Japanese Couldn’t Believe He Built a Gun From Aircraft Parts — Until He Killed 20 of Them
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At 0900 on February 19, 1945, Corporal Tony Stein crouched behind a shallow depression in the black volcanic sand of Ewima, gripping a weapon that his sergeant had dismissed as a foolish idea just three months prior. Aged 23, with six combat missions under his belt and zero conventional kills, Stein was among the first Marines from Company A, First Battalion, 28th Marines, to establish a position beyond the beach. The landscape around him was a hellscape of death and destruction, where the Japanese had fortified every inch of the eight-square-mile island with 11 miles of interconnected tunnels and 17,000 defenders.
As machine gun and mortar fire rained down from camouflaged pillboxes, the beach had become a killing ground. By mid-morning, the Fifth Marine Division had already lost 43 men. Dead Marines lay scattered across the terrace beach, their bodies twisted in the volcanic ash. The standard-issue Browning M1919 machine guns were heavy and cumbersome, weighing 31 pounds empty and firing at a rate of 400 rounds per minute. They were effective for defense but terrible for assault, a problem Stein had recognized months earlier during training exercises.
Born in Dayton, Ohio, to Austrian Jewish immigrants fleeing anti-Semitism, Tony Stein had spent his teenage years working a lathe at Patterson Field and as a tool and die maker at Delo Products. His mechanical mind understood machines and their capabilities. When he joined the Paramarines in September 1942, he carried that knowledge with him into combat. He had already killed five Japanese snipers in a single day during the Bougainville campaign, but it was his ability to modify equipment that caught the attention of Sergeant Mel Grevich.
In November 1944, Grevich introduced Stein to the ANM2 aircraft machine gun he had salvaged from a crashed dive bomber. Weighing only 21 pounds and capable of firing 1,200 rounds per minute, it was ten pounds lighter than the M1919 and three times faster. However, it had spade grips designed for aircraft mounts, making it difficult for a single Marine to carry and fire accurately while advancing. Recognizing its potential, Stein and Grevich worked through the night to modify the weapon. They cut down an M1 Garand buttstock to fit, fabricated a solenoid trigger mechanism, and welded a Browning Automatic Rifle bipod to the front. The result was a crude but effective weapon they called the Stinger.
Stein built six Stingers, one for each of Company A’s three rifle platoons, one for the demolition section, one for Grevich, and one for himself. The reactions were mixed—some Marines praised its brilliance, while others labeled it a death trap. But when Stein test-fired it on the range, emptying a full box into a target at 200 yards in under six seconds, skepticism turned to approval. The Stinger was going to war.
Now, on the beach at Ewima, Stein tightened his grip on the Stinger, its barrel already warm from previous engagements. Around him, Marines were dying, pinned down by concentrated enemy fire. Standard procedure would have called for tanks or naval gunfire, but the tanks were stuck in the soft volcanic ash, and naval shells couldn’t hit what they couldn’t see. Stein made a decision that would change the course of the battle.
He stood up fully exposed, drawing enemy fire to reveal their positions. Bullets snapped past his head, and mortar rounds detonated nearby. Then he spotted it—a pillbox 75 yards northwest, camouflaged with volcanic rock and sand. The barrel of a Type 92 heavy machine gun protruded just inches from its hiding place. Stein lowered the Stinger, aimed, and squeezed the solenoid trigger. The weapon roared to life, unleashing a torrent of 1,200 rounds per minute. The pillbox disintegrated under the hail of bullets, and the Type 92 fell silent.
With the enemy position suppressed, Marines began to move, advancing from their shallow depressions in the sand. Stein charged the first pillbox, the Stinger lighter than the standard M1919, allowing him to run with it. Inside, three Japanese soldiers lay dead, cut down by the Stinger’s relentless fire. He moved to the second pillbox, achieving the same result. But then he felt the Stinger grow light in his hands—the ammunition box was empty.
Stein had anticipated this problem, but facing it in combat was different. The Stinger was devastating but insatiably hungry. He looked back toward the beach, 200 yards away, where the ammunition resupply point was located. He started running, each step a struggle through the loose volcanic ash. Halfway there, he passed a wounded Marine, a Private First Class with a shrapnel wound to the leg. Without hesitation, Stein slung the man over his shoulder and kept running.
Carrying over 215 pounds through the treacherous terrain, Stein reached the supply point at 0945. He handed off the wounded Marine to the corpsman, grabbed four ammunition boxes, and turned back toward his platoon. The return trip took three minutes, but Japanese snipers had begun targeting Marines moving between the beach and forward positions. Bullets kicked up ash around his feet as he sprinted back.
When he reached Company A, his platoon sergeant pointed to a third pillbox, a larger, reinforced structure with a Type 96 light machine gun covering the approach to the airfield. Two previous assaults had failed, resulting in four dead Marines. Stein loaded a fresh ammunition box into the Stinger and advanced alone. The Type 96 opened fire immediately, but Stein pressed forward. At 50 yards, he opened fire, the Stinger’s rapid rate of fire overwhelming the enemy gunner. He charged the final 20 yards and dropped a grenade through the opening, killing the three-man crew inside.
By 10:30, Stein had made four trips to the beach and back, evacuating wounded Marines and bringing back ammunition. His platoon had advanced 200 yards inland, destroying seven enemy positions, and Stein had personally accounted for at least 15 Japanese soldiers. But the Stinger was suffering; the barrel was discolored from heat, and the solenoid trigger was starting to stick.
Determined to maintain his speed, Stein made a drastic decision. He unlaced his boots and kicked them off, running barefoot through the volcanic ash. The decision seemed insane, but he understood the mathematics: every second counted. His fifth run to the beach took just 2 minutes and 40 seconds. He could feel the terrain beneath his feet, adjusting his stride despite the pain.
By 1100 hours, Stein had made six trips to the beach. He had carried six wounded Marines to safety and brought back 600 rounds of ammunition. His platoon had advanced 300 yards from the beach, but the fighting was intensifying. The Japanese had constructed a defensive network of pillboxes, spider holes, and underground bunkers. 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. Stein’s calculated bursts allowed riflemen to advance and throw grenades, but the weapon was taking damage. The barrel was glowing, the solenoid trigger degrading, and Stein had to manually cycle the action between bursts.
At 11:20, Stein’s platoon encountered a reinforced Japanese position that had stalled two other companies. A concrete bunker with three firing slits covered the approach to airfield number one. After two failed assaults, the situation was dire. Stein studied the position, knowing that if he could suppress it, his platoon could advance. He moved forward, went prone, and opened fire.
The Stinger emptied its 100-round box in seven seconds, and at least 30 rounds went through the firing slits. The Japanese guns fell silent, and Stein reloaded, dropping grenades through the slits to destroy the bunker. Company A’s advance resumed, but Stein’s weapon was now critically damaged.
At 11:50, during his seventh trip to the beach, he carried a Marine who had lost both legs to a mine. The man was conscious and screaming. Stein ran the entire 200 yards while the Marine bled into his uniform. On the return trip, he encountered another Marine carrying a Stinger that had jammed permanently from overheating.
Stein made his eighth trip at 12:30, grabbing another wounded Marine and more ammunition. By now, other Marines had started to notice the barefoot corporal making repeated runs under fire. Some thought he was crazy; others called him the bravest man they had ever seen. But to Stein, it was simple mathematics—his platoon needed ammunition, and wounded men needed evacuation.
As he ran back toward Company A, a Japanese sniper fired at him. The round snapped past his head, and for the first time that day, Stein was pinned down. He lay motionless, controlling his breathing until he rolled left, grabbed the Stinger, and ran toward the sniper’s position.
Dropping to one knee, he opened fire. The Stinger roared, shredding the rock and surrounding terrain. When the ammunition box ran empty, there was no return fire. Stein approached the position cautiously, confirming the sniper was dead.
By 1300 hours, the situation had worsened. Company A was pinned down by eight pillboxes arranged in a semicircle, taking heavy casualties. Stein moved to the forwardmost position, assessing the situation. He stood up and opened fire, methodically suppressing each position in sequence.
By 13:30, Company A had broken through the defensive arc. Five of the eight pillboxes were destroyed, and the other three were abandoned. But the Stinger was now critically damaged. At 13:45, during the assault on the sixth pillbox, a Japanese Type 96 machine gun scored a direct hit on the Stinger, ripping it from Stein’s hands.
Unarmed and exposed, he sprinted to retrieve it as Japanese soldiers fired at him. He grabbed the Stinger, checked it for damage, and found the belt feed jammed. Clearing the jam, he loaded a fresh ammunition box and fired at the pillbox that had shot him.
By 1400 hours, Company A had advanced 400 yards from the beach, destroying 23 enemy positions. Stein had personally accounted for at least 12 of them. But the Stinger was barely functional, the barrel bent, the stock charred, and the solenoid trigger unreliable.
At 14:30, during an assault on a fortified trench system, the Stinger was hit again. Stein was completely exposed, but he ran for the weapon, grabbing it and diving into a shell crater. The receiver was damaged, but the Stinger still fired, suppressing the trench while riflemen advanced.
By 1500 hours, Stein had made his eighth trip to the beach, fired over 2,000 rounds, and saved nine wounded Marines. His feet were bloody from running barefoot, and his uniform was soaked with sweat and blood. The Stinger was barely functional, but it had done its job.
That night, Japanese infiltrators began probing Company A’s perimeter. Stein grabbed the Stinger and fired at an infiltrator, killing him. The assault on Mount Surabachi began the next morning, and Stein carried the Stinger up the mountain, but it was no longer the weapon it had been.
On March 1st, during a reconnaissance patrol, a single shot rang out, striking Tony Stein in the head. He dropped instantly, and despite the corpsman’s efforts, he was dead by 0753. The patrol returned fire and completed their mission, but they carried Stein’s body back with them.
News of his death spread quickly through the 28th Marines. The barefoot corporal who had made eight trips to the beach, the Marine who had refused evacuation, the toolmaker from Dayton who had built a weapon from salvaged parts—he was gone.
On March 2nd, Stein was buried in the fifth division cemetery on Ewima, marked by a simple wooden cross. The battle for Ewima continued for another 24 days, with American casualties mounting. But on February 19th, during those first eight hours of combat, Tony Stein had made a difference.
His bravery, ingenuity, and selflessness were recognized, and in May 1945, Lieutenant Colonel Chandler Johnson submitted a recommendation for Stein to receive the Medal of Honor. On February 19, 1946, exactly one year after his actions, his widow Joan received the medal in a ceremony at the Ohio State House.
Tony Stein’s legacy lives on, not just in military records, but in the hearts of those who remember the barefoot corporal who ran through volcanic ash to save his brothers, who improvised a weapon that changed the tide of battle, and who exemplified the Marine Corps ethos: improvise, adapt, and overcome. His story is a testament to the courage and sacrifice of those who serve, ensuring that the memory of heroes like Tony Stein will never fade.
