.

Jacobson waited until they paused to reload.

Then he stood.

Shouldered the launcher.

The machine gun crew saw him.

They swung the barrel.

Jacobson fired first.

The rocket struck the gun mount.

The explosion was smaller this time—but effective.

The machine gun fell silent.

Jacobson saw one Japanese soldier crawl from the wreckage, wounded.

A Marine rifleman from Company I ended it.

Three targets down, thirteen to go.

But now Jacobson faced a bigger problem.

Ahead, blocking the route to the summit, stood a reinforced blockhouse built from concrete and volcanic rock.

Artillery had failed to destroy it.

Inside were at least a dozen Japanese defenders with rifles and grenades.

He had one rocket left.

The blockhouse sat fifty yards uphill.

Its walls were three feet of reinforced concrete faced with volcanic rock.

The structure measured roughly twelve by fifteen feet.

A single firing slit faced downslope, covering the approach with interlocking fields of fire from the machine-gun positions Jacobson had just destroyed.

American naval gunfire had hit this blockhouse repeatedly during the pre-invasion bombardment.

Sixteen-inch shells from battleships.

Eight-inch rounds from cruisers.

The structure showed scorch marks and concrete chips.

But the walls still stood.

And inside, Japanese defenders waited with rifles ready.

Jacobson had one M6A3 rocket.

The shaped charge could penetrate armor, but concrete was different.

The warhead would blow a hole in the wall.

Whether that hole would be large enough to neutralize the position was uncertain.

He needed a different solution.

He moved laterally across the slope, staying low.

The blockhouse firing slit faced southwest, covering the main Marine avenue of approach.

If he could reach the northern side, he might find a blind spot.

The Japanese had built their defenses, assuming attackers would come from the beach.

They had not expected a lone Marine to flank their positions from within their own defensive perimeter.

Jacobson crawled forty yards through volcanic ash and shattered rock.

His uniform was black with dust.

The bazooka tube scraped against stone behind him.

Company I remained pinned down, taking sporadic fire from other positions higher on Hill 382.

He reached the northern face of the blockhouse.

No firing slits on this side.

The structure had been built into the hillside, using the natural slope for additional protection.

But the rear entrance was visible: a low opening barely three feet high, covered by a wooden frame.

Jacobson set down the bazooka.

He still had the one-loaded rocket.

But firing it into the entrance from ten feet away would be suicide.

The back blast in the confined space would kill him as surely as it would kill the Japanese inside.

He needed the rocket for something else.

He pulled a fragmentation grenade from his belt.

Then he picked up the bazooka again and moved to within fifteen feet of the entrance.

He could hear voices inside.

Japanese.

At least six men.

Maybe more.

He shouldered the launcher, aimed at the wooden entrance frame, fired.

The rocket hit the frame and detonated.

The explosion blew the entrance open, collapsing part of the rear wall.

Dust and smoke poured from the opening.

Jacobson dropped the bazooka tube and pulled the pin on his grenade.

He counted two seconds.

Then threw it through the smoking entrance.

The grenade detonated inside the blockhouse.

Shouts.

Then quiet.

Jacobson waited.

Nothing moved.

He circled to the firing slit and looked inside.

The interior was devastated.

Debris.

Rubble.

The position was neutralized.

Four targets down. Twelve to go.

But now he had no rockets.

The bazooka was useless without ammunition.

He picked up his rifle and started back down the slope toward Company I’s position.

As he moved, he passed the bodies of the original bazooka team.

The loader’s canvas bag was still there.

Jacobson checked it.

Empty.

He looked across the volcanic ash field.

Two hundred yards back, near where Company I had started the assault, he could see the supply point—ammunition crates, medical supplies, and boxes of bazooka rockets stacked behind a low wall of sandbags.

The entire area was under Japanese observation from higher positions.

Mortar fire had been falling there intermittently all morning.

Three Marines had already been killed trying to bring ammunition forward.

Jacobson started moving toward the supply point.

He stayed low, using every depression and rock cluster for cover.

Japanese snipers were active.

One round cracked past his head.

Another hit the ground two feet to his left.

He reached the supply point, found a crate marked M6A3 rockets, pulled it open.

Twelve rockets inside, packed in individual cardboard tubes.

He grabbed four, shoving them into the canvas bag he had taken from the dead loader.

A mortar round hit thirty yards away.

Shrapnel whined overhead.

Jacobson ran back toward the slope, carrying the bazooka tube in one hand and the bag of rockets in the other.

Company I was still pinned down.

Higher on Hill 382, a second pillbox had opened fire.

This one was smaller than the blockhouse but just as deadly.

A five-man crew.

A heavy machine gun.

A perfect position covering the eastern approach.

Jacobson loaded a fresh rocket.

The pillbox was ninety yards uphill.

He found cover behind a cluster of rocks and began his approach.

The Japanese inside had seen him destroy the blockhouse.

They knew what was coming.

The pillbox crew opened fire early.

Too early.

Jacobson was still eighty yards out when the first burst kicked up volcanic ash ten feet to his right.

They were nervous.

The blockhouse destruction had rattled them.

Nervous defenders made mistakes.

Jacobson zigzagged uphill, using the terrain.

The pillbox machine gun tracked him, but the gunner was firing in short bursts, trying to conserve ammunition.

Each burst gave Jacobson three seconds to move before the next one came.

He covered fifteen yards.

Then twenty.

The gun fell silent.

Reloading.

He dove behind a depression and shouldered the bazooka.

The pillbox was now sixty-five yards away.

He could see the concrete structure, partially buried in volcanic rock.

The firing slit was narrow, designed to minimize exposure while maintaining a wide field of fire.

But narrow slits created a problem for defenders.

Limited traverse.

The machine gun could only swing so far left or right before hitting the concrete edges of the opening.

Jacobson moved right, forcing the gun crew to adjust their position.

The barrel swung to track him.

He kept moving.

The barrel reached its maximum traverse.

The firing stopped.

The crew was repositioning the gun mount inside the pillbox.

Jacobson stopped moving.

Aimed.

Fired.

The rocket crossed the distance in under a second.

It entered the firing slit and detonated inside the pillbox.

The shaped-charge warhead was designed to penetrate armor—inside a confined concrete space, the effect was catastrophic.

The explosion blew out through every opening.

Fire and smoke erupted from the entrance.

The machine gun went silent.

Jacobson waited.

Nothing moved inside.

He reloaded and moved forward cautiously.

At twenty yards, he could see into the entrance.

The five-man crew was dead.

The interior was destroyed.

Spent brass from the machine gun covered the floor.

Five targets down. Eleven to go.

Company I was advancing again.

Jacobson could see Marines moving up the slope in small groups, using the positions he had cleared as cover points.

They were making progress.

But ahead, the terrain became worse.

Hill 382’s western face was a maze of volcanic rock formations, shattered terrain, and interconnected defensive positions.

The Japanese had spent months preparing these defenses.

Every approach was covered.

Every avenue of advance channeled attackers into kill zones.

Jacobson moved higher.

Fifty yards ahead, he spotted an earth-covered rifle emplacement.

Not a pillbox.

Not a bunker.

Just a hole in the ground with overhead cover made from logs and volcanic rock.

Two Japanese riflemen inside, firing at the advancing Marines below.

The emplacement was crude—but effective.

Artillery bombardment had failed to destroy it because the earth covering absorbed the blast.

Direct fire could not reach it because of the angle.

And the riflemen inside had excellent visibility across the entire western slope.

Jacobson flanked left.

The rifle emplacement was positioned to cover downslope targets.

The defenders were not watching their flanks.

He reached the position forty yards away, slightly above it.

He loaded a rocket, aimed downward at the overhead cover, fired.

The rocket hit the logs and earth covering, penetrated, and detonated inside.

The emplacement collapsed.

The firing stopped.

Six targets down. Ten to go.

But now Jacobson faced the most dangerous section of Hill 382.

Ahead, forming a semicircular defensive perimeter around the summit approach, sat six interconnected positions—each one supporting the others.

Rifle pits.

Machine-gun nests.

Mortar positions.

All carefully sighted to create overlapping fields of fire.

The Japanese had designed this cluster as the final killing ground.

Even if attackers broke through the lower defenses, this perimeter would stop them.

The 23rd Marines had tried to assault this position twice already.

Both attempts had failed with heavy casualties.

Jacobson had three rockets left.

Six targets.

The mathematics were simple.

He would run out of ammunition before he ran out of positions.

He needed to go back for more rockets.

The supply point was now three hundred yards behind him.

The entire route was exposed to Japanese observation from the summit.

Mortar crews had zeroed in on the most obvious paths.

Snipers covered the open ground.

And the Japanese defenders in the six-position cluster had certainly seen him by now.

They would be waiting for him to return.

Jacobson started moving downhill.

He stayed in the depression lines, avoiding the ridges.

A mortar round hit fifty yards to his left.

Then another, closer.

The Japanese were bracketing him.

The next round would find the range.

He sprinted the last hundred yards to the supply point, grabbed another four rockets.

A mortar round impacted twenty yards away.

Shrapnel screamed overhead.

He threw himself flat as a second round hit even closer.

Then he ran back uphill, carrying sixty-seven pounds of weapons and ammunition while Japanese mortars walked across the slope trying to kill him.

By mid-morning, Jacobson reached the cluster of six positions.

He had been fighting for ninety minutes.

His uniform was soaked with sweat despite the cool February air.

His ears rang from the bazooka’s repeated back blast.

His shoulder was bruised from the launcher’s recoil.

He had four rockets.

Six targets.

He would need to make choices.

The six positions formed a defensive arc roughly sixty yards across.

The Japanese had built them to support each other.

If he attacked the leftmost position, the others would have clear shots at him.

If he attacked from the center, all six could engage simultaneously.

The positions were spaced fifteen to twenty yards apart—close enough for defenders to provide mutual support, but far enough that a single rocket could not destroy multiple emplacements.

Jacobson studied the layout.

The rightmost position was a rifle pit, two men.

The second was a machine-gun nest, partially concealed behind volcanic rock.

The third and fourth were mortar positions.

The fifth was another rifle pit.

The sixth was a reinforced observation post with a clear view of the entire western slope.

He made his decision.

Take the observation post first.

Without spotters, the other positions would be fighting blind.

He moved wide right, circling outside the defensive perimeter.

The route took him through broken ground studded with sharp volcanic rock that tore at his uniform.

Japanese defenders in the positions were focused downslope, watching for the main Marine advance.

They were not expecting an attack from their flank.

Jacobson reached a position seventy yards from the observation post.

He loaded a rocket.

Shouldered the launcher.

Fired.

The rocket hit the observation post’s reinforced wall and detonated.

The explosion collapsed one side of the structure.

Jacobson reloaded immediately.

Fired a second rocket into the smoking ruins.

The observation post disintegrated.

Two Japanese soldiers stumbled out, wounded.

Marine riflemen from Company I—now advancing up the slope—stopped them with rifle fire.

Jacobson did not wait to see the result.

He was already moving toward the next position: the rifle pit.

Two Japanese soldiers with Arisaka rifles.

They had seen the observation post explode.

They were scanning the flanks, trying to locate the threat.

Jacobson was forty yards away when one of them spotted him.

The soldier raised his rifle.

Jacobson dove behind cover as the shot cracked past.

He had two rockets left.

Five targets remaining.

He could not waste ammunition on a two-man rifle pit.

He pulled a fragmentation grenade from his belt.

Waited three seconds.

Then stood and threw.

The grenade arced through the air and dropped into the rifle pit.

The explosion killed both defenders.

Four rockets expended, two grenades used, eight positions destroyed, eight to go.

The remaining four positions in the cluster opened fire.

Machine-gun rounds tore through the air around Jacobson.

Mortar crews were adjusting their aim.

He could hear the distinctive thump of rounds leaving the tubes.

He had maybe ten seconds before they landed.

He ran left, away from his last position.

The mortars hit where he had been.

Shrapnel whined through the air.

He kept moving.

Found cover behind a low ridge of volcanic rock.

The machine gun in the second position was tracking him.

Short bursts.

Disciplined fire.

The gunner was skilled.

Jacobson could not move without exposing himself to that gun.

He loaded his third-to-last rocket.

The machine-gun nest was fifty yards away, built into a natural depression in the slope.

Good cover.

Good fields of fire.

A difficult target.

Jacobson waited for the machine gun to fire, counted the burst.

Five rounds.

The gunner was conserving ammunition.

During the pause, Jacobson rose.

Aimed.

Fired.

The rocket hit the depression edge and detonated.

The machine gun went silent.

Jacobson did not know if he had destroyed the position or just suppressed it.

He reloaded.

A Japanese soldier appeared from the smoking position, running toward the next rifle pit.

Jacobson shot him with his M1 Garand.

The soldier fell.

Two rockets left.

Three positions remaining in the cluster.

Two mortar pits and one rifle pit.

The mortar crews were the priority.

They were dropping rounds on Company I, preventing the Marines from advancing.

Jacobson moved uphill, angling toward the first mortar position—sixty yards away.

The crew was reloading.

They had not seen him yet.

He shouldered the bazooka.

Aimed.

Fired.

The rocket hit the mortar pit dead center.

The explosion was massive.

The mortar tube launched into the air, tumbling end over end before crashing back to Earth thirty yards away.

Two Japanese soldiers died instantly.

A third crawled from the wreckage, badly wounded.

One rocket left.

Two positions remaining.

Jacobson reloaded his final M6A3.

The second mortar position was forty yards uphill.

The rifle pit was between him and the mortar.

Three Japanese soldiers in the rifle pit.

Two in the mortar position.

Five men.

One rocket.

He made a choice.

Jacobson aimed at the mortar position.

Fired his last rocket.

The M6A3 hit the mortar pit and detonated.

The two-man crew died instantly.

The mortar tube flipped backward from the blast, its base plate torn from the ground.

Twelve positions destroyed.

The rifle pit remained.

Three Japanese soldiers in the pit saw Jacobson.

They opened fire with their Arisaka rifles.

Rounds snapped past his head.

He dropped the empty bazooka tube and unslung his M1 Garand.

Eight rounds in the clip.

Three targets at forty yards.

He fired.

The first soldier dropped.

Fired again.

The second soldier fell back into the pit.

The third soldier tried to climb out and run.

Jacobson dropped him as he tried to run.

The six-position cluster was destroyed.

Thirteen enemy positions neutralized since the morning began.

The route to Hill 382’s summit was open.

Company I began advancing past the positions Jacobson had cleared.

Marines moved in small groups, weapons ready, expecting more resistance.

But the Japanese defensive line had broken.

The positions Jacobson destroyed had been the anchor points.

Without them, the remaining defenders higher on the hill were isolated.

Jacobson looked downslope.

To his left, across a shallow ravine, another Marine company was pinned down.

He could see Marines crouched behind rocks, unable to move.

They were taking heavy fire from a position Jacobson could not see from his angle.

The company was part of the 24th Marines, attached to support the 23rd’s assault.

They had been trying to advance up the eastern approach to Hill 382, while Company I attacked from the west.

But something had stopped them.

The entire company was stuck two hundred yards from the summit.

Jacobson had no more bazooka rockets.

But he could see what was holding up the advance: a pillbox—concrete and volcanic rock—built into the hillside overlooking the eastern approach.

The firing slit faced directly down the ravine, creating a killing field no Marine could cross.

He picked up the empty bazooka tube and started moving downslope toward the supply point again.

His legs ached.

His shoulder throbbed from the launcher’s repeated recoil.

He had been fighting for nearly two hours without water.

The supply point had moved forward.

Marines had dragged ammunition crates up the slope as Company I advanced.

Jacobson found the new position behind a cluster of rocks seventy yards downhill.

More M6A3 rockets.

He loaded four into the canvas bag.

Then he moved across the ravine toward the pinned-down company.

The route took him through exposed ground.

Japanese snipers were still active.

One round hit the volcanic ash two feet to his right.

Another cracked overhead.

He reached the Marine company’s position.

A captain saw him coming with the bazooka and pointed uphill toward the pillbox.

Jacobson nodded.

He had already identified the target.

The pillbox was eighty yards away, elevated fifteen feet above the ravine floor.

Its position gave the defenders perfect observation and fields of fire.

The concrete structure showed no damage from the naval bombardment.

And the firing slit was positioned to cover every approach route.

Jacobson moved right, working his way up the ravine’s edge.

The pillbox crew was focused on the Marines directly below them.

They were firing methodical bursts from what sounded like a Type 92 heavy machine gun.

Seven-point-seven millimeter.

Six hundred rounds per minute.

Effective range eight hundred meters.

At this distance, the gun was devastating.

Jacobson climbed higher, using dead ground to mask his movement.

The pillbox crew could not depress their gun low enough to engage targets directly beneath their position.

He exploited that blind spot, moving through terrain they could not cover.

He reached a position fifty yards from the pillbox, slightly below its level.

He loaded a rocket.

The angle was difficult.

Firing upward reduced the rocket’s effective range and accuracy.

But the pillbox slit was visible: three feet wide, eighteen inches tall.

If he could put a rocket through that opening, the shaped charge would detonate inside.

He aimed, compensated for the upward angle, fired.

The rocket climbed.

Hit the concrete wall two feet above the slit.

Detonated.

Chunks of concrete rained down.

But the pillbox was intact.

The machine gun kept firing.

Jacobson reloaded.

Adjusted his aim downward.

Fired again.

The second rocket entered the firing slit and detonated inside the pillbox.

Fire and smoke erupted from every opening.

The machine gun fell silent.

The position was destroyed.

Fourteen positions down.

Two to go.

The Marine company below began advancing.

They moved quickly, exploiting the silence from the pillbox.

Within minutes, they had crossed the ravine and were climbing toward the summit.

But Jacobson heard something that stopped him.

A different sound.

Mechanical grinding.

The distinctive noise of an engine and tracks on volcanic rock.

A Japanese tank was moving up from the eastern base of Hill 382.

The tank was a Type 95 Ha-Go—light tank, seven tons, diesel engine, thirty-seven-millimeter main gun.

Two Type 97 machine guns.

Crew of three.

The Japanese had been using these tanks as mobile pillboxes on Iwo Jima, positioning them in crevices and depressions where American naval gunfire could not reach them.

This one was moving up the eastern slope, grinding through volcanic ash at eight kilometers an hour.

Its turret traversed left and right, searching for targets.

The tank commander had spotted the Marine advance and was moving to intercept.

Jacobson watched from seventy yards away.

The tank was below him, working its way up a shallow draw that led toward the summit.

Behind the tank, he could see the Marine company he had just helped.

They were advancing in the open, unaware of the threat.

The tank stopped.

The turret swung toward the Marines.

The thirty-seven-millimeter gun elevated.

Jacobson loaded a rocket.

The Type 95’s armor was thin.

Fourteen millimeters on the front.

Twelve on the sides.

Six on the top.

The M6A3’s shaped charge could penetrate up to one hundred millimeters of steel.

The tank was vulnerable from any angle.

But tanks were dangerous targets, even light tanks.

The Ha-Go had a crew trained to operate under fire.

And if Jacobson missed, the tank would turn its guns on him.

He aimed at the turret.

The Japanese tank commander was visible through the open hatch, scanning for targets.

Jacobson fired.

The rocket hit the turret’s left side and detonated.

The shaped charge penetrated the thin armor and exploded inside.

The turret mechanism jammed.

Smoke poured from the hatch.

The tank’s engine kept running.

But the gun could no longer traverse.

The tank was damaged—but not destroyed.

The two machine guns were still operational.

One of them opened fire, spraying rounds across the slope.

Marines dove for cover.

Jacobson reloaded.

The tank was trying to reverse, backing down the draw to escape.

The driver could not see Jacobson’s position.

The damaged turret blocked his view upslope.

Jacobson moved left, flanking the tank.

He reached a position sixty yards away with a clear shot at the tank’s rear—the engine compartment—the thinnest armor, six millimeters.

He aimed.

Fired.

The rocket hit the engine deck and penetrated.

The explosion was immediate.

The diesel fuel ignited.

Fire erupted from the engine compartment and spread into the crew compartment through the damaged turret.

Two Japanese crewmen tried to bail out.

Marine riflemen stopped them.

The tank burned.

Black smoke rose into the morning sky.

Fifteen positions destroyed.

One to go.

Jacobson had one rocket left.

He looked uphill toward the summit of Hill 382.

The final Japanese position was visible now.

A large blockhouse bigger than the others.

Concrete walls.

Multiple firing slits.

The structure dominated the summit approach.

This was the last strong point.

If he could destroy it, Hill 382 would fall.

He started climbing.

The slope was steep.

Volcanic ash gave way under his boots.

He was exhausted.

Two hours of continuous combat.

Sixty-seven pounds of equipment.

No water.

No rest.

Behind him, Company I and the attached Marines from the 24th were advancing together.

Now they had linked up at the ravine.

Combined strength—maybe eighty men—enough to take the summit once the last blockhouse was neutralized.

Jacobson reached a position forty yards from the blockhouse.

He could see Japanese soldiers moving inside through the firing slits—at least six men, maybe more.

They had rifles.

Grenades.

And they knew he was coming.

The blockhouse had been built to withstand naval bombardment.

Its walls were four feet thick.

Reinforced concrete mixed with volcanic rock.

The roof was covered with additional layers of earth and stone.

A direct hit from a battleship’s sixteen-inch gun had failed to destroy it.

Jacobson had one rocket.

He studied the structure.

The firing slits were narrow—too narrow to guarantee a rocket would enter.

If he missed, the rocket would detonate against the exterior wall.

The explosion might damage the structure.

But it would not neutralize it.

And the Japanese inside would kill him before he could reload.

He needed a different approach.

Jacobson moved right, circling toward the blockhouse’s rear.

The route took him through exposed ground.

Japanese soldiers inside could see him through the firing slits.

They opened fire.

Rifle rounds cracked past his head.

He dove behind a cluster of rocks.

From this angle, he could see the blockhouse entrance.

A reinforced door.

Steel frame.

Wooden panels.

The door faced away from the main American advance.

The Japanese had not expected anyone to reach this side of their defenses.

Jacobson loaded his final rocket.

Aimed at the door.

Fired.

The rocket hit the steel frame and detonated.

The door blew inward.

The explosion collapsed part of the entrance structure.

Smoke and dust poured out.

Jacobson dropped the bazooka tube.

Drew his M1 Garand.

Pulled two grenades from his belt.

And charged the smoking entrance.

Jacobson threw the first grenade through the shattered entrance.

The explosion echoed inside the blockhouse.

He threw the second grenade.

Another detonation.

Then he entered.

Rifle ready.

The interior was chaos.

Smoke.

Debris.

Men moving in the haze, trying to regroup.

Jacobson fired.

Worked through the blockhouse room by room.

The fighting was close.

Brutal.

Close-quarters in the tightest corners.

His M1 Garand ran empty.

He drew his pistol.

Kept moving.

Within two minutes, the blockhouse was silent.

Sixteen enemy positions destroyed.

Seventy-five Japanese defenders killed.

Thirty minutes of continuous action from nine to half past nine.

Then another ninety minutes clearing the remaining positions up the slope.

Private First Class Douglas Jacobson—nineteen years old—had broken the Japanese defensive line on Hill 382.

Behind him, Company I reached the summit.

Marines poured through the gap Jacobson had created.

By noon, the 23rd Marines held the high ground.

By early afternoon, they had begun clearing the reverse slope.

Hill 382—anchor of the entire Japanese defensive system on Iwo Jima—had fallen.

The cost had been severe.

Company I had lost forty-three men killed or wounded.

The 23rd Marines as a whole suffered fifty percent casualties since landing on February 19th.

But Hill 382 was American ground now.

Jacobson walked down the slope in the early afternoon.

His uniform was torn.

His face was black with volcanic dust and powder residue.

He carried the empty bazooka tube in one hand.

A Navy corpsman checked him for wounds.

Minor cuts.

Bruises.

Severe dehydration.

No serious injuries.

Someone asked him how he had done it.

Jacobson said he did not know.

He had one thing in mind: getting off that hill.

The battle for Iwo Jima continued for three more weeks.

The island was not declared secured until March 16th.

Six thousand eight hundred twenty-one Marines died.

Seventeen thousand were wounded.

Of the twenty-one thousand Japanese defenders, only two hundred sixteen surrendered.

Twenty-seven Marines and sailors earned the Medal of Honor at Iwo Jima—more than any other single battle in American history.

Douglas Jacobson was promoted to corporal in April 1945.

He returned to the United States in September and reported to Headquarters Marine Corps in Washington.

On October 5th, 1945, President Harry Truman presented him with the Medal of Honor during a ceremony at the White House.

Jacklyn Lucas, the youngest Medal of Honor recipient from Iwo Jima, received his medal the same day.

Jacobson was discharged in December 1945.

He reenlisted in April 1946.

Attended Officer Candidate School at Quantico.

Commissioned as a second lieutenant in March 1954.

Served in Japan, Okinawa, China, Vietnam.

Before retiring, his commanding officer informed him he was the only officer in the Marine Corps without a high school diploma.

Jacobson took the GED exam.

Passed.

Received his diploma in 1967.

Then retired as a major after twenty-four years of service.

He moved to New Jersey.

Worked as a real estate agent.

Married a teacher he had met in Okinawa.

Moved to Florida in 1987.

Rarely spoke about the war unless someone asked.

Douglas Jacobson died on August 20th, 2000, in Port Charlotte, Florida.

Congestive heart failure and pneumonia.

He was seventy-four years old.

He is buried in Arlington National Cemetery.

The state of Florida named a veterans nursing home after him.

The Douglas T. Jacobson State Veterans Nursing Home in Port Charlotte stands today, caring for veterans who followed the same path he walked.

Sixteen positions.

Seventy-five enemies.

Thirty minutes.

One Marine.

One bazooka meant for two men.

Hill 382 fell because Douglas Jacobson refused to stop.

Jacobson rarely talked about that day unless someone asked.

But the hill remembers.

In a battle defined by fortified stone, hidden fire, and ground that offered no mercy, a nineteen-year-old Marine kept moving when stopping meant everyone behind him stayed pinned.

Hill 382 fell—and with it, one of Iwo Jima’s hardest strongpoints.