When Japanese Cut Off This American’s Ear — He Killed All 41 of Them in 36 Minutes !!!
At 4:47 on the morning of May 11th, 1945, Private John McKini lay in his tent near Dingolan Bay, Luzon, unaware that approximately 100 Japanese soldiers were creeping through the jungle toward his position.
24 years old, 2 and 1/2 years in the army, a sharecropper son from Georgia with a third grade education.
By May 1945, the Philippine campaign had already cost the United States over 60,000 casualties.
Japanese forces on Luzon refused to surrender.
They launched night attacks, dawn raids, suicide charges against American perimeters.
Company A of the 123rd Infantry Regiment, 33rd Infantry Division, had established an outpost near Dingolan Bay in Tayabas Province.
The position guarded a crucial supply route.
Three Americans manned a light machine gun on the perimeter.
McKini had just finished a long shift at that gun.
He walked a few paces to his tent, laid down with his M1 rifle beside him.
The jungle was quiet.
The Japanese knew this outpost existed.
They had been watching it for days, counting the Americans, timing the guard rotations, planning their assault.
The attack force moved through the darkness.
Over 100 soldiers from remnants of Japanese units still fighting on Luzon.
They carried rifles, grenades, knee mortars, and swords.
Their objective was simple.
Overrun the American position.
Kill everyone.
Capture the supplies.
The vanguard slipped past the outer guard post undetected.
Sergeant Fukutaro Mori led the advance element.
His orders were to eliminate the first Americans silently.
No gunfire, swords and bayonets only.
By the time the main force attacked, the perimeter would already be compromised.
Murray reached Mckin’s tent.
He could hear the American breathing inside.
One quick strike would end this man’s life before he could raise an alarm.
McKini had grown up hunting in the Georgia woods.
His father was a sharecropper in Scran County.
The family had nothing.
Jon learned to shoot before he learned to read.
By the time he was 12, he could hit a squirrel at 50 yards with a 22 rifle.
He trapped rabbits, shot deer.
Fishing and hunting put food on the family table when the crops failed.
He enlisted at Fort McFersonson in November 1942.
The army discovered he could barely read or write.
They also discovered he was one of the best marksmen they had ever seen.
His qualification scores were exceptional.
Drill sergeants noticed he moved through the woods differently than other soldiers.
Quieter, more aware.
He had spent his entire life in environments where a single mistake meant going hungry.
The 33rd Infantry Division shipped to the Pacific in 1943.
McKini fought through New Guinea, survived the jungle, survived the Japanese, survived malaria and dysentery and everything else the Pacific theater threw at American soldiers.
By May 1945, he was a veteran, quiet, kept to himself, did his duty, never complained.
His fellow soldiers knew two things about John McKini.
He was the best shot in the company, and he slept with his rifle.
That rifle was about to save his life.
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Back to McKini.
Sergeant my threw open the tent flap at 451.
The sword came down in a diagonal slash aimed at McKinn’s neck.
In the darkness, my misjudged the distance.
The blade caught McKini on the side of the head instead.
It severed part of his right ear.
Blood sprayed across the tent canvas.
McKinn’s eyes opened to searing pain and the silhouette of a man standing over him with a raised sword.
He had less than 1 second to react.
My was already bringing the blade down for a second strike.
This one would not miss.
McKinn’s hand found his rifle in the darkness.
He did not aim.
He did not think.
24 years of survival instinct took over.
He swung the M1 like a club.
The rifle butt caught Mory under the chin with enough force to shatter bone.
The Japanese sergeant staggered.
McKini swung again.
The second blow crushed Mory’s skull.
Outside the tent, McKini could hear them.
Footsteps.
Dozens of footsteps moving fast through the camp.
The main assault had begun.
He was bleeding badly from his ear.
His head was ringing from the sword strike.
And somewhere in the darkness, nearly 100 Japanese soldiers were coming to kill everyone he knew.
McKini grabbed his rifle and stepped out of the tent.
What he saw made his blood run cold.
The machine gun position was 30 yards from his tent.
Three Americans had been manning it when he went to rest.
Now he could see muzzle flashes in the darkness, screaming, the distinctive crack of Arisaka rifles mixing with the heavier reports of M1 Garands.
Japanese soldiers were pouring through the perimeter from the northeast.
They moved in waves.
The first wave had already reached the machine gun imp placement.
McKini could see figures struggling in the darkness around the gunpit.
His mind processed the tactical situation in seconds.
The machine gun was the key to the entire position.
It covered the main approach to the American camp.
If the Japanese captured it and turned it around, they could rake the entire perimeter with fire.
Every American in Company A would die.
McKini ran toward the gun.
The two soldiers who had replaced him at the machine gun were fighting for their lives.
Private James Hrix had taken a bayonet wound to the shoulder in the first seconds of the attack.
The third man, seeing Hendrickx go down, made a decision.
He grabbed his wounded comrade and dragged him toward the rear of the perimeter.
It was the right call.
Hendrickx would have bled out if left behind.
But it meant the machine gun was now undefended.
10 Japanese infantry men reached the imp placement before McKini could get there.
They swarmed over the sandbag wall.
One of them immediately began trying to turn the gun around.
The others provided security, rifles pointed outward, watching for any American counterattack.
McKini did not slow down.
He did not take cover.
He did not wait for backup.
He sprinted directly at 10 enemy soldiers who had just captured the most important weapon in the entire outpost.
The Japanese saw him coming.
A single American bleeding from a head wound, charging straight at them in the pre-dawn darkness.
Two of them raised their rifles.
McKini was faster.
He shot the first man at 15 yards.
The M1’s report echoed across the camp.
He shot the second man at 10 yard.
By the time he reached the sandbag wall, he had fired four rounds.
Four Japanese soldiers were down.
He leaped into the imp placement.
The space inside was roughly 8 ft by 6 ft.
Six enemy soldiers were still alive in that confined area.
Some were trying to swing their rifles around.
Others reached for bayonets.
One was still fumbling with the machine guns traversing mechanism.
McKini landed among them and kept firing.
point blank range.
The M1 Garand held eight rounds in its internal magazine.
He had already fired four.
He put the next three rounds into three more Japanese soldiers at distances measured in inches rather than yards.
One round left.
The eighth man was directly in front of him.
Bayonet raised for a thrust at McKin’s chest.
McKini fired his last round.
The soldier dropped.
The M1 Garand’s bolt locked back on an empty magazine with its distinctive metallic ping.
Three Japanese soldiers were still alive in the gunpit.
They had heard that sound.
They knew what it meant.
McKini reversed his grip on the rifle before the empty clip had finished ejecting.
He swung the weapon like an axe.
The walnut stock connected with the first soldier’s temple.
The man collapsed.
McKini swung again.
The second soldier tried to block with his forearm.
The rifle butt shattered bone and continued into his skull.
The third soldier lunged with a bayonet.
McKini sidestepped and brought the rifle down on the back of the man’s neck.
The vertebrae cracked audibly.
10 Japanese soldiers had captured the machine gun.
30 seconds later, all 10 were dead.
McKini grabbed for the machine gun.
His hands found the receiver.
Something was wrong.
During the struggle, the weapon had been damaged.
The bolt was jammed.
The feed tray was bent.
He cycled the charging handle twice.
Nothing.
The gun would not fire.
The most important weapon in the perimeter was now useless.
McKini looked up from the broken machine gun.
Dawn was starting to lighten the eastern horizon, and in that gray light, he could see them.
More Japanese soldiers.
Many more.
They were regrouping at the edge of the jungle, preparing for the next wave.
He had an M1 rifle with an empty magazine.
He had just killed 10 men in hand-to-hand combat.
His ear was still bleeding, and the main assault had not even started yet.
McKini reached down and pulled a bandelier of ammunition from one of the dead Japanese soldiers.
American 30 caliber rounds.
The man had probably taken them from a previous engagement.
McKenna loaded a fresh clip into his rifle.
Somewhere in the darkness, a Japanese officer was shouting orders.
McKenna could not understand the words, but he understood the tone.
They were coming again.
He settled into the gunpit among the bodies of the men he had just killed, rested his rifle on the sandbag wall, and waited.
The second wave emerged from the jungle 60 yard away.
McKenna counted at least 20 soldiers in the first line, more behind them.
They came at a run, rifles with fixed bayonets extended, screaming as they charged.
McKenna put his front sight on the lead soldier and squeeze the trigger.
The M1 Garand was designed for rapid semi-automatic fire.
A trained soldier could put eight aimed rounds down range in under 10 seconds.
McKenna was not a trained soldier.
He was a hunter from Georgia who had been shooting since childhood.
He was faster.
The first Japanese soldier dropped at 60 yards.
McKenna shifted his aim.
The second man fell, then the third.
The M1 kicked against his shoulder with each shot.
Brass casings ejected to his right.
He did not think about what he was doing.
His body remembered thousands of hours in the Georgia woods.
Lead the target.
Squeeze the trigger.
Acquire the next target.
Repeat.
The clip ejected with a ping.
McKini slammed in a fresh one from the bandelier.
The charging wave had covered 20 yards during his reload.
40 yards now.
He started firing again.
The Japanese soldiers in the second wave had expected to find a captured machine gun position.
They had expected their comrades to be turning that gun on the sleeping Americans.
Instead, they found one man with a rifle cutting them down with mechanical precision.
Eight rounds.
Reload.
Eight rounds.
Reload.
Some of the attackers made it to within 15 yards of the gunpit before McKenna dropped them.
Others tried to veer left or right, seeking cover.
He tracked them and fired.
A soldier who moved was easier to hit than a soldier who stood still.
McKenna had learned that hunting deer.
The second wave broke.
The survivors scattered back toward the jungle.
McKini counted the bodies in front of his position.
11 more, 21 total since the attack began.
He did not have time to feel relief.
Japanese officers were already reorganizing.
He could hear them shouting beyond the treeine.
And now he heard something else.
A hollow thump from somewhere in the jungle.
Then another knee mortars.
The first round exploded 10 yards to his left.
Dirt and shrapnel sprayed across the gunpit.
McKenna flattened himself against the sandbags.
The second round hit closer.
The third landed directly on the parapet, showering him with debris.
The Japanese had learned from the first two waves they were not going to charge blindly into his rifle fire again.
They would soften the position with mortars first, kill him, or force him to keep his head down, then send in the infantry.
McKini understood the tactical problem immediately.
If he stayed in the gunpit, the mortars would eventually find him.
The Japanese gunners were adjusting their aim with each shot, getting closer.
But if he moved, he would lose the only fortified position in this section of the perimeter.
A grenade landed 3 ft away from him.
McKini grabbed it and threw it back over the sandbags.
It exploded in midair.
The blast wave knocked him sideways.
His ears were ringing now.
Blood from his severed ear had soaked through the makeshift bandage he had pressed against the wound.
Another mortar round hit the sandbags directly.
The wall partially collapsed.
McKini was now half exposed to the jungle.
He made his decision.
Staying meant death.
He grabbed two bandeliers of ammunition from the dead soldiers around him, slung them over his shoulder, and ran.
The Japanese saw him moving.
Rifle fire cracked from the treeine.
Bullets snapped past his head.
McKini sprinted 15 yards to a shallow depression in the ground.
Not a proper foxhole, just a slight dip in the terrain.
He threw himself into it and rolled onto his back.
Rounds kicked up dirt inches from his face.
He crawled to the edge of the depression.
Found a firing position.
The Japanese infantry was moving again.
They thought he was running.
They thought he was retreating.
Two squads emerged from the jungle at a fast walk, rifles ready, moving toward the abandoned gunpit.
McKini let them get to 30 yards.
Then he opened fire.
The attackers had bunched together while crossing the open ground.
A mistake.
McKinn’s first shot dropped the point man.
His second hit the soldier directly behind.
The group scattered, but there was no cover between the jungle and McKinn’s new position.
He picked them off as they ran.
Eight rounds.
Reload.
The survivors reached the gunpit and found only bodies.
Their comrades from the first wave.
They had expected to find the American there.
Instead, they found him shooting at them from a completely different angle.
Three more fell before they could locate his muzzle flash.
McKenna changed position again.
He moved 10 yards to his right while the Japanese tried to reorganize.
Found another depression, started firing from the new location.
He was doing what he had done in the Georgia woods.
Never stay in one place.
Never let your target predict where the next shot will come from.
A deer that hears one gunshot will freeze.
A deer that hears two from different locations will run in circles.
The Japanese were running in circles.
Dawn light was spreading across the sky.
McKini had been fighting for 18 minutes.
His ammunition was running low.
His ear was still bleeding.
And he could see movement in the jungle that suggested the enemy was massing for another major push.
He needed more ammunition, and he knew exactly where to find it.
The dead Japanese soldiers around the gunpit carried ammunition.
Not just the 30 caliber rounds he had already scavenged.
Some of them had Arisaka rifles with full pouches.
Others had grenades clipped to their belts.
McKini needed to get back there.
He waited for a lull in the mortar fire, counted to three, then sprinted across the open ground toward the gunpit.
Rifle fire erupted from the treeine.
McKini ran in a zigzag pattern.
A bullet tugged at his sleeve.
Another cracked past his ear.
He dove the last 5 ft and landed among the bodies he had created 20 minutes earlier.
The smell hit him immediately.
Blood and cordite and something else.
The copper tang of death.
McKini ignored it.
He had butchered hogs on the farm, had gutted deer in the Georgia heat.
The smell of death was familiar.
He moved quickly through the bodies, grabbed every bandelier he could find, every loose clip.
He found four American ammunition pouches on men who had probably taken them as trophies.
64 more rounds.
He stuffed the clips into his pockets and belt.
A Japanese soldier appeared over the sandbag wall.
He must have crawled forward while Mckin was gathering ammunition.
The man’s rifle was already coming up.
McKini shot him through the chest at 2 feet.
He grabbed the dead man’s grenades, three of them.
Japanese type 97 fragmentation grenades.
He had never used one before, but he had seen them.
Knew how they worked.
Pull the pin.
Strike the cap against something hard.
Count to four.
Throw.
Movement in his peripheral vision.
More soldiers approaching from the left.
McKini armed a grenade.
counted and threw it over the sandbags.
The explosion was followed by screaming.
He armed the second grenade, threw it toward the treeine where muzzle flashes were concentrated.
More screaming.
He was out of the gunpit before the third grenade left his hand.
Running again, a new position.
Keep moving.
The sky was light enough now to see clearly.
McKini found a shell crater 15 yd from his previous depression.
dropped into it.
The crater was 3 ft deep, enough cover to protect him from direct fire.
He could see the entire approach from the jungle to the perimeter.
Bodies littered the ground between his position and the trees.
He counted quickly.
28, maybe 30.
Some were still moving.
Wounded men trying to crawl back toward their lines.
McKini let them go.
A wounded man required two healthy soldiers to carry him.
Every casualty he created multiplied the enemy’s problems.
The mortar fire had stopped.
McKini understood why.
The Japanese had lost visual contact with him.
Their mortar crews could not adjust fire on a target they could not see.
He had 15, maybe 20 minutes before they repositioned observers.
He used the time to reload every empty clip he carried.
His fingers worked automatically.
Press the rounds into the clip.
Feel for the spring tension.
eight rounds per clip.
He had scavenged enough ammunition for approximately 10 reloads.
80 rounds.
80 rounds against however many Japanese soldiers were still in that jungle.
The attack had lasted 23 minutes.
McKini had killed or wounded at least 30 enemy soldiers, but he knew the math was not in his favor.
The Japanese had started with roughly 100 men.
Even if half of them were down, that left 50, and he was still alone.
Where was the rest of company A?
The answer was complicated.
The Japanese attack had hit multiple points along the perimeter simultaneously.
McKin’s position was on the northeast flank.
Other soldiers were fighting their own battles on the south and west sides of the camp.
The company commander was trying to organize a coherent defense.
But in the darkness and chaos of a night attack, coordination was almost impossible.
McKini did not know any of this.
He knew only that no one had come to help him.
No reinforcements, no supporting fire, just him, his rifle, and the bodies piling up in front of his position.
The Japanese regrouped at the edge of the jungle.
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