😱 The Stinger That Shocked the Japanese: Tony Stein’s Unbelievable Journey on Iwo Jima! 😱 – HTT

Japanese Couldn’t Believe He Built a Gun From Aircraft Parts — Until He Killed 20 of Them

At 0900 on February 19th, 1945, Corporal Tony Stein crouched behind a shallow depression in the black volcanic sand of Iwo Jima.

He gripped a weapon that his sergeant had dismissed as a stupid idea just three months earlier.

At only 23 years old, Stein had already completed six combat missions but had zero conventional kills to his name.

The Japanese had fortified every inch of this eight-square-mile rock with 11 miles of interconnected tunnels, 17,000 defenders, and overlapping fields of fire that turned the beach into a killing ground.

Stein was one of the first men from Company A, First Battalion, 28th Marines, to establish a position beyond the beach.

Around him, Marines were pinned down by concentrated machine gun and mortar fire from camouflaged pillboxes they couldn’t see.

By mid-morning, the Fifth Marine Division had already lost 43 men, their bodies lying twisted in the volcanic ash on the terrace beach.

While the standard issue Browning M1919 machine guns were effective, they weighed 31 pounds empty and fired at a rate of 400 rounds per minute.

This made them great for defense but terrible for assault.

Stein had known this problem for months.

Back in November 1944, at Camp Tarawa in Hawaii, he had watched machine gun crews struggle during training exercises.

The gunners couldn’t keep up with the advancing rifle platoons.

They set up, fired, then spent precious minutes breaking down and moving forward.

By then, the momentum was lost.

Tony Stein was a toolmaker by trade, born in Dayton, Ohio, to Austrian Jewish immigrants who had fled anti-Semitism in Eastern Europe.

He spent his teenage years working a lathe at Patterson Field and then as a tool and die maker at Delo Products.

His understanding of machines and their capabilities became crucial when he joined the Paramarines in September 1942.

He had killed five Japanese snipers in a single day, but it was his ability to modify equipment that caught the attention of Sergeant Mel Grevich.

Grevich had been experimenting with something unusual during the Bougainville campaign in 1943.

He salvaged an ANM2 aircraft machine gun from a crashed Douglas SBD Dauntless dive bomber.

The ANM2 was designed for aerial combat, weighing only 21 pounds—10 pounds lighter than the M1919—and capable of firing between 1,200 and 2,500 rounds per minute.

However, there was a problem: the ANM2 had spade grips designed for aircraft mounts, with no stock, no sights, and no way for a single Marine to carry it and fire accurately while advancing.

When Grevich approached Stein in November 1944, the Paramarines had just been disbanded.

Both men were reassigned to the 28th Marines, Fifth Marine Division, preparing for an operation that the brass wouldn’t name yet, but everyone knew it would be brutal.

Grevich showed Stein the ANM2, and Stein saw potential.

They worked at night in a maintenance shed, and Stein cut down an M1 Garand buttstock, hollowing it out to accept the machine gun’s buffer tube.

He fabricated a solenoid trigger mechanism from sheet metal scraps, while Grevich welded a Browning automatic rifle bipod to the front.

They added BAR rear sights for aiming.

The result was crude but effective—a 25-pound weapon fed by a 100-round ammunition box capable of emptying that box in five seconds of continuous fire.

They called it the “Stinger.”

Stein built six of them—one for each of Company G’s three rifle platoons, one for the demolition section, one for Grevich, and one for himself.

The reaction from other Marines was mixed; some called it brilliant, while others labeled it a death trap.

One sergeant looked at the improvised weapon and said it would jam on the first burst, while another claimed the thin barrel would melt after two magazines.

A platoon commander from the second battalion remarked that only an idiot would carry a plane gun into an infantry fight.

But when Stein test-fired it on the range, emptying a full box into a target at 200 yards in under six seconds, the skeptics fell silent.

Company commanders approved it.

Battalion approved it.

The Stinger was going to war.

Now, on the beach at Iwo Jima, Stein tightened his grip on the weapon.

The Stinger’s barrel was already warm.

Around him, Marines were dying because they couldn’t locate the hidden Japanese positions.

Standard procedure would typically call for tanks or naval gunfire, but the tanks were bogged down in the soft volcanic ash, and naval shells couldn’t hit what they couldn’t see.

Stein made a decision.

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Back to Stein.

He stood fully upright in the middle of a beach where Japanese machine gunners had overlapping fields of fire.

Corporal Tony Stein exposed himself to draw enemy attention; he needed them to reveal their positions to see the muzzle flashes.

Bullets snapped past his head, and mortar rounds detonated in the ash nearby.

Then he saw it—a pillbox 75 yards northwest, camouflaged with volcanic rock and sand, with the barrel of a Type 92 heavy machine gun protruding just inches.

Stein lowered the Stinger, aimed, and squeezed the solenoid trigger.

The weapon roared to life at 1,200 rounds per minute.

The pillbox disintegrated under the torrent of .30 caliber rounds.

The Type 92 fell silent.

Through the dust and smoke, Stein could see movement inside the position, then nothing.

He shifted his aim to a second pillbox 40 yards to the left.

Another burst—five seconds of continuous fire.

The concrete structure absorbed some rounds, but the volume of fire was overwhelming.

The Japanese machine gun crew inside stopped shooting.

Around Stein, Marines began to move, seeing the enemy position suppressed.

Riflemen advanced from their shallow depressions in the sand, and sergeants shouted orders.

The assault was moving again.

Stein charged the first pillbox.

The Stinger was lighter than the standard M1919, allowing him to run with it.

He reached the position in seconds.

Inside, three Japanese soldiers lay dead; the 1,200 rounds per minute rate of fire had simply cut through everything.

He moved to the second pillbox with the same result—two enemy soldiers down, the position destroyed.

But then Stein felt the Stinger go light in his hands.

The ammunition box was empty.

100 rounds gone in less than 10 seconds of actual trigger time.

He had anticipated this problem during training in Hawaii, but experiencing it in combat was different.

The Stinger was devastating, but it was also impossibly hungry.

Stein looked back toward the beach—200 yards away.

The ammunition resupply point was near the waterline, where landing craft were still unloading supplies under sporadic mortar fire.

He would have to cross open ground fully exposed to get more linked .30 caliber ammunition.

Stein started running.

The volcanic sand made every step difficult; it wasn’t like normal sand.

The ash was loose, terraced, and gave way underfoot.

Marines called it “running through ball bearings.”

Stein’s boots sank three inches with each stride.

Halfway to the beach, he passed a wounded Marine—a Private First Class from the second platoon with a shrapnel wound to the left leg.

The man was conscious but couldn’t walk.

Stein grabbed him, slung him over his shoulder, and kept running.

The Marine weighed 160 pounds, while the Stinger weighed 25.

His combat pack added another 30.

Stein was carrying over 215 pounds through volcanic ash while Japanese mortars bracketed the beach.

He reached the supply point at 0945.

A corpsman took the wounded Marine, and Stein grabbed four ammunition boxes, each containing 100 rounds of linked .30 caliber.

He stuffed two boxes into his pack, carried one in each hand, and turned back toward his platoon’s position.

The return trip took three minutes.

Japanese snipers had started targeting Marines moving between the beach and forward positions.

Bullets kicked up black ash around Stein’s boots, and a mortar round detonated 30 yards to his right, throwing volcanic rock and shrapnel.

He didn’t stop.

When he reached Company A’s position, his platoon sergeant pointed to a third pillbox.

This one was larger, reinforced concrete, with a Type 96 light machine gun covering the approach to the airfield.

Two previous assaults had failed, resulting in four Marines dead in front of it.

Stein loaded a fresh ammunition box into the Stinger and checked the belt feed.

The weapon was already hot from the previous engagement, but the thin aircraft barrel could handle more.

He stood up and advanced on the pillbox alone.

The Type 96 opened fire immediately, rounds snapping past Stein’s head and chest.

He kept walking forward, the Stinger at his shoulder.

At 50 yards, he opened fire.

The weapon’s rate of fire was so high that the Japanese gunner couldn’t adjust his aim fast enough.

Stein’s rounds found the firing slit, and the enemy gun went silent.

He charged the final 20 yards and dropped a grenade through the opening.

The explosion killed the three-man crew inside.

Stein turned back to reload, but the ammunition box was empty again.

He had been in combat for 46 minutes and had already gone through 300 rounds.

The Stinger was proving its worth, but the logistical problem was becoming clear.

This weapon could suppress and destroy enemy positions faster than any standard machine gun, but it would require constant resupply.

He started his second run to the beach.

This time, he found two wounded Marines on the way down—one with a sucking chest wound and the other who had lost part of his right hand to shrapnel.

Stein couldn’t carry both, so he took the chest wound case first, ran him to the corpsman, grabbed more ammunition, and made a third trip specifically to retrieve the second wounded man.

By 10:30, Stein had made four trips to the beach and back.

Each time, he had carried a wounded Marine to safety and returned with ammunition.

His platoon had advanced 200 yards inland and had destroyed seven enemy positions.

Stein had personally killed at least 15 Japanese soldiers.

But the Stinger was suffering.

The barrel was discolored from heat, the solenoid trigger was starting to stick, and Stein’s boots were disintegrating from the volcanic ash and constant running.

He looked down at his feet; the soles were nearly gone, and the leather was cracked and torn.

Running in them was becoming painful, sending sharp pains through his arches.

Stein made a decision.

He unlaced his boots and kicked them off, barefoot in the volcanic ash.

The decision seemed insane, but Stein understood the mathematics.

Every second counted.

His boots were adding friction and slowing him down.

The ash was abrasive, but not unbearably hot in the shaded areas.

He could run faster without them.

He also removed his helmet; the M1 steel pot weighed 2.5 pounds.

Not much, but combined with the boots, he was shedding nearly 5 pounds of equipment—5 pounds that would let him move faster between the beach and his platoon.

His fifth run to the beach took 2 minutes and 40 seconds.

Barefoot, he could actually gain traction in the loose volcanic sand.

His feet sank into the ash, but without the rigid boot soles, he could feel the terrain and adjust his stride.

It was painful; the ash was coarse, like running on broken glass, but it was faster.

He grabbed another wounded Marine on the way down, this one with shrapnel to the abdomen.

The man was unconscious.

Stein carried him over his shoulder, delivered him to the corpsman, loaded up on ammunition, and ran back to Company A’s position.

By 1100 hours, Stein had made six trips to the beach.

He had carried six wounded Marines to safety, brought back 600 rounds of ammunition, and personally destroyed five more enemy positions.

His platoon had advanced 300 yards from the beach, approaching the first airfield.

Japanese resistance was intensifying.

The enemy had constructed a defensive network of pillboxes, spider holes, and underground bunkers connected by tunnels.

When one position was destroyed, soldiers would emerge from another location and resume firing.

The Stinger was the only weapon in Company A that could deliver enough volume of fire to keep multiple positions suppressed simultaneously.

When Stein opened up on one pillbox, the sheer sound of 1,200 rounds per minute was enough to make adjacent positions hesitate.

That hesitation gave riflemen time to advance and throw grenades.

But the weapon was taking damage.

The barrel was now visibly glowing after sustained fire.

The thin aircraft-grade steel wasn’t designed for prolonged ground combat; it was built to be cooled by 300 mph slipstreams during dive-bombing runs.

On the ground, there was no airflow—just heat.

The solenoid trigger mechanism was also degrading.

Stein had fabricated it from sheet metal in Hawaii, and while it worked, it wasn’t as reliable as a factory-built trigger group.

Sometimes it would stick; sometimes it would fire one round when he wanted a burst.

He had to tap it with his palm to reset it.

Despite the mechanical issues, the Stinger remained effective.

At 11:20, Stein’s platoon encountered a reinforced Japanese position that had stopped the advance of two other companies.

It was a concrete bunker with three firing slits positioned to cover the approach to airfield number one, with multiple Type 96 light machine guns inside and interlocking fields of fire.

Two tank destroyers had tried to knock it out but were hit by concealed 47mm anti-tank guns and withdrew.

An airstrike was called in, but the bombs missed by 50 yards, and the bunker remained operational.

Stein studied the position.

The firing slits were narrow—maybe 8 inches wide and 4 inches tall—making them difficult targets, but the Stinger’s rate of fire meant that if he aimed at a slit and held the trigger, statistically, some rounds would get through.

He advanced alone.

At 50 yards from the bunker, he went prone and opened fire.

The Stinger emptied its 100-round box in 7 seconds.

At that range, at least 30 rounds went through the firing slits, and the Japanese guns inside went silent.

Stein reloaded and charged the bunker, dropping grenades through the slits.

The explosions killed the five-man crew inside, and Company A’s advance resumed.

His seventh trip to the beach came at 11:50.

This time, he carried a Marine who had lost both legs below the knee to a mine.

The man was still conscious, screaming.

Stein ran the entire 200 yards while the Marine bled into his uniform.

The corpsman said later that if Stein had been 30 seconds slower, the Marine would have died from blood loss.

On the return trip, Stein encountered something unexpected: another Marine carrying a Stinger.

It was one of Grevich’s other gunners from Company G.

The man’s weapon had jammed permanently after overheating, and the barrel had warped.

He was carrying it back to the beach to see if an armorer could fix it.

Stein looked at his own Stinger.

The barrel was discolored purple from heat, the wooden furniture on the stock was starting to char, and the bipod was loose, but it still fired.

He made his eighth trip to the beach at 12:30, grabbing another wounded Marine and loading up on ammunition.

By now, other Marines had started to notice the barefoot corporal making repeated runs under fire.

Some thought he was crazy; others thought he was the bravest man on Iwo Jima.

Stein didn’t think about bravery; he thought about mathematics.

His platoon needed ammunition, and wounded men needed evacuation.

He was faster without boots.

The Stinger gave him the firepower to suppress positions while he moved.

Everything else was just execution.

But on his eighth return trip, something changed.

A Japanese sniper had moved into position overlooking the supply route.

As Stein ran back toward Company A with four ammunition boxes, a round snapped past his head—close, maybe six inches away.

He dropped flat in the volcanic ash.

For the first time that day, Tony Stein was pinned down.

The sniper was good.

Stein couldn’t see the position, but the angle of the shot told him it was somewhere on the ridgeline, 200 yards east—probably in a spider hole or behind volcanic rock.

The Japanese had trained their snipers well—patient, disciplined, willing to wait hours for a single high-value target, and a Marine making repeated trips across open ground was definitely high value.

Stein lay motionless for 30 seconds, controlling his breathing.

The sniper would be watching for movement—any movement.

The volcanic ash around Stein’s position showed no cover, just flat open terrain between the beach and the forward positions.

Another round cracked overhead.

The sniper was firing at where Stein had been, not where he was.

That meant the shooter hadn’t acquired his exact location yet.

Stein had maybe 10 seconds before the sniper adjusted.

He rolled left, grabbed the Stinger, and came up running—not toward his platoon, but toward the sniper.

The mathematics were simple.

Running perpendicular to the sniper’s line of sight would make him a harder target than running away.

And if he could close the distance, the Stinger’s rate of fire would overwhelm a bolt-action rifle.

Three more shots rang out, all misses.

Stein was sprinting now, barefoot through the volcanic ash, the Stinger in his hands, and ammunition boxes bouncing in his pack.

At 150 yards, he saw movement—a figure in a spider hole partially concealed by volcanic rock.

Stein dropped to one knee and opened fire.

The Stinger roared to life, and 1,200 rounds per minute shredded the rock and surrounding terrain.

The sniper’s position disintegrated.

When the ammunition box ran empty, there was no return fire.

Stein reloaded and approached the position carefully.

The sniper was dead, and the Type 97 rifle lay beside him.

Stein took the rifle’s telescopic sight and continued toward Company A.

When he reached his platoon at 1300 hours, the situation had deteriorated.

Company A had been pinned down by a complex of fortifications that included at least eight pillboxes arranged in a semicircle, interlocking fields of fire.

Any Marine who stood up was immediately engaged by multiple positions.

The company had taken 12 casualties in the past 20 minutes trying to advance.

The company commander had called for tank support, but the M4 Shermans were still bogged down near the beach.

The volcanic ash was too soft; the tanks kept throwing tracks or getting stuck.

Artillery support was limited because forward observers couldn’t get clear lines of sight to the enemy positions.

Stein moved to the forwardmost position and assessed the situation.

The eight pillboxes formed an arc about 100 yards ahead.

Japanese soldiers were also moving through trenches connecting the positions.

It wasn’t just static defense; it was a coordinated system.

The Stinger’s advantage was volume of fire.

Stein calculated that if he could suppress multiple positions simultaneously, riflemen could advance under that suppression, but it would require exposing himself again.

He stood up and opened fire on the leftmost pillbox, delivering a five-second burst of 100 rounds.

The position went silent.

He shifted aim to the next pillbox and fired another burst.

Silence.

He methodically worked his way across the arc, suppressing each position in sequence.

Japanese soldiers in the trenches began firing at him with Type 99 rifles and Type 96 light machine guns.

Rounds kicked up ash around his feet, and one bullet struck the Stinger’s barrel with a metallic clang.

The weapon kept firing.

Stein emptied his ammunition box and dropped flat to reload.

While he reloaded, riflemen from Company A advanced 50 yards.

When Stein stood up and resumed firing, they advanced another 50 yards.

The coordination was instinctive; no orders were needed.

The Marines understood that when the Stinger was firing, they could move.

By 13:30, Company A had broken through the defensive arc.

Five of the eight pillboxes were destroyed, and the other three were abandoned.

Seventeen Japanese soldiers were confirmed dead.

Company A had lost three more Marines, but the advance continued.

Stein’s Stinger was now critically damaged.

The barrel was bent slightly from the bullet strike, the bipod had broken off completely, and the Garand stock was charred black.

Despite this, it still fired.

At 13:45, during the assault on the sixth pillbox, something happened that Stein had trained for but hoped would never occur.

He was firing a sustained burst when a Japanese Type 96 machine gun scored a direct hit on the Stinger.

The impact was violent; the weapon was ripped from Stein’s hands and thrown six feet backward into the volcanic ash.

Stein dove for cover behind a low ridge of rock.

He was now unarmed.

The Stinger lay in open ground between his position and the active enemy pillbox.

Japanese soldiers had seen it fall; they knew he was disarmed and were waiting for him to try to retrieve it.

Stein looked at the weapon lying in the ash.

The barrel was smoking, and he could see that the belt feed mechanism was damaged.

Even if he retrieved it, the Stinger might not fire.

But he had carried that weapon through eight trips to the beach.

He had used it to destroy more than 15 enemy positions, and it had kept his platoon alive.

Stein prepared to run into the open and retrieve it.

He sprinted into the open, and the Japanese machine gun opened fire immediately.

Rounds snapped past his head and torso.

Stein ran in a zigzag pattern, making himself a harder target.

He had three seconds to reach the Stinger.

He grabbed it, rolled behind another ridge, and checked the weapon.

The belt feed was jammed; a round had struck the feed mechanism and bent the guide rails.

Stein pulled out the damaged belt, cleared the jam with his fingers, and loaded a fresh ammunition box.

The weapon fed correctly.

He test-fired a three-round burst.

It worked.

He stood up and emptied the entire box into the pillbox that had shot the Stinger from his hands.

100 rounds in seven seconds.

The position was obliterated, and the Type 96 that had nearly killed him fell silent permanently.

Stein reloaded and continued the assault.

By 1400 hours, Company A had advanced 400 yards from the beach.

They had destroyed 23 enemy positions, and Stein had personally accounted for at least 12 of them.

His barefoot runs to the beach had saved nine wounded Marines.

And the Stinger, despite being shot, overheated, and mechanically abused, was still firing.

But the weapon’s condition was critical.

The barrel was now visibly bent, the rate of fire had decreased to about 900 rounds per minute, and the solenoid trigger was firing in bursts of three to five rounds, even when Stein wanted continuous fire.

He had to manually cycle the action between bursts.

At 14:30, during an assault on a fortified trench system, the Stinger was hit again.

This time, a Type 99 rifle round struck the receiver, knocking the weapon from Stein’s hands for the second time.

It landed 10 feet away in a shell crater, leaving Stein completely exposed—no cover, no weapon.

Japanese soldiers in the trench were firing at him with rifles and grenades.

He could see at least six enemy combatants.

He ran for the Stinger.

A grenade exploded five yards behind him, throwing volcanic ash and shrapnel.

Fragments hit his left leg and back—small wounds, painful but not incapacitating.

He grabbed the Stinger and dove into the crater.

The receiver had a deep gouge where the bullet had struck.

Stein cycled the action manually; it was stiff but functional.

He loaded a fresh belt, aimed at the trench, and fired.

The Stinger worked, albeit barely.

The rate of fire was down to about 600 rounds per minute—half its original capability.

But 600 rounds per minute was still faster than anything else on the battlefield.

Stein suppressed the trench while riflemen advanced with grenades.

The position was cleared, and six Japanese soldiers lay dead.

Company A’s advance continued.

By 1500 hours, Stein had made his eighth trip to the beach and back.

He had fired over 2,000 rounds, carried wounded Marines on every single return trip, and his feet were bloody from running barefoot through volcanic ash.

His uniform was soaked with sweat and the blood of the wounded men he had carried.

The Stinger was barely functional; its barrel was bent at a five-degree angle, the stock was held together by friction and hope, and the solenoid trigger fired randomly.

Sometimes it fired one round, sometimes five, sometimes nothing at all.

Stein had to manually cycle the action between bursts.

But Company A had reached its objective.

They were at the base of Mount Suribachi, the volcanic peak that dominated the southern tip of the island, rising 550 feet above sea level.

Japanese observers on the summit could see every American position on the beach, and artillery spotters directed fire from the heights.

The mountain had to be taken.

At 1700 hours, Stein’s platoon was ordered to establish a defensive perimeter and hold their position overnight.

The assault on Suribachi would begin the next morning.

For now, Company A needed to consolidate, resupply, and prepare for counterattacks.

Stein finally had time to assess his own condition.

His feet were torn and bleeding, volcanic ash had worked its way into every cut, turning them into infected wounds.

He had shrapnel fragments in his left calf and lower back—minor wounds, but they would need treatment.

His hands were blistered from carrying the hot Stinger, and he was exhausted.

He had been in continuous combat for eight hours, running approximately three miles total across those eight trips to the beach, carrying wounded men and ammunition while under fire—barefoot.

The Stinger lay beside him in the fighting hole.

The weapon was destroyed; the barrel would need replacement, the receiver was damaged, and the stock was burned.

The trigger mechanism was unreliable, but it had done its job.

It had kept Company A moving forward when conventional weapons would have left them pinned on the beach.

Other Marines started calling him the “barefoot corporal.”

Some thought he was insane; others called him the bravest man they had ever seen.

Stein didn’t care about either assessment; he had done what needed to be done.

The mathematics had been simple: his platoon needed fire support, and the Stinger provided it.

Everything else was irrelevant.

That night, as Stein tried to sleep in his fighting hole, Japanese infiltrators began probing Company A’s perimeter.

Small groups of two or three soldiers were testing the defenses, looking for weak points.

Stein grabbed the Stinger.

Despite its damage, it still had one advantage: volume of fire.

When a Japanese soldier appeared 30 yards from his position, Stein fired a burst.

The weapon worked.

The infiltrator died by dawn on February 20th.

Stein had been awake for 22 consecutive hours.

The assault on Mount Suribachi began at 0800 hours.

Company A, along with the rest of the 28th Marines, began the climb up the volcanic slopes.

The terrain was brutal—loose ash, no vegetation, and exposed ridges where Japanese observers could see every movement.

The enemy had fortified the mountain with over 60 pillboxes, bunkers, and cave positions.

Every approach was covered by interlocking fields of fire.

Japanese soldiers had spent months preparing these defenses, stockpiling ammunition, food, and water inside the mountain’s tunnel system.

They intended to make the Americans pay for every yard.

Stein carried the Stinger up the mountain.

An armorer had worked on it overnight, replacing the most damaged components.

The barrel was still bent, but a new belt feed mechanism had been installed, and the solenoid trigger was more reliable.

The weapon would fire, but it was no longer the devastating tool it had been.

On February 19th, at 09:30, Company A encountered a reinforced bunker complex halfway up the southern slope.

Four concrete bunkers connected by trenches housed multiple machine gun positions and mortar crews firing from concealed pits.

The 28th Marines’ advance stalled.

Stein moved forward with the Stinger, identifying the primary bunker and opening fire.

The damaged barrel meant the weapon’s accuracy had decreased, but at close range, volume of fire still mattered.

He suppressed the position long enough for demolition teams to move forward with satchel charges.

The bunker was destroyed, and Company A advanced another 50 yards.

At 10:15, Stein’s luck changed.

A Japanese grenade landed three feet from his position.

He saw it and tried to move, but the grenade detonated before he could get clear.

Shrapnel hit his right arm, right leg, and torso—multiple wounds, none immediately fatal, but he was bleeding heavily.

The corpsman reached him within minutes, bandaging his wounds and calling for evacuation.

Stein refused; his platoon was still engaged, and the Stinger was still needed.

He continued fighting.

For the next two hours, Stein provided fire support while bleeding through his bandages.

The Stinger continued to function despite the beating it had taken.

Every time a pillbox opened fire on advancing Marines, Stein suppressed it.

Every time Japanese soldiers appeared in trench systems, he cut them down with sustained bursts.

But by 12:30, Stein’s wounds had worsened.

He had lost significant blood and was becoming lightheaded; his vision was narrowing.

The corpsman told him he needed immediate evacuation or he would die on the mountain.

This time, Stein didn’t argue.

He handed the Stinger to another Marine in his squad and allowed the corpsman to carry him down the mountain to the beach.

From there, he was loaded onto a landing craft and transported to a hospital ship anchored offshore.

On February 21st, while Stein recovered on the hospital ship, the 28th Marines continued their assault on Mount Suribachi.

The fighting was savage.

Every cave had to be cleared with flamethrowers and explosives, and every trench had to be taken in close combat.

Japanese soldiers fought to the death rather than surrender.

On February 23rd, at 10:20 in the morning, a patrol from Company E reached the summit of Mount Suribachi and raised a small American flag.

Photographer Joe Rosenthal captured the moment, and later that afternoon, a larger flag was raised, which Rosenthal photographed as well.

The image became the most iconic photograph of the Pacific War.

Stein was not present for the flag raising; he was on the hospital ship receiving treatment for his wounds.

Doctors removed shrapnel from his arm, leg, and torso, treated him for blood loss and infection, and informed him he would be sent to a rear area hospital in Hawaii or possibly back to the United States.

His war was over.

But on February 25th, news reached the hospital ship that hit Stein harder than any grenade.

The Fifth Marine Division had moved north from Suribachi toward the center of the island and was assaulting a position designated Hill 362A.

The fighting was brutal, and the 28th Marines were taking catastrophic casualties.

Company A had lost 30% of its strength in just two days.

Stein’s platoon sergeant was dead, his squad leader was dead, and Marines he had trained with in Hawaii were dying on a nameless hill in the center of Iwo Jima.

On February 26th, against medical orders, Tony Stein left the hospital ship.

He climbed down into a landing craft returning to the beach and told the boat crew he had been cleared to return to duty.

He had not been cleared; he was AWOL from the hospital ship.

But nobody stopped him.

He reached the beach at 1400 hours, found a supply sergeant, and requisitioned new boots.

His feet were still bandaged, but he could walk.

He grabbed an M1 Garand rifle from a supply dump.

The Stinger was gone, either destroyed or being used by another Marine.

It didn’t matter; Stein was going back to his unit.

He walked north across Iwo Jima, six miles through volcanic ash and past destroyed Japanese positions, burned-out tanks, and scattered equipment.

He passed graves registration teams collecting American dead.

He reached Company A’s position at Hill 362A on February 27th.

The company had been reduced to 63 men from its original strength of 240.

The survivors were exhausted, having been fighting continuously for eight days.

They had no rest, no relief—just endless combat against an enemy that refused to surrender.

Stein reported to the company commander and was put back on the line immediately; Company A needed every rifle.

For the next two days, Stein fought in the brutal close-quarters combat around Hill 362A.

Without the Stinger, just an M1 Garand and grenades, the fighting was different—slower, more deliberate—but Stein was still effective.

On March 1st, 1945, Company A was tasked with a reconnaissance patrol to locate a complex of Japanese pillboxes that had been harassing the regiment’s advance.

The patrol consisted of 19 Marines, and Corporal Tony Stein was designated assistant patrol leader.

Their mission was to move forward approximately 400 yards, locate the enemy positions, and return with actionable intelligence—no assault, just reconnaissance.

At 0700 on March 1st, the patrol moved out from Company A’s lines.

The terrain was volcanic ridges and ravines, perfect for ambush.

Japanese soldiers had established concealed positions throughout the area—snipers, machine gun nests, mortar teams—all hidden in caves and spider holes.

The patrol moved slowly: 20 yards, stop, observe, listen; 20 more yards.

The Marines knew that Japanese defenders were watching them, and the question was when the enemy would open fire.

At 0745, the patrol reached a ridgeline overlooking a small valley.

Stein moved to the front to get a better view of the terrain ahead.

Through the volcanic rock formations, he could see what looked like camouflaged positions—possibly pillboxes or cave entrances.

The patrol needed to move closer to confirm.

Stein signaled for the patrol to advance.

He stepped forward, M1 Garand at the ready.

His feet, still bandaged from the barefoot runs eight days earlier, ached with every step.

The shrapnel wounds in his right arm and leg had not fully healed, but he moved forward because that was what needed to be done.

At 0752, a single shot rang out.

The bullet struck Tony Stein in the head, and he dropped instantly.

The shot had come from a concealed position approximately 200 yards northeast—either a spider hole or cave entrance.

The patrol couldn’t see the shooter.

The corpsman reached Stein within seconds, but there was nothing they could do; the wound was fatal.

Corporal Tony Stein died on the volcanic ash of Iwo Jima at 0753 on March 1st, 1945.

The patrol returned fire toward the suspected sniper position and called in mortar support.

The area was saturated with high explosives, but whether the sniper died in the bombardment was never confirmed; Japanese soldiers rarely left bodies where Americans could find them.

The patrol completed its mission, identifying the pillbox complex and returning to Company A with the intelligence, but they carried Tony Stein’s body back with them.

News of Stein’s death spread quickly through the 28th Marines.

The barefoot Corporal who had made eight trips to the beach on February 19th, who had refused evacuation after being wounded, and who had built a weapon from salvaged aircraft parts had made a significant impact.

On March 2nd, Stein was buried in the Fifth Division Cemetery on Iwo Jima.

A simple wooden cross marked his grave, listing his service number, rank, and unit.

No mention of the Stinger, and no mention of the Medal of Honor that would later bear his name.

The battle for Iwo Jima continued for another 24 days after Stein’s death, remaining brutal as the 28th Marines pushed north, clearing cave complexes and fortified positions.

American casualties mounted, with nearly 7,000 dead and 20,000 wounded.

Japanese casualties were worse; of the 21,000 defenders, fewer than 1,000 survived.

The rest died in their positions or committed suicide rather than surrender.

The tunnel systems beneath Iwo Jima became mass graves.

But on February 19th, during those first eight hours of combat, Tony Stein and his improvised weapon had made a difference.

His barefoot runs had saved nine wounded Marines who would have died on the beach.

His suppressive fire had allowed Company A to advance when other units were pinned down.

His mechanical ingenuity had given the Marine Corps a weapon that, for one day, changed the tactical equation.

The five other Stingers built by Mel Grevich and John Little also saw combat on Iwo Jima.

Two were destroyed by enemy fire, one jammed permanently from overheating, and the other two survived the battle but were lost in the chaos of equipment disposal after the war.

None of the original six Stingers exist today; they were field modifications, non-standard equipment that the military typically destroys rather than preserves.

But the legend of the Stinger lived on in Marine Corps history.

Armorers and mechanics heard the story of the toolmaker from Ohio who salvaged aircraft machine guns and turned them into infantry weapons.

The Marine who ran barefoot through volcanic ash to save his brothers and who refused evacuation when wounded.

In May 1945, Lieutenant Colonel Chandler Johnson submitted a recommendation for Tony Stein to receive the Medal of Honor.

The recommendation detailed Stein’s actions on February 19th, including the eight trips to the beach, the wounded Marines evacuated, the enemy positions destroyed, and his refusal to seek medical treatment despite his wounds.

The recommendation was endorsed by every officer in the chain of command—regiment, division, fleet marine force, and Pacific Command.

Everyone who reviewed the after-action reports agreed: Corporal Tony Stein had demonstrated conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty.

On February 19th, 1946—exactly one year after Stein’s actions on Iwo Jima—his widow, Joan, received his Medal of Honor in a ceremony at the Ohio State House.

Ohio Governor Frank Lausche presented the medal.

Joan Stein stood in his office, overwhelmed by the weight of the decoration and the memories it represented.

Tony’s mother, Rose, attended the ceremony, tears streaming down her face.

Her son, the child of Jewish immigrants who had dropped out of high school to work as a toolmaker, had received the nation’s highest military honor.

The Medal of Honor citation read in part, “The first man of his unit to be on station after hitting the beach in the initial assault, Corporal Stein, armed with a personally improvised aircraft-type weapon, provided rapid covering fire as the remainder of his platoon attempted to move into position.

When his comrades were stalled by a concentrated machine gun and mortar barrage, he gallantly stood upright and exposed himself to the enemy’s view, thereby drawing the hostile fire to his own person and enabling him to observe the location of the furiously blazing hostile guns.

Determined to neutralize the strategically placed weapons, he boldly charged the enemy pillboxes one by one and succeeded in killing 20 of the enemy during the furious single-handed assault.”

The citation continued for three more paragraphs detailing each of his eight trips to the beach, the wounded Marines he evacuated, and his refusal to seek medical treatment despite his wounds.

It mentioned the personally improvised aircraft-type weapon but did not use the name Stinger; that name existed only in Marine Corps oral history.

Tony Stein’s remains stayed on Iwo Jima until 1948.

In December of that year, his body was returned to Dayton for burial with full military honors.

The ceremony at Our Lady of the Rosary Church drew hundreds of mourners—veterans, family, and civilians who had never met him but understood what he represented.

He was buried in Calvary Cemetery in Dayton, the only Medal of Honor recipient from that city in World War II.

His grave marker lists his rank, his unit, and the decoration he earned.

Visitors still leave coins and small American flags at the site.

In 1972, the United States Navy commissioned USS Stein, a Knox-class frigate, in his honor.

The ship served for 21 years, participating in operations in the Pacific and Indian Oceans.

It was decommissioned in 1993 and eventually scrapped, but the name Tony Stein lived on in naval records.

The Marine Corps preserved his story in training materials and historical accounts at Parris Island, the recruit depot where new Marines begin their service.

Instructors teach about improvisation and adaptation in combat, and Tony Stein’s story is part of that curriculum.

The toolmaker who built a weapon from salvaged aircraft parts, the Marine who ran barefoot through volcanic ash to save his brothers, became a legend.

The Stinger itself became a symbol in military firearms history.

Ian McCullum of Forgotten Weapons documented the weapon’s design and history, while the Canadian Historical Arms Museum built a functional replica for educational purposes.

That replica demonstrated what Stein and Grevich had accomplished with basic tools and mechanical knowledge.

They had taken an aircraft machine gun designed for 300 mph airstreams and adapted it for ground combat.

They had solved the Marine Corps’s firepower problem with salvaged parts and ingenuity.

Military historians debate whether the Stinger was tactically significant, noting that six weapons across one regiment had a limited impact on the overall battle.

But those six weapons made a difference to the Marines who fought alongside them.

The suppressive fire allowed advances that would otherwise have stalled, and the psychological impact of 1,200 rounds per minute kept enemy heads down at critical moments.

What is not debatable is Tony Stein’s courage.

Eight trips under fire, nine wounded Marines evacuated, barefoot runs through volcanic ash, refusing evacuation when wounded, returning from a hospital ship to rejoin his unit, leading a patrol that cost him his life.

The barefoot corporal from Dayton represents something fundamental about the Marine Corps ethos: improvise, adapt, overcome.

When standard equipment fails, build something better.

When wounded, keep fighting.

When ordered to rest, return to your unit.

When faced with impossible odds, charge forward.

Tony Stein was 23 years old when he died.

He had been a Marine for 2 years and 5 months, fought on two islands, killed more enemy soldiers than official records could count, saved nine lives in a single day, and did it all with a weapon he helped build in a maintenance shed in Hawaii.