It’s a sunny Monday in May 1944, and 25-year-old Tom Kennedy walks out of a medical clinic in Elizabeth, N.J., with conflicting feelings of pride and apprehension. Tired of feeling like a slacker not contributing to the war effort, Tom has just been pronounced fit for military duty. His family waits for him in a nearby park. Milly, his wife, sits on a bench nervously twisting rosary beads while 2-year-old Mary Beth and 1-year-old Tommy play on the grass at her feet. As Tom strides toward his family, Milly sees his face and knows her prayers were not answered. Tom struggles with a sense of duty to his young family as well as to his country. In the end, war service wins out, and he enlists in the U.S. Marine Corps. One month later, he leaves for basic training at Camp Lejeune, N.C.

As Tom Kennedy reports to boot camp, another husband and father begins a military mission for his country. Lt. Gen. Tadamichi Kuribayashi, 53, a widely-respected Japanese officer, assumes overall command of Japanese defense operations on Iwo Jima June 22, 1944. His assignment is accompanied by a sobering admonition from Japanese Premier Gen. Hideki Tojo, who warns him, “The entire army and the nation will depend on you for the defense of that key island.” Neither Kuribayashi nor Kennedy knows that when the battle is over, only one of them will return to his wife and children.

Strategically, Iwo Jima becomes a top priority in the American war effort in late 1944. Located 650 miles southeast of Tokyo, the 8-square-mile volcanic island lies near the midpoint of a route that B-29 Superfortresses fly between the Mariana Islands and the Japanese mainland, which the United States has bombed steadily since the summer of 1944. Iwo Jima is the only island in that part of the Pacific that can accommodate a runway and is needed as a base for fighter planes escorting B-29s and as a stop-over point for damaged planes.
 
The Japanese know Iwo Jima is a target and prepare for its invasion. Kuribayashi orders the building of more than 750 gun emplacements, blockhouses with concrete walls, miles of tunnels, and 1,000 pillboxes. He recognizes the superiority of American forces and plans a strategy that will keep his 22,000 troops underground as long as possible.

Although separated by age and culture, Kuribayashi and Kennedy share similar ties to home. Kuribayashi is a devoted family man who corresponds regularly with his wife, Yoshie; their son, Taro; and their daughters, Yohko and Takako. Tom and Milly Kennedy write each other daily during the 18 months they are separated, sometimes as many as three letters a day.

Writing one warm summer evening, Milly expresses her loneliness and fears in a brief letter. She implores Tom to be careful and ends with a plaintive request: “Couldn’t you fall off a Jeep and get discharged?” His reply attempts to reassure her he is well:

I just received a short note from you and wanted to tell you that you’re worrying entirely too much about me. I’m fine, and the safety precautions that they have here are so tight that no one gets hurt unless they’re really stupid. There is always a senior officer or instructor with us, and I’m watching out for myself all the time. I have too much to come home to for me to get careless.

When we go to the rifle range each morning we have to watch a training film before we start shooting. Most of the fellows fall asleep because it’s so early in the morning. But so far I have kept wide awake. I don’t want to miss any small detail that may help me qualify as an expert or that may help save my life if and when I see combat.

Because Kennedy has yet to see actual combat, his and Milly’s tender expressions are in stark contrast to the dire situation Kuribayashi describes to Yoshie. When she writes to complain of wartime hardships in Tokyo, he answers her letter with a description of the conditions he faces on Iwo Jima:

Our sole source of [water] is rainwater. I have a cup of water to wash my face—actually, my eyes only, then Lieutenant Fujita [Kuribayashi’s aide] uses the water. After he is through with it, I keep it for toilet purposes. The soldiers, in general, don’t even have that much. Every day, after I’ve inspected defense positions, I dream in vain of drinking a cup of cool water. There are a lot of flies. Also many cockroaches crawl all over us. They are very dirty. Fortunately, there are no snakes or poisonous reptiles.

Beginning in August 1944, American B-24s continually bombard Iwo Jima in preparation for the Feb. 19, 1945, attack. A combined landing force of the Marines’ 3rd, 4th, and 5th divisions (now the 5th Amphibious Corps), is readied for d-day. Kennedy, a member of the 4th Marine Division, is headed for Iwo Jima. He writes from a troopship to prepare Milly for what will be one of the deadliest battles of World War II.

Well, all I can say is that since I’ve been in the Marine Corps I’ve written letters in every position imaginable—sitting, standing, kneeling, and lying down. Right now I’m sitting on the top sack in our compartment. I doubt if you know what the sleeping facilities are like, but there are rows of bunks and I’m on the top bunk, close to the ceiling.

It’s interesting to see the reactions of the fellows as we move closer to our target. They try to keep busy and find things to do so that the hours will pass by faster. Some play cards [or] checkers, shoot dice, read, write, talk in gab sessions, and play games. Anything to keep the mind occupied. I usually read or gab with some of the fellows. Mostly we discuss the forthcoming operation, our chances of beating the Japs in a short time, counterattacks.

I promise to write every day right up until the last minute, my darling. I know you won’t be getting these letters for a while, but I won’t miss a day.

Kuribayashi’s defensive strategy is to allow U.S. forces to land on Iwo Jima and push inland about 500 yards. At this point, Japanese defenders would begin firing from caves dug into the slopes facing the beaches and from thick-walled pillboxes studding the island. Because of the Japanese naval fleet’s devastating losses in the war, the general realizes there will be no naval support for the impending Allied assault. His only recourse is to keep his troops underground for as long as possible, and he exhorts each soldier to “resist until the end, making his position his tomb. Every man will do his best to kill 10 enemy soldiers.” Resigned to certain defeat, he tells one of his officers, “Japan has reached the end of the road.” In a letter to Yoshie, he prepares her for his inevitable death:

The enemy may land on this island soon. Once they do, we must follow the fate of those on Attu and Saipan. Our officers and men know about “Death” very well. I am sorry to end my life here, fighting the United States of America, but I want to defend this island as long as possible and to delay the enemy air raids on Tokyo. Ah! You have worked well for a long time as my wife and the mother of my three children. Your life will become harder and more precarious. Watch out for your health and live long. The future of our children will not be easy either. Please take care of them after my death.

On Feb. 19, 1945, blue skies provide unlimited visibility for Allied landing forces. Six battleships and numerous cruisers and destroyers shell target areas. Fighter planes sweep at treetop height and riddle beaches and airfields. At first, the Marines meet with little resistance, but after the first wave of soldiers pounds ashore, concealed Japanese defenders open fire. From then on, the leathernecks face two foes: a tenacious force of Japanese troops hidden in a labyrinth of tunnels and bunkers, and Iwo Jima’s formidable terrain in the form of loose, volcanic ash that makes forward progress agonizingly slow.

For 37 days, the Marines grind their way forward, suffering heavy casualties in this costliest d-day of the Pacific theater. More than 1,000 Marines in Kennedy’s 4th Division are evacuated to hospital ships, and an undetermined number are dead. During a brief respite, Tom scrawls a note to Milly on a scrap of paper given him by another soldier. Still shaken, he describes a recent banzai attack (the name deriving from the Japanese battle cry, tenno heika banzai, or long live the Emperor):

Some Japs crawled up out of their holes in the early hours of the morning and charged our foxholes. They crawled to within 10 feet of one fellow and started yelling, “Hey, Corpsman.” Our fellow asked him for the password, but he still yelled, “Hey, Corpsman.” All he wanted was for some fellow to show himself so the Jap could throw a hand grenade in his hole. The kid saw him and killed him.

When they pull one of their banzai charges, they gather together in a big group and start yelling. Then some of their officers start waving swords above their heads and shout, “Banzai, banzai!”

While they scream, they charge. Of course our guns cut them down like flies, Milly, but it is scary listening to them scream like that.

In one of his last messages to Tokyo, Kuribayashi reports:

The battle is approaching its end. Since the enemy’s landing, even the gods would weep at the bravery of the officers and men under my command. ... [My] men died one by one, and I regret very much that I have allowed the enemy to occupy a piece of Japanese territory.

With the raising of the American flag on Mount Suribachi Feb. 23, the campaign takes a hopeful turn, but the fighting is far from over. For the rest of the month, U.S. forces crawl doggedly forward, sometimes securing as little as 100 yards a day. When two key Japanese strong points, Hill 382 and Turkey Knob, are taken, the Japanese main line of defense is broken. In early March, Kuribayashi relays a radio message to the Japanese army’s vice chief of staff:

We are sorry indeed we could not have defended the island successfully. Now I, Kuribayashi, believe that the enemy will invade Japan proper from this island. ... I am very sorry, because I can imagine the scenes of disaster in our empire. However, I comfort myself a little, seeing my officers and men die without regret after struggling in this inch-by-inch battle against an overwhelming enemy with many tanks and being exposed to indescribable bombardments. ... I would like now to apologize to my senior and fellow officers for not being strong enough to stop the enemy invasion.

The battle for Iwo Jima, which began Aug. 9, 1944, with a 72-day bombing marathon, ends March 16, 1945, as U.S. forces declare the island secured. Victory comes at a high price: more than 26,000 American casualties, including 9,000 from Kennedy’s 4th Marine Division. More than 20,000 Japanese are killed, with 44 prisoners taken. Despite shrapnel wounds to the shoulder, Kennedy survives the bloody battle, and by March 19, he and the last units of the 4th Marine Division board ship for Hawaii, where he assures Milly that “all the danger is past, and I’m now where it’s plenty safe.”

When President Truman announces Japan’s unconditional surrender Aug. 14, 1945 (following the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki), the 4th becomes the first division to return home. Kennedy has accumulated enough points to be released in October and writes the letter his family has been anticipating:

Yes, it’s true. I’m coming home at last.

On a brisk November Sunday, Pfc. Tom Kennedy jumps off a train and runs to embrace his joyful family.
Lt. Gen. Tadamichi Kuribayashi’s body is never recovered.