DURING June and July, 1945, I was expecting to visit Japan. We—that is, the 11th Airborne Division, then stationed just south of Manila—were working out the plans for our allotted part in the invasion of Japan, which was scheduled for the end of that year. We were supposed to drop into landing zones behind the southern coast and hold out there until our seaborne friends arrived to back us up and move us forward. The prospect was not very amusing, in the light of Normandy, not to mention Nijmagen.
Besides, the Japanese armed forces had provided us with an object lesson on this score. On the interesting date of December 7, 1944, during the sleepiest part of a sunny afternoon, a company or two of Japanese paratroops dropped into Leyte, right on our heads. It was a big surprise: we hadn’t even known that any such troops or the transport planes to carry them were in the Philippines. Their objective was to seize the airfield next to which we were lodged and, after reinforcement by Japanese infantry, to drive us out of Leyte. But their infantry never broke through, and after a hectic night and day the paratroops were mopped up. A discomforting omen, we felt.




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