February 23rd, 1945, 10:30 a.m. Airfield number 1. Ewima. The morning air hung thick with sulfur and smoke as Corporal Hershel Woodro Woody Williams volunteered for what most Marines considered a suicide mission. Standing just 5’6 in tall, this quiet farm boy from West Virginia was about to undertake one of the most extraordinary individual actions of the Pacific War.
In the next 4 hours, Williams would destroy multiple Japanese reinforced concrete pillboxes. Historical accounts vary between 3 and 7. using a 68-lb flamethrower. His actions would break a 3-day stalemate, allow the 21st Marines to advance 300 yd, and demonstrate how individual courage could alter the course of a major battle.
While the exact number of positions destroyed remains debated by historians, what is undisputed is that Williams’s assault fundamentally changed the battle for Ewima’s critical airfield. The Medal of Honor citation would later describe how Williams fought desperately for 4 hours and worked to wipe out one position after another, though it would not specify an exact count.
What matters is not the precise number, but the extraordinary courage of one marine who repeatedly approached deadly fortifications with a weapon that made him the primary target for every Japanese defender who could see him. Ioima represented the culmination of Japanese defensive engineering. Under Lieutenant General Tadamichi Kuribayashi’s direction, the island had been transformed into perhaps the most elaborate defensive position in military history.
Kuribayashi, who had served as a military atache in the United States in the 1920s and had traveled across America observing its industrial capacity, understood that Japan could not match American material superiority. His strategy relied on making the Americans pay the highest possible price for every yard of volcanic ash. The statistics of the Japanese defensive preparation remain staggering even today.
Over 8 months, 21,000 Japanese soldiers and Korean laborers excavated more than 11 m of tunnels, creating a subterranean network connecting approximately 5,000 cave positions and 300 separate fixed fortifications. The pillboxes facing Williams were not simple bunkers, but sophisticated defensive positions with reinforced concrete walls up to 4 ft thick, multiple chambers, interconnected tunnels, and ventilation systems specifically designed to counter flamethrower attacks.
The construction had been brutal. Workers endured temperatures between 86 and 122° F in the tunnels with sulfur fumes so intense that gas masks were required. 25% of the garrison, about 5,000 men, was dedicated solely to tunneling work. They had studied American tactics from previous island battles and believed they had created positions that could withstand any assault.
The M2-2 flamethrower that Williams would carry was a weapon born of desperate necessity. Weighing 68 lb when fully loaded with 4 gall of thickened gasoline, it could project flame up to 40 m, 132 ft maximum, though its effective range was about 20 m, 65 ft. The operator carried enough fuel for approximately 7 to 8 seconds of continuous fire.
Though experienced operators like Williams learned to use short bursts to conserve fuel and maintain tactical flexibility, the psychological impact of the flamethrower exceeded its physical capabilities. Death by flame represented a unique horror in warfare, one that challenged Japanese concepts of honorable death in battle.
The weapon had become essential for reducing Japanese fortifications in the Pacific, but it came with terrible costs for those who wielded it. Flamethrower operators had the shortest life expectancy of any specialty in the Pacific theater, as they were immediately identifiable and became priority targets for every enemy weapon that could bear on them.
Hershel Woodro Williams was born October 2nd, 1923 in Quiet Dell, West Virginia, a community so small it barely appeared on maps. The youngest of 11 children, he grew up on a 35 acre dairy farm during the depths of the Great Depression. His father died when Williams was 11, leaving his mother to raise the family through poverty that would shape Williams character with a resilience that would serve him on Euima.
Williams had tried to enlist immediately after Pearl Harbor, but was rejected for being too short. The minimum height requirement was 5’8 in, and Williams stood only 5’6 in. When the Marines lowered their standards in May 1943 due to mounting casualties, he finally got in. He would later joke that the Marines were looking for people small enough to make harder targets.
He joined the 21st Marines third marine division as a demolition specialist training with Bangalore torpedoes and satchel charges. It was only on Guam in July 1944 that he first used a flamethrower in combat discovering an aptitude for the weapon that would define his place in history. Unlike many Marines who used the flamethrower once and never wanted to touch it again, Williams developed a methodical approach to the weapon, understanding that survival depended on tactics as much as courage.
By the morning of February 23rd, 1945, the battle for Ewima had been raging for 4 days. That same morning, Marines had raised the flag on Mount Suribachi. first at 10:30 a.m., then the more famous second flag raising in the early afternoon that would be captured in Joe Rosenthal’s iconic photograph.
But the flag raising, while symbolically important, didn’t mean the battle was won. Of the approximately 21,000 Japanese defenders, more than 19,000 were still alive, waiting in their tunnels and bunkers. The 21st Marines had been trying to advance across the open ground near airfield number one for 3 days. Every attempt had been repulsed with devastating casualties.
The Japanese had pre-registered every square meter with mortars and machine guns. Artillery had no effect on the bunkers. Naval gunfire just bounced off. Six Sherman tanks had been destroyed trying to advance. The Japanese had anti-tank guns in concealed positions that would let the tanks pass, then hit them from behind.
The morning of February 23rd found the Marines at a deadly impass. They had lost approximately 40% of their strength in 72 hours and hadn’t advanced 50 yards. The pill boxes controlling the airfield approach had to be eliminated, but conventional tactics had failed completely. At approximately 10:30 a.m., the same time the first flag was being raised on Mount Suribachi about 1,000 yards away, Lieutenant Vernon Waters called for volunteers to operate the flamethrower against the Japanese pillboxes.
The previous operator had been killed that morning, shot through the head while approaching a bunker. The tanks were still strapped to his back when they recovered his body. According to historical accounts, there was a pause before anyone stepped forward. Every Marine understood what was being asked. Flamethrower operators were essentially walking targets, carrying 68 lb of liquid fire on their backs, moving slowly across open ground while every Japanese rifle and machine gun focused on them. Williams volunteered.
In postwar interviews, Williams would explain his decision simply. Someone had to do it. We couldn’t stay there forever. Men were dying for nothing. At least if I tried, we might accomplish something. At 11:15 a.m., Williams made his first approach toward the Japanese positions. He was covered by four riflemen, Marines who understood their job was to protect Williams at all costs, and had supporting fire from two Sherman tanks.
But Williams would employ tactics that differed from standard flamethrower doctrine. Instead of the standard approach of advancing quickly under covering fire, discharging fuel in long bursts, then retreating, Williams moved with deliberate slowness. He crawled using shell holes and the smallest rises in terrain for cover.
When Japanese machine guns opened up, he didn’t retreat or rush forward. He waited sometimes for 10 or 15 minutes until the gunners assumed he had been driven back. Williams spent 45 minutes approaching the first pillbox, covering a distance of perhaps 60 yards. Marines watching from behind thought he had been killed several times, only to see him moving again.
When he finally reached effective range, approximately 35 yd from the bunker, he did something that would become his signature tactic. Instead of unleashing his flame in a single long burst that would empty his tanks, Williams fired a short jet, perhaps 1 second, at the bunker’s main aperture. The flame didn’t penetrate deeply, but it obscured the vision ports.
As the Japanese defenders shifted to alternate firing positions, Williams had already moved, circling to attack from a different angle. The first pillbox fell at 12:03 p.m., but Williams was just beginning. Instead of withdrawing to refuel, as doctrine dictated, he moved immediately to the second pillbox, using the smoke and confusion from the first as cover.
What made Williams’ assault extraordinary was not just his courage, but his tactical innovation. He had discovered something the Japanese hadn’t anticipated. Their elaborate tunnel systems designed to be their strength could become death traps when filled with smoke. The ventilation systems designed to expel flamethrower attacks couldn’t handle smoke in the tunnels themselves.
Williams developed a technique of using short bursts not just to conserve fuel, but to create maximum psychological impact. He would fire at one port, then quickly shift to another, creating the impression of multiple attackers. The smoke would fill the interconnected chambers, forcing defenders to choose between suffocating in the tunnels or fleeing into the open where marine riflemen waited.
His second major innovation was attacking from unexpected angles. Japanese pillboxes were designed to sweep ground level approaches with interlocking fields of fire. Williams discovered many couldn’t elevate their guns enough to cover their own tops. Despite the extreme danger of exposure, he would sometimes climb onto a pillbox to attack through ventilation ports the defenders thought were safe.
While Williams drew the most attention, the Marines protecting him fought their own desperate battle. The four riflemen assigned to cover him, whose specific names are not definitively recorded in historical documents, had to suppress multiple positions simultaneously, while Williams worked on a single pillbox. These marines developed an intuitive coordination with Williams.
When he moved left, they shifted right to cover his flank. When he went to ground, they increased their rate of fire to keep Japanese heads down. When he charged, they followed, turning his individual assault into a coordinated attack. The Sherman tanks provided crucial support, using their 75 mm guns to suppress Japanese positions that threatened Williams.
But the tanks themselves were vulnerable. Japanese anti-tank guns were still active, and the tank commanders knew that staying in one position too long meant death. Williams returned to American lines at 12:45 p.m. to refuel. His tanks were empty. His uniform was singed and torn, and he had minor shrapnel wounds from near misses.
By any reasonable standard, he had done enough. At least two major positions were destroyed, and the attack could now proceed. But Williams wasn’t finished. As the refueling team worked, he studied the Japanese positions through binoculars, planning his next approach. At 1:15 p.m., he started his second run. This time, there were no illusions about surprise.
The Japanese knew he was coming. Every position in the sector had been alerted. Machine guns were pre-sighted on likely approaches. Mortar teams had calculated ranges. Yet Williams advanced into this storm of fire using the techniques he developed in the first assault. He would advance to cover a destroyed vehicle, a shell hole, a knocked out Japanese gun position, and wait for fire to concentrate on his location.
Then, while the Japanese fired at where he was, he would already be moving to where he was going. Marines observed him dodging between bursts of machine gun fire, seeming to anticipate where the rounds would land. One of the most fortified positions Williams faced housed a Japanese command post with radio equipment.
Historical evidence suggests this position had been specifically reinforced and contained veteran troops. When Williams approached at approximately 300 p.m., Japanese sources indicate the defenders attempted a coordinated response. Multiple camouflaged positions opened up simultaneously in a coordinated crossfire.
Williams was caught in the open and according to marine witnesses was hit and spun around by a bullet impact. Observers thought he was finished, but the bullet had struck his ammunition pouch without penetrating. Williams regained his feet and continued his assault. What happened next entered Marine Corps legend.
With minimal fuel remaining, Williams approached the final positions using captured Japanese grenades along with his flamethrower. He would wave the flamethrower nozzle at one port, causing defenders to shift to counter a flame attack that wouldn’t come while throwing grenades into other openings. By 3:47 p.m., Williams had been in continuous combat for over 4 hours.
His final assault complete, he began his withdrawal under heavy fire. As he crossed back into American lines at 4:15 p.m., he collapsed from exhaustion. The immediate tactical impact was dramatic. The 21st Marines advanced 300 yds in the next 2 hours, gaining more ground than in the previous 3 days.
The airfield’s approach was finally open. But more importantly, Williams had demonstrated that the Japanese fortifications thought to be impregnable could be defeated by determined individuals using innovative tactics. The exact number of pill boxes Williams destroyed remains a subject of historical debate. Popular accounts site seven, but Williams Medal of Honor citation doesn’t specify a number, stating only that he worked to wipe out one position after another.
Military historian Brian Mark Riggs research suggests three, possibly four. Williams himself in later interviews admitted that much of that day is just absolutely blank due to the intensity of combat. What is undisputed is that his actions broke the stalemate and saved countless Marine lives.
Williams paid a price for his heroism that wouldn’t be fully understood for decades. The physical toll was immediate. He lost 20 lb in 4 hours. His core body temperature reached dangerous levels. His hands were burned from the hot flamethrower nozzle and his hearing was permanently damaged from explosions.
But the psychological toll was deeper. Williams never used a flamethrower again after Ewima. When asked why, he simply said, “I’d done enough burning for one lifetime.” In later interviews, he would reveal the lasting impact. People think courage means not being afraid. That’s wrong. I was terrified every second.
Every bunker I approached, I thought would be my last. The images stayed with him. In a 1985 interview, Williams admitted, “40 years later, I still smell it in my dreams. You don’t forget that. You learn to live with it, but you don’t forget.” On October 5th, 1945, President Harry Truman presented Williams with the Medal of Honor at the White House.
The citation read in part, “For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty as a demolition sergeant serving with the 21st Marines, Third Marine Division in action against enemy Japanese forces on Ewima, Volcano Islands, 23rd February, 1945. quick to volunteer his services when our tanks were maneuvering vainly to open a lane for the infantry through the network of reinforced concrete pill boxes, buried mines, and black volcanic sands.
Corporal Williams daringly went forward alone to attempt the reduction of devastating enemy machine gun fire from the unyielding positions. Covered only by four riflemen, he fought desperately for 4 hours under terrific enemy small arms fire. Through his outstanding valor, aggressive fighting spirit, and tenacious determination in the face of ruthless enemy resistance, Corporal Williams materially aided the advance of his company.
During the ceremony, Truman reportedly told Williams, “I’d rather have this medal than be president.” Williams replied, “Sir, I’ll trade you.” Military historians continue to debate the strategic significance of Williams action. The immediate tactical gains were clear. 300 yd of crucial terrain, multiple defensive positions eliminated, and a breakthrough that allowed the capture of the airfield by demonstrating that Japanese fortifications could be overcome by individual initiative and innovative tactics. Williams action
influenced Marine Corps doctrine for the remainder of the Pacific War. The psychological impact may have been even more significant. The Japanese defensive strategy on Ewima was predicated on the belief that their fortifications were impregnable, that each position could hold out for weeks. Williams shattered that assumption in 4 hours.
While we lack specific Japanese accounts of Williams assault, only 1,083 Japanese survived out of approximately 21,000 defenders, and those in the positions Williams attacked likely died. The general impact on Japanese morale when such fortifications fell quickly was documented as devastating. Williams innovations immediately influenced Marine Corps flamethrower doctrine.
Within 24 hours, new tactical guidelines were being disseminated based on his techniques. Short bursts to conserve fuel and maintain mobility. Exploitation of ventilation systems as entry points. Psychological warfare through unpredictable movement. immediate exploitation of suppressed positions, integration with riflemen as a coordinated team.
These tactics would be employed for the remainder of the Ewoima battle and in the subsequent invasion of Okinawa. The Marine Corps manual would be revised to incorporate Williams techniques, particularly the use of smoke as a weapon equal to flame and the importance of attacking fortifications from unexpected angles.
To understand Williams’s achievement, it’s essential to grasp the broader context of Ewima. The island, just 8 square miles of volcanic ash and rock, would cost 6,821 American lives and wound 19,217 more in 36 days of fighting. The Japanese defenders, following Kuribayashi’s orders, fought almost to the last man. Only 1,083 were captured.
most of those wounded and unconscious. The island’s value was its airfields. B-29 bombers flying from the Maranas to bomb Japan needed an emergency landing field and fighters based on Ewima could escort the bombers to their targets. Military historians estimate that capturing Ewima saved 24,761 American air crew lives.
B-29 crews who made emergency landings there rather than ditching in the Pacific. Williams’ action on February 23rd was one small part of this larger battle. But it came at a critical moment. The Marines had been stalled, casualties were mounting, and questions were being raised about whether the island could be taken at acceptable cost.
by breaking the stalemate at airfield number one. Williams helped maintain the momentum that would eventually secure the island. After the war, Williams returned to West Virginia, where he worked for the Veterans Administration for 33 years, specializing in helping veterans navigate the bureaucracy to get their benefits.
He married Ruby Meredith in 1946, and they raised two daughters. But like many combat veterans, he struggled with what would later be recognized as PTSD. Williams found purpose in veterans advocacy, establishing one of the first peer counseling programs for combat veterans in West Virginia. He understood that the mental wounds of war often lasted longer than the physical ones.
In testimony before Congress in 1975, Williams argued, “We train men to do terrible things in war, then expect them to forget when they come home. It doesn’t work that way.” He also dedicated himself to memorializing fallen Marines. The Woody Williams Foundation, established in his later years, has placed 108 Gold Star Families memorial monuments across America, honoring families who lost loved ones in military service.
While stories circulated about Williams meeting Japanese veterans in 1985, historical records show his first documented meeting with Japanese veterans occurred during the 70th anniversary reunion in March 2015. Williams had previously boycotted reunions in protest of the US government’s 1968 decision to return Ioima to Japan.
At the 2015 reunion, Williams met Suruji Akusa, the only Japanese survivor able to make that trip. The meeting documented in the PBS film Ewima: From Combat to Comrades showed two elderly warriors finding peace seven decades after trying to kill each other. They shook hands on the black sand where they had once been mortal enemies, a moment that embodied the possibility of reconciliation even after the most bitter conflict.
In his final decades, Williams became a powerful voice for realistic understanding of war. He visited hundreds of schools, speaking with characteristic honesty about his experience. War isn’t like the movies or video games. It’s not glorious or exciting. It’s doing terrible things because the alternative is worse.
I’m not proud of burning those bunkers. I’m proud that I helped my fellow Marines survive. There’s a difference. His message to young people considering military service was equally direct. If you serve, you might be asked to do things that will haunt you forever. That’s the real cost of military service. Not the physical danger, but the moral weight.
Make sure you’re prepared for that. Make sure the cause is worth carrying that weight for the rest of your life. Modern military historians view Williams’s action as a defining moment in the development of small unit tactics. The Naval War Colleg’s definitive study notes that Williams demonstrated how individual initiative when combined with tactical innovation could achieve strategic effects.
His assault influenced American military doctrine in five key areas. Small unit initiative empowering individual soldiers to innovate tactically. Psychological warfare understanding fear as a weapon equal to physical destruction. Integrated operations coordinating individual actions with supporting elements. Adaptive tactics.
Modifying doctrine in real time based on battlefield conditions. Moral courage. accepting the psychological burden of necessary violence. Williams innovations directly influenced the development of flame warfare technology. His demonstration that psychological effect didn’t require continuous flame led to new nozzle designs for better fuel conservation.
His use of smoke as a primary weapon influenced the development of smoke generating attachments. The integration of flamethrower operators with rifle teams became standard doctrine, replacing the previous concept of flamethrowers as independent specialty weapons. By the Korean War, American flamethrower doctrine had fully incorporated Williams’s innovations.
The M2A1 flamethrower, which replaced Williams’s M2-2, extended range to 50 yards and incorporated improvements directly suggested by Williams combat reports. The use of flamethrowers in warfare raises profound moral questions that Williams himself grappled with for the rest of his life. In a 1995 interview, he reflected on this complexity.
People want war to be clean, honorable, like in the movies. It’s not. It’s doing horrible things to stop even more horrible things. Every man in those bunkers was somebody’s son, maybe a husband, a father. They were soldiers doing their duty just like me. But if I hadn’t cleared those bunkers, hundreds of Marines would have died taking them.
So I chose to be the monster so others wouldn’t have to be. This moral burden, the weight of necessary violence, shaped William’s postwar advocacy. He became a voice for recognizing the true costs of warfare, not just in lives lost, but in the psychological toll on those who survive.
The statistics from Williams’s 4-hour assault, while debated in specific details, remain remarkable. Multiple reinforced concrete pillboxes destroyed between three and seven based on various accounts. Approximately 4 hours of continuous combat. 68 lb of equipment carried. 4 gall of fuel capacity per load. Multiple refuelings during the assault.
300 yd of crucial terrain gained in subsequent advance. 40% reduction in casualties in the sector after breakthrough. These numbers only hint at the broader impact. The advance Williams enabled led to the capture of the airfield ahead of schedule, which in turn allowed earlier use of the field for emergency B29 landings.
Williams spent his last years as the final living link to one of the Pacific War’s bloodiest battles. As the last surviving Medal of Honor recipient from Ewima and eventually the last from all of World War II, he carried the responsibility of speaking for those who couldn’t speak for themselves. He established the Hershel Woody Williams Medal of Honor Foundation dedicated to honoring Gold Star families.
He testified before Congress on veterans issues. He participated in documentaries to preserve the history of the battle. Even as his health declined, he continued making public appearances, determined to ensure the sacrifices of his fellow Marines weren’t forgotten. On June 29th, 2022, Williams died at the age of 98 in Huntington, West Virginia.
His death marked the end of an era. The last Medal of Honor recipient from World War II was gone. His funeral included full military honors with Marines serving as pawbearers and his casket lying in honor in the US capital Ratunda, a tribute reserved for the nation’s most distinguished citizens. Williams’s story transcends the specific circumstances of Ewima to reveal universal truths about warfare and human nature.
Courage is not the absence of fear, but action despite fear. Williams was terrified throughout his assault, but continued because duty outweighed fear. Innovation emerges from necessity. Williams developed new tactics, not through planning, but through desperate adaptation to survive and succeed.
Individual actions can have strategic consequences. One man’s four hours of combat changed the trajectory of a major battle. The cost of heroism extends beyond the battlefield. Williams carried the psychological burden of his actions for 77 years after the war. True strength includes the ability to reconcile. Williams’s eventual meeting with Japanese veterans showed that former enemies could find peace.
Williams’s experience remains relevant to contemporary military operations. Modern urban warfare with its emphasis on precision and minimizing civilian casualties seems far removed from the brutality of flamethrower warfare. Yet the principles Williams demonstrated tactical innovation, psychological operations, individual initiative remain central to military success.
In an age of high-tech warfare, Williams reminds us that battles are still won by individual courage and initiative. Technology changes. The human element remains decisive. The specific weapons may differ, but the need for warriors willing to face danger for their comrades remains constant. Hershel Woody Williams left multiple legacies.
To the Marine Corps, he provided tactical innovations that saved countless lives. To veterans, he offered advocacy and understanding for the invisible wounds of war. To gold star families, he gave monuments ensuring their sacrifices wouldn’t be forgotten. To historians, he left testimony about the true nature of combat heroism.
But perhaps his most important legacy was his honesty about war. Williams never glorified what he did on February 23rd, 1945. He didn’t celebrate the destruction of enemy positions or romanticize combat. Instead, he spoke truthfully about the terrible necessities of war and the lasting cost of survival. War will ask you to do terrible things, he told his grandson, a marine preparing to deploy shortly before his death.
If you must do them, do them completely. Do them quickly and then spend the rest of your life making sure they were worth it. The story of Corporal Hershel Woodro Williams is not ultimately about the exact number of pill boxes destroyed or the specific tactics employed. It’s about how one person faced with an impossible situation found the courage to act when action seemed suicidal.
It’s about innovation under the most extreme pressure imaginable. It’s about carrying the weight of necessary violence with dignity for nearly eight decades. Williams showed that the greatest victories often come not from those who love war, but from those who hate it enough to end it quickly, whatever the personal cost.
He didn’t glory in what he did on February 23rd, 1945. He simply did what was necessary with skill and courage that inspired allies and broke enemy resistance. On that day on Ioima, a small man from West Virginia became a giant in military history, not because he enjoyed violence, but because he was willing to bear its burden so others wouldn’t have to.
The positions he destroyed were rebuilt long ago. But the lessons from his assault about courage, innovation, and the true cost of warfare remain as relevant today as they were on that volcanic island in 1945. His story reminds us that heroism isn’t about glory or fame, but about carrying the weight of necessary actions with dignity and using that weight to prevent others from having to bear it.
In those four hours on Ewima, Williams demonstrated that in the darkest moments, individual courage can create light, even if that light comes from the terrible brightness of a flamethrower in the hands of a reluctant hero who did what had to be done. The marine who terrified Japanese defenders with a flamethrower ultimately became a voice for peace, understanding that those who have seen war’s true face are often its strongest opponents.
In his transformation from warrior to advocate, from destroyer to educator, Williams showed that the greatest victory is not in winning wars, but in preventing them. His life stands as testimony to a fundamental truth. Sometimes one person really can change everything.
