One night toward the end of April the barrage
 
 lifted for a short time. Hundreds of people went 
 
out into the open for a breath of air and a smoke. 
 
It was pitch dark. The only light came from the 
 
few stars, and the occasional faint glow of a
 
 carefullyshielded cigarette. Suddenly the group of 
 
people around the tunnel entrance seemed to be
 
 struck by lightning. There was an awful glare and 
 
a mighty crash. A salvo of Japanese 240ram 
 
shells had landed in the midst of this group. Just
 
 that one salvo--no more.
 
        Fortunately it was dark and the survivors
 
 did not have to look on the scene around them. 
 
But it was four hours later before the hospital
 
 staff completed their amputations, transfusions, 
 
brain operations and other work.
 
      About midnight that night I went off duty 
 
in the radio shack in the Navy Tunnel, 
 
and I went out to the tunnel entrance where 
 
the tragedy occurred. There I found one of the nurses 
 
who had helped the doctors during the evening.
 
 She was crying her heart out on a sandbagged 
 
machine gun. I did not know whether she 
 
had suffered a personal loss, or whether our situation in 
 
general had become too much for her. She
 
 obviously had come out into the darkness to hide her 
 
emotions from the wounded, so I tiptoed away
 
 and did not disturb her.
 
          Lieutenant Colonel Mellnik:
       ------------------------------------
                         
      About the last week in April it became
 
 evident from the volume and distribution 
 
of enemy fire that a landing would be