At 2 minutes past 3:00 a.m.
on August 21st, 1942, Private Al Schmid crouched behind a Browning 30 caliber machine gun on the west bank of the Tenneroo River, Guadal Canal, watching 800 Japanese soldiers advanced toward his position through the darkness.
21 years old, 2 weeks on the island, zero confirmed kills.
The Japanese Ichiki detachment had marched west from Tyu Point with orders to retake Henderson Field and destroy every marine defending it.
Schmid was an apprentice steel burner from Philadelphia.
He had enlisted 2 days after Pearl Harbor.
Trained at Paris Island, learned to operate the water cooled M1917A1 Browning.
Now he was part of the 11th Machine Gun Squad, Company H, Second Battalion, First Marine Regiment.
His position was a shallow pit reinforced with sandbags and coconut logs.
Palm fronds concealed the imp placement from enemy observation.
50 yards of river separated him from the Japanese assembly area on the opposite bank.
Two other Marines shared the position.
Corporal Leroy Diamond handled ammunition and assisted with reloading.
Private First Class Johnny Rivers was the primary gunner.
Rivers had trained on the Browning for 6 months.
Diamond had combat experience from training exercises in North Carolina.
Schmid was the least experienced member of the crew.
His job was to feed 300 round belts into the weapon and maintained the water jacket that kept the barrel from overheating.
Henderson Field was the reason they were fighting.
The Japanese had been constructing an airfield at Lunga Point when the First Marine Division landed on August 7th.
The Marines captured the half-finished runway and completed it themselves.
Now Marine and Navy aircraft operated from Henderson, striking Japanese positions throughout the Solomon Islands.
The airfield gave American forces their first offensive capability in the Pacific theater.
Losing Henderson would mean losing Guadal Canal.
Losing Guadal Canal would threaten the entire Allied position in the South Pacific.
The Marines had expected counterattacks immediately after landing.
Instead, they encountered minimal resistance for 2 weeks.
Japanese forces withdrew into the jungle.
Marine patrols found abandoned equipment and supplies, but few enemy soldiers.
Intelligence reports suggested the Japanese were regrouping, preparing for a major assault.
Marine commanders ordered defensive positions established along likely approaches to Henderson Field.
The Tenneroo River represented the most direct route from the east.
Lieutenant Colonel Edwin Pollock’s second battalion held the sector.
Machine gun positions covered the river crossing points.
Rifle companies established fields of fire.
Barbed wire protected the forward perimeter.
Marines dug in and waited.
On August 18th, reconnaissance patrols detected Japanese forces landing at Tyu Point, 22 mi east of the Marine perimeter.
Colonel Kona Ichiki commanded the force.
His regiment was elite infantry, veterans of combat in China and Manuria.
Ichiki believed American Marines were poorly trained and lacked fighting spirit.
He expected to sweep through their positions and recapture the airfield within 48 hours.
The first Marine Division had lost men during the initial landings.
Naval gunfire accidents killed three.
Japanese air attacks wounded 17.
Disease was spreading through the ranks.
Dysentery, malaria, tropical infections.
Medical supplies were limited.
The Navy had withdrawn most support ships after the Battle of Tsavo Island on August 9th.
Four Allied cruisers sunk, one cruiser damaged.
The Marines on Guadal Canal were isolated.
Reinforcements were uncertain.
Resupply was irregular.
Every man knew they were defending Henderson Field with whatever ammunition and equipment remained from the landing.
Schmid had written to his fiance Ruth Hartley before leaving Philadelphia.
He called her Babs.
They had met at the Dodge Steel Company where she worked as a clerk.
He had used his Christmas bonus to buy her an engagement ring.
The ring was still in Philadelphia.
Schmidt was in a foxhole on Guad Canal, waiting for 800 Japanese soldiers to attack his position.
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Back to Schmid.
The Japanese had been moving through the jungle since leaving Tyu Point.
72 hours of marching, no contact with American forces.
Ichi interpreted this as evidence the Marines were weak and disorganized.
He decided to attack immediately rather than wait for reinforcements.
His plan called for a frontal assault across the Teneroo River sandbar, break through the Marine defenses, advanced directly to Henderson Field, complete the mission before dawn.
At 3:00 a.m., green flares arked into the sky above the river.
The Japanese signal to begin the attack.
Schmidt heard voices across the water shouting movement in the darkness.
The sound of hundreds of men preparing to charge.
Rivers positioned himself behind the Browning.
Diamond readied the first ammunition belt.
Schmid checked the water jacket.
The gun was loaded and operational.
800 Japanese soldiers were about to assault three Marines in a shallow pit.
The first wave started across the sandbar.
The Japanese came across a sandbar in a dense formation.
50 men in the first wave, more behind them.
They were screaming, firing rifles as they advanced, trying to force the Marines to reveal their positions by opening fire prematurely.
Rivers held his fire, waited until the lead elements reached the middle of the river.
Then he opened up.
The Browning fired at a rate of 450 rounds per minute.
Every fifth round was a tracer.
Rivers swept the gun left to right across the formation.
Japanese soldiers fell.
Others stumbled over bodies and continued forward.
The water turned red in the muzzle flash.
More waves were crossing behind the first.
The Japanese concentrated their return fire on River’s position.
Bullets snapped past his head.
Tore chunks from the coconut logs.
Threw sand into the air.
Diamond fed the first belt smoothly.
300 rounds.
Rivers maintained short controlled bursts to prevent overheating.
The barrel began to glow faintly in the darkness.
Steam rose from the water jacket.
Schmidt monitored the cooling system.
The water level was dropping as it boiled and evaporated.
He would need to refill it soon.
The second wave of Japanese reached the sandbar.
Rivers engaged them before they could establish a foothold.
Another machine gun position was firing 150 yards downstream.
The two guns created overlapping fields of fire.
air across the river.
Japanese soldiers caught in the crossfire had nowhere to take cover.
The sandbar offered no protection.
Bodies began piling up in the shallow water.
The third wave advanced over the dead and wounded.
Their officers were shouting orders, pushing more men forward.
The Japanese believed momentum would break through the Marine defenses.
Schmidt counted eight separate waves crossing the river in the first 30 minutes.
Each wave was met with sustained machine gun fire.
The Browning was performing flawlessly.
No jams, no malfunctions.
Rivers was firing with mechanical precision.
Traverse left.
Traverse right.
Reload.
Resume firing.
Diamond was feeding belts as fast as Rivers could expend them.
Schmid was refilling the water jacket with cantens.
The system was working.
Then a Japanese grenade landed near the adjacent machine gun position.
The explosion silenced that gun.
Now River’s crew was the only machine gun covering this section of the river.
All enemy fire concentrated on their position.
Bullets were hitting the sandbags continuously.
One round punched through a gap in the logs and missed River’s head by inches.
The volume of incoming fire was increasing.
More Japanese soldiers were joining the assault.
Rivers adjusted his aim, fired into the densest concentrations of enemy troops.
The browning was glowing red now.
The water in the jacket was boiling violently.
Schmid poured in more water.
It hissed and steamed immediately.
The barrel was at the edge of failure temperature.
Rivers kept firing.
He had no choice.
The Japanese were still coming.
Schmid saw movement in the darkness to their right.
Japanese soldiers were attempting to flank the position, moving through the jungle, using the noise of the main assault to cover their approach.
He grabbed his M1 Garand rifle, fired three rounds at the shapes in the trees.
They disappeared.
He returned to monitoring the machine gun.
Rivers was burning through ammunition at an unsustainable rate.
They had started with 2,000 rounds.
Half was already expended.
The assault had been going for less than an hour.
The Japanese changed tactics.
Instead of mass waves, they began sending smaller groups, 10 to 15 men at a time, spread out across the width of the river, harder to hit with sustained fire.
Rivers had to engage multiple targets simultaneously.
The barrel temperature continued climbing.
Schmid could feel the heat radiating from the weapon.
Metal components were expanding.
The gun was operating beyond its designed limits.
A bullet struck the water jacket, punched a hole cleaned through the metal casing.
Water sprayed across Schmid’s lap and chest.
The cooling system was compromised.
Rivers kept firing.
The barrel began crackling.
Thermal stress was causing the metal to warp slightly.
Any second now, the gun would jam or the barrel would fail completely.
Rivers fired another burst, then another.
The weapon held together.
Diamond was hit.
A bullet tore through his left arm.
He fell partially across Schmid’s feet.
Blood soaked into the sand.
Diamond tried to stand, couldn’t.
He pulled himself into a sitting position against the back wall of the pit.
He could no longer load ammunition.
Schmid would have to take over that task.
Rivers continued engaging targets.
He was firing one-handed now, using his right hand to operate the trigger while reaching back with his left to help guide the ammunition belt.
More Japanese were crossing.
The assault showed no signs of stopping.
Colonel Ichiki was committing his entire force.
800 men against a handful of Marine defenders.
The Japanese expected to overwhelm the American positions through sheer numbers.
They had not anticipated this level of resistance.
They had not expected the machine guns to keep firing.
At 3:41 a.m., 12 bullets struck Johnny Rivers in the face and neck.
Rivers died instantly, his finger locked on the trigger in a death grip.
200 rounds cycled through the Browning before his hand finally released.
The barrel was white hot.
Smoke poured from the brereech.
Schmid shoved River’s body aside and slid into the gunner’s position.
His hands found the grips.
His thumbs found the trigger.
He had watched Rivers operate the weapon for 40 minutes.
Now he would have to do it himself.
The Japanese were still crossing the river.
They had not stopped during the transition.
Schmid pressed the trigger.
The Browning roared.
Tracers oked across the water.
He saw bodies falling.
The recoil pushed against his shoulders.
He traversed left, fired a burst, traversed right, fired again.
The technique was crude compared to River’s precision, but it was effective.
Japanese soldiers went down.
Diamond was conscious despite his wound.
He understood what needed to happen.
He positioned himself next to Schmid, used his good arm to feed ammunition belts into the weapon.
When the belt ran out, he tapped Schmid’s shoulder.
Schmid stopped firing, opened the feed tray.
Diamond inserted a new belt.
Schmid closed the feed tray and resumed firing.
They developed a rhythm.
Fire, reload, fire, reload.
The process repeated continuously.
Schmid’s hands were burning from contact with the hot metal.
The grips were too hot to hold comfortably.
He ignored the pain, kept firing.
The Japanese were massing for another major assault.
He could see hundreds of them on the opposite bank, preparing to charge.
Officers were organizing the formation.
Schmid fired into the staging area, disrupted their assembly, forced them to take cover, delayed the assault by precious minutes.
The barrel was damaged now.
The hole in the water jacket had allowed all coolant to escape.
The metal was glowing bright orange, visible even in the darkness.
Schmid knew the weapon could catastrophically fail at any moment.
The barrel could split.
The receiver could crack.
The ammunition could cook off inside the chamber.
He kept firing.
There was no alternative.
Stopping meant the Japanese would overrun the position.
At 4:17 a.m., a massive wave of Japanese soldiers charged across the sandbar.
More than 200 men, the largest assault yet.
Schmid engaged them at maximum range.
The Browning hammered continuously.
Brass casings piled up around his feet.
The muzzle flash lit up the entire river.
Japanese soldiers fell in clusters.
The ones behind kept coming, stepped over the bodies, fired their rifles while advancing.
Bullets were hitting the sandbags like rain.
Diamond was feeding belts mechanically despite his injury.
Blood loss was making him weak.
His movements were slower, but he kept functioning, kept the ammunition flowing.
Schmid fired until the barrel was beyond red hot.
It was radiating heat like a forge.
The wooden furniture on the gun was smoking, starting to char.
The metal components were welding themselves together from thermal expansion.
The weapon should have failed 10 minutes ago.
It continued operating.
The Japanese wave broke apart under the fire.
Survivors retreated to the far bank, left more than 70 dead on the sandbar.
Schmid ceased firing, gave the barrel a few seconds to cool slightly.
It made crackling sounds as the metal contracted.
He could see stress fractures forming along the length.
The next sustained burst might be the last one the gun could handle.
More Japanese were preparing to cross.
They had lost perhaps 300 men.
still had 500 ready to fight.
Colonel Ichiki was not withdrawing.
He was committed to breaking through regardless of casualties.
The Imperial Army doctrine emphasized spirit over material considerations.
Japanese soldiers were trained to believe willpower could overcome any obstacle.
They would keep attacking until they won or died.
Schmid fired into the next wave.
20 men went down in the first burst.
The survivors scattered.
took cover behind the bodies of their dead comrades, returned fire from prone positions.
Schmidt adjusted his aim, fired short bursts at individual targets.
The Japanese were learning, adapting their tactics, making themselves harder to hit.
The battle was becoming a grinding exchange of fire across 50 yards of river.
A Japanese soldier crawled through the corpses piled on the sandbar, moved slowly, stayed low, reached the water’s edge directly in front of Schmidt’s position.
He had a type 97 hand grenade.
He pulled the pin, threw the grenade in a flat arc toward the muzzle flash of the Browning.
The grenade hit the top sandbag, bounced into the pit, landed next to Schmid’s right knee.
It detonated 2 seconds later.
The blast occurred at 4:33 a.m.
Schmid felt the explosion before he heard it.
Then everything went white.
Then everything went black.
He could not see anything at all.
Shrapnel from the grenade had torn into Schmid’s face.
His left eye was destroyed immediately.
His right eye was severely damaged.
Both were filled with blood and foreign material.
He put his hand to his face, felt only torn flesh and wetness.
The pain came a moment later, sharp and overwhelming.
His left shoulder burned, his left arm was bleeding.
His hand had multiple puncture wounds.
He tried to open his eyes.
Nothing.
Complete darkness.
Total blindness.
Diamond was still conscious beside him.
He understood what had happened.
Understood that Schmid could not see.
He also understood the Japanese were still attacking.
The sound of enemy soldiers crossing the river had not stopped.
Hundreds of them were advancing toward a machine gun position, now defended by one blind marine and one wounded marine who could barely move.
Diamond made a decision.
He told Schmid where the Japanese were, used only a few words: direction, distance.
Schmid processed the information.
His hands found the Browning’s grips again.
The metal was scorching hot against his burned palms.
He oriented the weapon based on Diamond’s instructions, pressed the trigger.
The gun fired.
Diamond watched the tracers, corrected Schmid’s aim, told him to adjust left.
Schmid traversed left, fired again.
Japanese soldiers fell.
They developed a new system.
Diamond observed the enemy positions, communicated targeting information to Schmid using the minimum words necessary.
Schmid aimed and fired based on those instructions.
When Diamond needed Schmid to shift fire, he hit Schmid’s arm hard enough to be felt clearly.
Schmid would traverse the weapon in that direction.
Keep firing until Diamond told him to stop or change direction again.
The pain from Schmid’s injuries was intense.
Blood was running down his face, pooling in his collar, dripping onto the ammunition belts.
He could taste it in his mouth.
His left arm was mostly numb now, probably nerve damage from the shrapnel, but his right arm still functioned.
His right hand could still operate the trigger.
That was enough.
He kept firing.
The Japanese realized something had changed at this position.
The machine gun’s rate of fire had decreased.
The pattern was different, less precise.
They saw an opportunity.
Concentrated more troops on this section of the river.
Tried to exploit the perceived weakness.
What they did not know was that the gunner was now operating completely blind.
That the weapon was being aimed by voice commands from a wounded marine who could barely stay conscious.
Schmidt burned through another 300 round belt.
Diamond loaded a new one.
His movements were slower now.
Blood loss was affecting his coordination.
He fumbled with the belt.
Got it loaded.
Tapped Schmidt’s shoulder.
Schmidt resumed firing.
The barrel was beyond any reasonable operating temperature.
It was deforming, warping from the heat.
The accuracy was degrading.
But at ranges of 50 yards or less, precision was less important than volume of fire.
Japanese soldiers were now piled three and four deep on the sandbar.
The ones trying to cross had to climb over the bodies.
This slowed their advance, made them easier targets even for a blind gunner.
Schmidt fired at the sounds of movement, at the locations Diamond indicated, Japanese voices screaming, rifles firing, boots splashing through bloody water.
All of it created an audio picture of the battlefield.
Schmidt aimed toward those sounds.
At 5:02 a.m., Diamond was fading, his voice was weaker, his instructions less frequent.
Schmidt was operating more on instinct now, firing toward the heaviest concentration of noise, sweeping the gun back and forth across the probable enemy positions.
The Japanese kept coming.
Their casualties were enormous, but they had not broken, had not retreated.
Imperial Army soldiers did not retreat.
The Browning’s receiver was cracking.
Thermal stress fractures spreading through the metal.
The bolt was cycling with irregular timing.
The extraction was becoming unreliable.
Spent casings were jamming in the ejection port.
Schmid had to clear malfunctions by feel.
His burned hands working the hot metal in complete darkness.
He would clear the jam, resume firing.
Another jam, clear it, keep firing.
The weapon was disintegrating around him, but it had not completely failed.
Ammunition was running low.
They had started with 2,000 rounds.
Maybe 300 remained.
Schmid fired in shorter bursts, conserved ammunition, made each belt last longer.
Diamond was barely responsive now.
Schmid was making his own targeting decisions, aiming by sound, by memory of where the river crossing was located, by pure determination to keep fighting until either the Japanese stopped coming or the gun finally quit.
At 5:38 a.m., the sky began to lighten.
Dawn was approaching.
Schmid could not see it, but he could hear the change in the battle.
The Japanese assault was weakening.
Fewer voices, less movement.
The survivors were pulling back.
The Japanese had been attacking for 2 and 1/2 hours.
Colonel Aiki was watching his regiment disintegrate.
He had committed nearly his entire force to the assault.
The Marines had not broken.
His soldiers were dying in massive numbers on the sandbar and in the river.
The water was choked with bodies.
The far bank was covered with wounded men crawling back toward Japanese lines.
Ichiki had expected an easy victory.
Instead, he was witnessing a catastrophic defeat.
At 6:15 a.m., the Japanese pulled back completely.
Withdrew into the jungle east of the river, left their dead where they had fallen.
Schmid heard the sounds of battle fade.
The rifle fire stopped.
The shouting stopped.
Only silence remained.
He kept the Browning aimed toward the river, waited for the next attack.
His finger rested on the trigger, ready to fire at the first sound of movement.
Diamond was unconscious.
He had lost too much blood.
His breathing was shallow and irregular.
Schmid could hear him, but could not see him.
Could not assess how badly he was wounded.
Could not provide first aid.
Schmid’s own injuries were severe.
The pain in his face was constant.
His ruined eyes were swelling shut.
Not that it mattered.
He could not see anyway.
His left arm was useless, hanging limp at his side.
Only his right arm still functioned normally.
He sat behind the Browning and waited.
Minutes passed.
No attack came.
More minutes.
Still nothing.
The silence was almost worse than the battle.
During the fighting, he had known what to do.
Fire the gun.
Kill the enemy.
Now he had no information.
No way to know what was happening.
whether the Japanese were regrouping, whether reinforcements were coming, whether he was about to be overrun.
Other Marines were moving in the area.
Schmid could hear American voices, boots approaching his position.
Someone called out identifying themselves as friendly, told Schmid to hold his fire.
A corman climbed into the pit, saw Rivers dead, saw Diamond unconscious and bleeding, saw Schmid sitting behind a destroyed machine gun with his face covered in blood.
The corman started treating Diamond first, got a tourniquet on his arm, stopped the bleeding, gave him morphine.
Then the corman moved to Schmid, asked him questions.
Schmid answered, told him he could not see, told him about the grenade.
The corman examined the wounds, did not say anything about how bad they looked, just started treating them, cleaned the shrapnel wounds, bandaged Schmid’s face, wrapped his damaged arm, gave him morphine for the pain, told him medical evacuation was coming.
More Marines arrived at the position.
Officers assessing the battlefield.
They looked at the river, counted bodies.
The numbers were staggering.
Dozens of Japanese soldiers laid dead in front of this single machine gun position.
perhaps more than a hundred within the immediate field of fire.
The river itself was clogged with corpses.
The water was still running red.
The sandbar had disappeared under the dead.
Lieutenant Colonel Pollock came to the position personally.
Looked at what three Marines had accomplished.
Looked at the destroyed Browning still smoking in the morning heat.
Looked at Rivers dead.
Diamond unconscious.
Schmid blind and wounded but still sitting behind the gun.
Pollock understood immediately what had happened here.
how these three men had held this critical position against overwhelming odds.
How they had prevented a breakthrough that could have threatened the entire Marine perimeter.
The Marines were conducting a count of enemy casualties across the entire defensive line.
The numbers climbed steadily, 200 dead, 400 dead, 600 dead.
The Japanese had committed approximately 900 men to the assault.
Only a handful survived.
Some escaped back toward Tyu Point.
Most died on the sandbar or in the river or in the jungle during the marine counterattack that came after dawn.
Colonel Ichiki was found dead.
Reports indicated he had committed ritual suicide after the failure of his attack.
Schmid was placed on a stretcher.
Carried back toward the aid station.
He asked about Diamond.
They told him Diamond would survive.
Asked about Rivers.
They told him Rivers was dead.
Schmid had known that, had pushed River’s body out of the way to take over the gun.
But hearing it confirmed made it real.
Rivers had been the experienced gunner, the one who was supposed to survive.
Now he was gone, and Schmid was alive.
That did not seem right.
The stretcherbearers moved carefully through the defensive positions.
Schmid could not see the base, could not see Henderson Field, could not see anything.
The morphine was dulling the pain but not eliminating it.
His face felt like it was on fire.
His eyes felt like they had been filled with broken glass.
The corman had told him the injuries were serious.
Had not told him whether he would see again.
Schmid suspected he already knew the answer.
The aid station on Guadal Canal had limited surgical capability.
Doctors could stabilize casualties, control bleeding, prevent infection, but complex injuries required evacuation to rear area hospitals.
Schmid’s wounds fell into that category.
The doctors examined his eyes, removed accessible shrapnel fragments, irrigated the wounds with saline, applied fresh bandages, administered antibiotics.
Then they tagged him for immediate medical evacuation.
He spent three days at the aid station waiting for transport.
Lying on a cot in a tent, unable to see the other wounded men around him, unable to see the medical staff treating him.
He could only listen.
Hear the sounds of the war continuing outside.
Aircraft taking off from Henderson Field.
Artillery firing at Japanese positions in the jungle.
The daily air raids by Japanese bombers attempting to destroy the airfield.
The morphine kept him sedated most of the time.
When he was conscious, he thought about the battle, replayed it in his mind, tried to remember details, how many ammunition belts he had fired, how long the assault had lasted, whether he could have done anything differently to save Rivers.
The questions had no answers.
Rivers was dead.
That was the only fact that mattered.
On August 24th, Schmid was loaded onto a transport aircraft, flown to a hospital ship offshore.
The ship had full surgical facilities, opthalmologists who specialized in combat eye injuries.
They examined Schmid’s wounds under proper lighting.
The damage was worse than the field doctors had assessed.
His left eye was completely destroyed, beyond any possibility of repair.
His right eye had severe trauma, retinal damage, corneal lacerations, massive inflammation.
The surgeons performed an emergency procedure to save what vision might remain.
Schmid woke from surgery, still unable to see.
The doctors explained his condition, told him the left eye was gone, told him the right eye might partially recover with time and additional surgeries.
Might.
No guarantees, no certainty.
They were honest about the prognosis.
He would likely be permanently blind or severely visually impaired.
His military career was over.
His life as he had known it was finished.
The hospital ship transported him to San Diego in early September.
He was admitted to the San Diego Naval Hospital, assigned to a ward with other severely wounded Marines from Guad Canal.
The hospital had experience treating combat casualties.
They had protocols for treating blinded servicemen, physical rehabilitation, psychological support, vocational training for life after military service.
Schmidt began the long process of recovery.
The surgeons at San Diego performed multiple operations on his face and eyes, reconstructive work on his damaged eye socket, removal of embedded shrapnel fragments that the field surgeons had missed, skin grafts to repair facial tissue.
Each surgery required recovery time, weeks of lying in a hospital bed, unable to see, unable to do anything but wait and heal.
A Red Cross worker named Virginia Feifer was assigned to assist with his rehabilitation.
She helped him navigate the hospital, taught him basic skills for functioning without sight, read his mail to him, wrote letters on his behalf.
Feifer recognized that Schmidt needed more than medical treatment.
He needed emotional support, connection to his life before the war.
She asked him about his family, his friends, his fianceé.
Schmidt told her about Ruth Hartley, Babs, the woman he had planned to marry before the war.
Feifer obtained Ruth’s address from Schmidt’s records, began writing letters to her, explained Schmidt’s condition, the severity of his injuries, the uncertainty about his vision.
The letters were carefully worded, honest, but not discouraging.
Feifer understood that Schmidt’s recovery would depend partly on having something to look forward to, someone waiting for him.
Ruth wrote back immediately, told Feifer she wanted to visit Schmidt as soon as possible, wanted to see him, talk to him, be with him regardless of his injuries.
Feifer read those letters to Schmid.
He listened without commenting.
The morphine and pain medication kept him detached.
Made it hard to process emotions.
Hard to believe anyone would want to be with him.
Now in October, Schmid was informed he would receive the Navy Cross.
The award was being prepared.
The citation was being written.
He would be presented with the medal in a formal ceremony.
Rivers and Diamond were also receiving Navy crosses.
Rivers postuously Diamond for his actions while wounded.
The three Marines who had held the machine gun position against 800 Japanese soldiers were being recognized for extraordinary heroism.
Schmid felt nothing about the award.
He had done what the situation required.
Fired the gun because stopping meant dying.
Kept firing because the Japanese kept attacking.
There was nothing heroic about it.
Just survival.
Just following training.
Just refusing to quit.
The Navy Cross seemed irrelevant compared to the fact that he would never see again.
In November, doctors determined Schmidt was stable enough for travel.
He was granted medical leave to visit Philadelphia.
The Navy arranged transportation.
On January 18th, 1943, he arrived home.
He had left 15 months earlier as a healthy 21-year-old steel worker.
He returned as a 22-year-old blind combat veteran with severe facial scarring.
Ruth met him at the train station.
She had been preparing for this moment since receiving Feifer’s first letter, had convinced herself his injuries did not matter, that she loved him regardless of what the war had done to his body.
When she saw him step off the train, bandages still covering most of his face, she did not hesitate, walked directly to him, took his arm, told him she was there.
Schmidt could not see her reaction, could not read her facial expression, could not know whether she was forcing herself to stay or genuinely wanted to be with him.
He had to trust her words, trust that she meant what she said.
Trust was difficult.
The blindness had taken away his ability to verify anything visually, made him dependent on others for basic information about the world around him.
Philadelphia planned a massive parade to honor him.
The city wanted to celebrate their hometown hero, the Marine who had held off 800 Japanese soldiers while blind.
The story had reached the newspapers, been picked up by national media.
Al Schmidt was becoming famous.
The parade was scheduled for April 10th.
Ruth helped him prepare, helped him practice walking without being able to see, helped him understand where he would be and what would happen.
The parade drew thousands of spectators.
Schmidt rode in an open car through the streets.
Could not see the crowds.
Could only hear them cheering.
The noise was overwhelming.
People were calling his name, applauding, celebrating his heroism.
He sat in the car feeling disconnected from it all.
These people were celebrating something they did not understand, had not experienced.
They saw heroism.
He remembered terror and pain and rivers dying and firing a machine gun blind because the alternative was death.
On February 18th, Schmid received his Navy Cross at the Philadelphia Navyyard.
The ceremony was formal.
Officers in dress uniforms, media photographers, newsreel cameras.
A admiral pinned the medal to Schmid’s uniform, read the citation aloud, commended him for extraordinary heroism and conspicuous devotion to duty, for defeating the enemy attack despite being seriously wounded, for contributing to the defense of Henderson Field and the ultimate victory at Guadal Canal.
The Philadelphia Inquirer gave him their hero award, a check for $1,000.
more recognition, more attention, more people wanting to meet him, interview him, hear his story.
Schmid found it exhausting.
He wanted to be left alone, wanted to figure out how to live as a blind man without crowds watching his every move.
A writer named Roger Butterfield approached him, wanted to write a book about his experiences.
Schmid agreed reluctantly.
Butterfield conducted extensive interviews, talked to other Marines from Guadal Canal, researched the battle of the Tenneroo.
The book was titled Al Schmid Marine, published in 1944.
It became a bestseller immediately.
Readers were hungry for stories of American heroism in the Pacific War.
Warner Brothers purchased the film rights, started production on a movie based on Schmid’s story.
The film would be called Pride of the Marines.
Actor John Garfield was cast in the lead role.
Hollywood was turning Schmid’s worst night into entertainment.
He had no control over how they portrayed the events.
Could not even watch the film when it was completed.
The irony was not lost on him.
Ruth remained constant through all of it.
She had not abandoned him.
Had not been repelled by his injuries.
On April 4th, 1943, they were married.
Schmid was 22.
Ruth was 21.
The wedding was small.
Family and close friends, no media, no publicity, just two people who had decided to face the future together, regardless of what that future looked like.
The hardest battle was not the Japanese.
It was adjusting to permanent blindness.
Learning to navigate without sight, accepting help from others, dealing with strangers who looked away from his scarred face, managing the depression that came with losing his independence.
The physical wounds had healed.
The psychological wounds remained open.
Schmid underwent additional surgeries in 1943 and 44.
Doctors attempting to restore any possible vision to his right eye.
The procedures were partially successful.
He regained limited sight.
Enough to distinguish light and shadow.
Enough to see vague shapes.
Not enough to read.
Not enough to see faces clearly.
Not enough to be independent, but it was something, more than he had expected to have.
In June 1944, Ruth gave birth to their son, Albert Schmid Jr.
Schmid held his son and could barely see him.
Could make out the general shape, the movement, but not the details, not the features.
He would never clearly see his own child’s face.
Pride of the Marines was released in August 1945.
The film was a success, not because of the combat scenes, which comprised only 10 minutes of the runtime.
Audiences responded to the honest portrayal of Schmidt’s struggle to adjust to blindness, the fear, the depression, the difficulty accepting help, the strain on his marriage, the slow process of learning to function in a world designed for people who could see.
The film made Schmidt even more famous.
He was invited to speak at war bond rallies across the nation to tell his story to encourage Americans to support the war effort.
He traveled to dozens of cities, gave hundreds of speeches, always with Ruth beside him, guiding him, supporting him, making it possible for him to function in public.
Schmidt was honorably discharged from the Marine Corps on December 9th, 1944, 3 years to the day after he had enlisted.
The military provided a disability pension, compensation for his service connected injuries.
It was not much, but it was enough to live on, enough to support Ruth and their son, enough to start building a civilian life.
In 1946, the Democratic Party nominated Schmidt as a candidate for Pennsylvania Secretary of Internal Affairs.
They believed his war hero status would attract votes.
Schmidt campaigned across the state, lost the election.
Politics was not his calling.
He wanted privacy, wanted to be left alone to live his life without constant public attention.
The family moved to St.
Petersburg, Florida in 1957.
The warm climate was easier on Schmidt’s injured leg, an old wound that had never properly healed that caused pain during Pennsylvania’s cold winters.
Florida offered relief, offered a fresh start away from Philadelphia, where everyone knew his story.
Schmidt learned to fish, developed techniques for fishing without being able to see the water clearly.
Ruth described the conditions, told him where to cast, helped him land the catches.
They spent hours on the water together.
It became his primary hobby, his escape from the memories of the war.
He also became a ham radio operator, got his license, set up equipment in his home, communicated with other operators around the world using Morse code and voice.
The radio did not care that he was blind, did not care about his scars, only cared whether he could operate the equipment competently.
He could.
The radio gave him connection to people without the complications of face-to-face interaction.
Schmid rarely spoke about Guadal Canal, did not tell war stories, did not seek attention for what he had done.
When people asked about the Navy Cross, he gave brief answers, acknowledged the medal, did not elaborate.
The details of that night remained private between him and the men who had been there.
Rivers was dead.
Diamond had moved on with his own life.
Schmid wanted to do the same.
The years passed quietly.
Ruth and Al raised their sons, lived ordinary lives, dealt with ordinary problems.
The war receded into history.
Fewer people recognized Schmid’s name.
Fewer people remembered Pride of the Marines.
The story faded from public consciousness.
Schmid preferred it that way.
In 1982, Schmid was diagnosed with bone cancer.
The disease progressed rapidly.
Treatment options were limited.
On December 1st, 1982, Albert Andrew Schmid died at age 62.
He was buried at Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors.
The Navy Cross was displayed at his funeral.
The flag was folded and presented to Ruth.
The ceremony honored a Marine who had done the impossible, who had fought blind and won.
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The official count at the Teneroo River listed over 200 Japanese soldiers killed in front of Schmidt’s position, 800 total Japanese casualties from a force of 900.
The battle broke the myth of Japanese invincibility, proved American Marines could defeat elite Imperial Army troops in direct combat.
Henderson Field remained in American hands.
Wadd Canal was secured.
The first step toward Tokyo had been taken.
Three Marines in a pit, one machine gun, one night.
Al Schmidt fired that gun for hours after a grenade destroyed his eyes.
Aimed by voice commands from a wounded corporal.
Kept fighting when most men would have quit.
Survived when survival seemed impossible.
These men deserve to be remembered.
and you’re helping make that
