| Original caption: “Civilians hit by a shell while trying to escape through the front lines, Thirty-Second Infantry Regiment sector, Seventh Infantry Division.” The bodies of civilians lie at the edge of a shellhole. In June 1945, the Battle of Okinawa had moved into the south, and the Americans were digging the Imperial Japanese 32nd Army out of natural caves that dotted the area. Heavy use of artillery, plus the tendency of Imperial Japanese Army soldiers to change into civilian clothes for night infiltrations, meant that any movement was targeted by artillery. An estimated 150,000 civilians were killed on Okinawa during the battle, but numbers are complex to compile due to a lack of a prewar census. It is estimated that a 3rd of Okinawan civilians were killed. Rieko Tamaki (born May 30, 1934) was the only survivor of her family of 10 on Okinawa. She later recalled when an artillery shell hit: “Then suddenly a shell exploded, though I couldn’t tell if it had fallen nearby or directly among us. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to lie down flat on the ground, as we’d been trained, and could only cover my face with my hands as my body tensed. In the strange quiet that followed, I nervously opened my eyes to a scene of carnage so shocking I couldn’t move, even to rush back to the shelter only two meters away. Hit by shrapnel were people on the ground, unable to get up, or who struggled to stand. Others, covered with blood, ran for the shelter. Among them, I saw my brother, bleeding from his chest. Thinking I too had been wounded, I followed him, but after only a few steps, I stumbled over something. At my feet was a boy I knew well, about my age, who I’d just been chatting with moments before, now lying on the ground. I could see that part of his head had been blown off, and that he was dead. Though shocked at the sight, I stepped over his body and hurried to be with my brother.” “The shrapnel had torn open a deep wound from his shoulder down his side, leaving only shreds of skin remaining. He still had his arm on that side, but couldn’t move it, so he was using his other arm. Seeing him like this, I nearly passed out. Then, through my tears, I asked him if it hurt. “No, I’ll be fine,” he answered emphatically, though I knew he was in terrible pain. I wanted to help him so much, but I had no idea what to do. Soon, a stretcher arrived from the army field hospital, and he was carried away on it. I had no way of knowing how many were killed or wounded in the shelling. Until then, my brother, younger sister, and I had been visiting the field hospital for any news of my father, and had become friendly with the army doctors and nurses.” “Under battlefield conditions with meagre medical equipment, full treatment was impossible, but the doctors and nurses provided the best possible care and emotional support. Or, at least I wanted to think so. My brother’s left arm was amputated. I did not see the surgery, but watched as he was carried out on a wooden board with one arm missing and a blood-stained bandage wrap. Seeing that his wound still bled profusely, I began to lose hope. “Water, give me water!” he yelled, screaming in pain. Soon his breathing stopped. Standing beside his corpse, I apologized, wishing now I had given him all the water he’d wanted. He was only fourteen, going to school where all the students served as laborers for the military, and just happened to be home with his family when the Americans invaded on April 1, 1945.” “Everyone admired him as a youth of great promise, brilliant and as well-read as any adult. He especially liked chemistry and often ran experiments. Once, when I was helping him, I got burned by one of the chemicals. I can say for sure—and not just because he was my brother-that he would have achieved great things in life had there been no war. Although we were brother and sister, it seemed natural that a huge gap existed between us. I felt great pride in him, the one for whom our family had the highest expectations. At age fourteen, he was in the second year of middle school and had been especially kind to me. In the shelter, he’d passed me some pieces of brown sugar even after Grandmother said I couldn’t have any. “This is all I’ve got,” he’d said. ‘Keep this our secret.’ To lose him so suddenly plunged me into unbearable loneliness. Only the vague thought that, before long, I would be rejoining our family kept me going.” “My grandparents, too, were devastated by the death of my brother, who had carried so many of the family’s hopes for the future. In our despondency, we seemed to lose the strength to continue searching for Father, and I stopped eating. I remember Grandfather scolding me for refusing the precious food my aunt risked her life to bring us. Gradually, I got thinner, and my body weakened.” This photo has been used to illustrate Okinawan and Saipanese suicides in various publications. Photographer United States Army Staff Sergeant Ervin S. Bigelow (March 11, 1919 – April 9, 1977) of Whitehouse Station, New Jersey, received the Bronze Star for his service on Okinawa. He enlisted on March 10, 1941, dropping out of his studies at the Chicago School of Art and Design in his Junior year. He joined the 3233rd Signal Photo Detachment on December 15, 1944, when he arrived in Pearl Harbor. He photographed the Okinawa Campaign from the 1st wave until August 1945, when he was sent to Korea. He was honorably discharged on November 5, 1945. | |
| Image Filename | wwii1513.jpg |
| Image Size | 1.51 MB |
| Image Dimensions | 3541 x 2881 |
| Photographer | Ervin S. Bigelow |
| Photographer Title | United States Army Signal Corps |
| Caption Author | Written or Adapted by Jason McDonald |
| Date Photographed | June 21, 1945 |
| Location | |
| City | |
| State or Province | Okinawa |
| Country | Ryukyus |
| Archive | National Archives and Records Administration |
| Record Number | 111-SC-209412 |
| Status | Caption ©2026 MFA Productions LLC Please Do Not Duplicate or Distribute Without Permission; Image in the Public Domain |
Author of the World War II Multimedia Database