Japanese Couldn’t Stop This Marine With a Two-Man Weapon — Until 16 Bunkers Fell in 30 Minutes

At 0900 on February 26, 1945, the air was thick with tension and the acrid smell of gunpowder as Private First Class Douglas Jacobson crouched behind a jagged volcanic rock on the western slope of Hill 382. The sun hung high, casting a harsh light over the battlefield, illuminating the chaos of war below. Just ahead, a bazooka team was pinned down, taking fire from a Japanese 20 mm anti-aircraft gun. Jacobson, only 19 years old and already a veteran of three island campaigns, was about to face a challenge that would test the very limits of human endurance and bravery.

The Japanese had fortified Hill 382 with 16 hardened positions, each one designed to kill Marines in overlapping fields of fire. Jacobson had enlisted in the Marine Corps Reserve at 17, lying about his age to join the fight. Back home in Port Washington, New York, he had been a draftsman for his father, spending summers lifeguarding on Long Island beaches. Now, he found himself part of Company I, Third Battalion, 23rd Marines, Fourth Marine Division, caught in a deadly struggle on the most heavily fortified hill on Iwo Jima.

The Meat Grinder

The island was a mere 8 square miles of volcanic ash and death, and just five days earlier, 30,000 Marines had stormed ashore, expecting light resistance. Intelligence had been catastrophically wrong. The Japanese commander, Lieutenant General Tadamichi Kuribayashi, had spent eight months transforming Iwo Jima into a fortress, complete with 18 kilometers of tunnels, concrete pillboxes, hidden artillery, and the strategic high ground of Hill 382.

Marines referred to this sector as “the meat grinder,” a name that was all too fitting. In the seven days since the landing, the 23rd Marines had lost nearly half their strength. Company after company had attempted to take Hill 382, but every assault ended in disaster. Japanese gunners lay in wait, opening fire as soon as Marines crossed open ground, their positions untouched by the bombardments that had preceded the assault. Sherman tanks burned, flamethrower teams were cut down before they could reach their targets, and entire squads vanished into the volcanic ash without a trace.

Jacobson watched helplessly as the bazooka team ahead of him fell victim to the relentless fire. The loader had carried four M6 A3 rockets in a canvas bag, and now both Marines lay dead, the bazooka abandoned in the ash. Company I was stuck. Without that anti-aircraft gun destroyed, the entire assault would collapse. They had already suffered 17 men killed and 26 wounded in the first 30 minutes of the attack.

A Desperate Decision

The Japanese defenders were invisible; every rock could hide a rifle pit, every depression a machine gun nest. Marines were dying without ever seeing the enemy. Jacobson glanced at the bazooka lying in the open, its potential for destruction now a silent witness to the chaos. It was designed for two men—one to aim and fire, the other to load the rocket and connect the ignition wire. Nobody operated a bazooka alone; the back blast could injure an isolated gunner, and reloading under fire was a two-man job. But now, with no loader, Jacobson faced a dire choice.

The anti-aircraft gun fired again, and three more Marines dropped. Company I had been fighting for Hill 382 for over an hour, and the Japanese positions seemed impenetrable. Higher command was watching closely; failure here meant failure across the entire Fourth Marine Division front. Jacobson felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. He could not let his comrades die without trying to turn the tide.

With determination surging through him, Jacobson grabbed his rifle and moved toward the bazooka. The volcanic ash offered no cover, and Japanese riflemen had clear lines of sight. He recalled how one Marine had tried to recover the weapon, only to be cut down by a sniper. But Jacobson pressed on, reaching the bazooka and grabbing it. Four rockets remained in the dead loader’s bag. He slung the canvas over his shoulder and lifted the launcher tube, a heavy 13-pound steel weapon.

The First Shot

As he ran, the anti-aircraft gun tracked him, firing rounds that tore through the air inches from his head. Jacobson dove behind a cluster of shattered rocks, volcanic dust covering his uniform. He had never fired a bazooka alone, and the training he had received emphasized a strict protocol that required coordination between two trained men. But now, he was alone, and the lives of his fellow Marines depended on him.

He set the launcher tube on the ground, pulled one M6 A3 rocket from the canvas bag, and inserted it into the rear of the tube until it locked. With swift movements, he connected the ignition wire and prepared to fire. The Japanese gun crew was adjusting their aim, and time was running out. He lifted the launcher onto his shoulder, bracing himself for the recoil.

With a deep breath, he rose from cover, sighted the anti-aircraft gun, and pulled the trigger. The rocket shot forward, crossing 80 yards in a fraction of a second. It struck the gun’s shield dead center, and the shaped charge detonated with a blinding flash. The explosion obliterated the gun and its crew, sending debris flying in all directions.

Turning the Tide

With the anti-aircraft gun destroyed, Jacobson dropped flat and quickly reloaded. He worked the process backwards, pulling the second rocket from the bag, inserting it into the tube, connecting the wire, and lifting the launcher again. The entire reload took him 40 seconds—a trained two-man team could do it in 12. But he was determined to keep fighting.

As he prepared to fire again, two Japanese machine gun positions opened fire from higher up the slope, cutting down three Marines in the first burst. Company I went to ground again, pinned down by the renewed enemy fire. Jacobson saw the muzzle flashes and knew he had to act quickly. He moved right, flanking the first position, using volcanic rock for partial cover.

Reaching a position 40 yards from the machine gun nest, he shouldered the bazooka, aimed, and fired. The rocket struck the earth and penetrated before detonating, obliterating the machine gun and its crew. Dirt and debris rained down the slope as Jacobson ducked for cover, his ears ringing from the back blast of the bazooka.

With two rockets left, he faced a daunting challenge. Ahead of him, blocking the route to the summit, stood a reinforced blockhouse made of concrete and volcanic rock. Artillery had failed to destroy it, and inside were at least a dozen Japanese defenders, armed and ready. He had one rocket left, and he needed a different solution.

The Final Assault

Jacobson moved laterally across the slope, staying low and avoiding enemy fire. Reaching the northern side of the blockhouse, he discovered a low opening barely three feet high, covered by a wooden frame. He set down the bazooka and pulled a fragmentation grenade from his belt. With the last rocket in his possession, he aimed at the wooden frame and fired. The rocket hit and detonated, blowing the entrance open and collapsing part of the rear wall.

Dust and smoke poured from the opening as Jacobson dropped the bazooka tube and threw the grenade inside. The explosion echoed within the blockhouse, and when he looked in through the firing slit, he saw devastation. Bodies lay scattered, and the position was neutralized. But he had no rockets left, and he needed to rejoin his company.

As he moved back down the slope, he passed the bodies of the original bazooka team. The loader’s canvas bag was still there, but it was empty. Jacobson looked across the volcanic ash field and spotted the supply point, where ammunition crates and medical supplies were stacked behind a low wall of sandbags. The area was under Japanese observation, and mortar fire had been falling intermittently all morning.

The Final Push

Jacobson started moving toward the supply point, staying low and using every depression for cover. A mortar round hit 30 yards away, and shrapnel whined overhead. He reached the supply point, grabbed four more rockets, and sprinted back toward the slope, carrying the bazooka tube and the bag of rockets. Company I was still pinned down, but he had cleared the way for them.

Now, with renewed determination, Jacobson loaded a fresh rocket and prepared to take on the next target. He spotted a reinforced pillbox blocking the route to the summit, its concrete walls and firing slits bristling with Japanese soldiers. This was the last strong point, and if he could destroy it, Hill 382 would fall.

He moved wide right, circling outside the defensive perimeter, reaching a position 70 yards from the observation post. He loaded a rocket, aimed, and fired. The rocket hit the observation post’s wall and detonated, causing chaos inside. Jacobson reloaded and fired again, ensuring the position was destroyed.

With the observation post neutralized, he turned his attention to the remaining targets. He moved quickly, taking out a rifle pit and a machine gun nest before advancing on the final mortar position. Each shot was calculated, each movement precise, as he systematically dismantled the Japanese defenses.

The Climax of Courage

With one rocket left and the final position in sight, Jacobson faced a moment of truth. He had fought for nearly two hours, and his body was exhausted. But he knew that the fate of his fellow Marines depended on him. He aimed carefully, fired, and watched as the last mortar position erupted in a cloud of smoke and debris.

With the final position destroyed, Jacobson turned to see Company I advancing through the gap he had created. The Marines surged forward, reclaiming the summit of Hill 382. By noon, they held the high ground, and the tide of battle had shifted.

As Jacobson walked down the slope at 1400 hours, his uniform was torn and black with volcanic dust. He carried the empty bazooka tube in one hand, and a Navy corpsman checked him for wounds. Miraculously, he had only minor cuts and bruises, but he was severely dehydrated. When asked how he had accomplished such a feat, Jacobson simply replied that he had one thing in mind: getting off that hill.

A Legacy of Valor

The battle for Iwo Jima continued for three more weeks, with heavy losses on both sides. The island was not declared secured until March 16, 1945, with over 6,800 Marines dead and 17,000 wounded. Of the 21,000 Japanese defenders, only 216 surrendered. The valor displayed by Jacobson and his fellow Marines earned them numerous accolades, including 27 Medals of Honor awarded for their actions during the battle.

Private First Class Douglas Jacobson was promoted to corporal in April 1945 and returned to the United States in September. On October 5, 1945, President Harry Truman presented him with the Medal of Honor during a ceremony at the White House. Jacobson’s bravery and determination had not only changed the course of the battle but had also secured his place in history.

After serving for 24 years, Jacobson retired as a major, having faced the horrors of war and emerged as a symbol of courage and resilience. He lived a quiet life, rarely speaking about his experiences unless prompted. He passed away on August 20, 2000, at the age of 74, leaving behind a legacy of heroism that would inspire generations to come.

The Douglas T. Jacobson State Veterans Nursing Home in Port Charlotte, Florida, stands today as a tribute to his service, caring for veterans who followed the same path he once walked. Douglas Jacobson’s story is a testament to the indomitable spirit of the Marine Corps and the sacrifices made by those who fought to secure freedom.

In those harrowing moments on Hill 382, one man with a bazooka meant for two had changed the course of battle, proving that courage, determination, and the will to fight against overwhelming odds can alter the fate of many.