The Pillbox Run: Arthur Jackson at Peleliu
Prologue: Island of Fire
At 07:30 on September 18th, 1944, Private First Class Arthur Jackson pressed his body against a jagged coral outcrop on Peleliu Island. The air was already thick with heat, the temperature climbing past 100 degrees as the morning sun burned away the mist. Around him, the shattered remnants of the First Marine Division lay pinned by relentless Japanese machine gun fire. Nineteen years old, three days on the island, zero confirmed kills—and now, Jackson found himself staring at a problem no textbook could solve.
The Japanese had built twelve reinforced concrete pillboxes in a half-moon arc across the southern peninsula. Each one housed between five and thirty-five enemy soldiers. Three days earlier, Major General William Rupertus had told his men they would secure the island by the weekend. He was wrong by seventy days. On D-Day alone, nearly 1,300 Marines fell on the beaches. The Japanese defenders, led by Colonel Kunio Nakagawa, had abandoned the old tactics of suicidal charges and instead built a fortress—ten thousand men waiting in caves and bunkers, connected by five hundred yards of tunnels, letting the Americans come to them.
By September 18th, the First Marine Regiment had taken seventy percent casualties. Seven out of ten Marines who landed with that regiment were dead or wounded. The Seventh Marines, Jackson’s regiment, had pushed into the southern sector. Their mission was simple: clear the Japanese defensive positions blocking the advance toward the airfield.
But the pillboxes were a nightmare. Japanese engineers had built them into the coral ridges, walls three feet thick, each with overlapping fields of fire. Attack one position and two more would cut you down from the flanks. The Marines had tried grenades—the grenades bounced off. They tried rifle fire—the bullets sparked against concrete and ricocheted into the coral. They tried rushing the gun slits—the bodies piled up in front of those concrete walls.
Jackson’s platoon had advanced two hundred yards that morning before the left flank stalled completely. A large pillbox dominated the approach. Every time a Marine moved, that pillbox fired. The platoon could not advance. They could not retreat. Three men had already died trying to find a way around it.
The standard Marine Corps solution was to call in tanks or artillery. But the terrain on Peleliu did not allow tanks in this sector; the coral ridges were too steep, the approaches too narrow. Artillery could not hit the pillboxes without destroying the Marines pinned down in front of them. Someone had to cross 150 yards of open ground, reach that pillbox, and destroy it from close range. The Japanese inside would see anyone coming. They had machine guns. They had rifles. They had grenades.
The mathematics were brutal. A man running across open ground moves at roughly fifteen yards per second under combat conditions. One hundred fifty yards meant ten seconds of exposure. The Japanese Type 92 machine gun fired 450 rounds per minute. In ten seconds, a single machine gun could put seventy-five bullets into that kill zone. The pillbox had at least two machine guns. No Marine could survive that crossing.
The officers knew it. The sergeants knew it. Jackson knew it. But Jackson also knew something else—every minute his platoon stayed pinned down, more men would die. The left flank had to move, or the entire advance would collapse. Waiting for a solution that might never come was just another way of dying.
Chapter 1: The Decision
Jackson loaded his Browning Automatic Rifle with a fresh twenty-round magazine. He stuffed his pockets with as many grenades as he could carry. Then he looked at the 150 yards of open coral between him and thirty-five Japanese soldiers.
He did not wait for permission. He did not ask his sergeant. He did not coordinate with the Marines on his right. He simply stood up and ran.
The BAR weighed nineteen pounds fully loaded. Jackson carried it at hip level as he sprinted across the coral. The weapon fired .30 caliber rounds at a rate of 550 per minute. It was not accurate from the hip, but accuracy was not the point—volume was the point. Suppression was the point.
The Japanese in the pillbox saw him immediately. Their Type 92 machine guns swiveled toward the running Marine. Bullets cracked past Jackson’s head. Coral chips exploded around his feet. The air filled with the sound of Japanese automatic weapons.
Jackson fired back without stopping. He kept the BAR’s trigger pressed and swept the muzzle across the pillbox’s firing slit. His bullets would not penetrate three feet of concrete, but they would force the Japanese gunners to duck. They would buy him seconds, and seconds were all he needed.
The distance closed—one hundred yards, eighty yards, sixty yards. Jackson’s magazine ran dry. He dropped behind a coral boulder, slammed in a fresh magazine, and ran again. The Japanese gunners had recovered. Their fire intensified. Bullets kicked up coral dust inches from Jackson’s boots—forty yards, thirty yards, twenty yards.
At close range, the geometry of the pillbox worked against its defenders. The firing slits that gave the Japanese such excellent fields of fire also limited their angles. Jackson reached the blind spot directly beside the main aperture. The Japanese inside could hear him. They could not shoot him.
Jackson had carried more than just ammunition in his pockets. He had brought white phosphorus grenades. He had brought fragmentation grenades. And another Marine following Jackson’s charge had brought something else—forty pounds of plastic explosive.
White phosphorus burns at 5,000 degrees Fahrenheit. It ignites on contact with air and cannot be extinguished with water. Jackson pulled the pin on his first phosphorus grenade and shoved it through the firing slit.
The screaming started immediately.
Japanese soldiers stumbled out of the pillbox with their uniforms on fire. Their ammunition belts began cooking off, bullets exploding around their waists. Jackson shot them as they emerged. His BAR cut them down before they could raise their weapons.
But thirty-five men occupied that pillbox. Phosphorus alone would not kill them all. Some had retreated deeper into the structure. Some were already returning fire through secondary apertures.
Jackson grabbed the explosive charges—forty pounds of composition C2 plastic explosive. He had a thirty-second time fuse. He had one chance to place the charge correctly. He shoved the entire package through the main firing slit. Then he ran.
Jackson dove into a shell crater and curled into the fetal position. He covered his head with his arms and pressed his body against the coral. The explosion lifted the pillbox off its foundation. Concrete, logs, and body parts flew sixty feet into the air. The blast wave slammed into Jackson’s crater. Debris rained down around him. A piece of concrete the size of a football landed inches from his head.
When the dust settled, the pillbox was gone. Thirty-five Japanese soldiers were dead. Jackson stood up. His ears rang. His hands shook. But he was alive.
And two hundred yards ahead, eleven more pillboxes still poured fire into the Marine lines.
Chapter 2: The Advance
Jackson did not do the logical thing. He reloaded his BAR, checked his remaining grenades, and started walking toward the next pillbox.
The second pillbox sat eighty yards northwest of the first. Smaller than the main bunker, five Japanese soldiers inside, two machine guns covering the approach. The element of surprise was gone. The Japanese in the remaining eleven positions had heard the explosion. They had seen their largest bunker disappear in a column of smoke and debris. They knew an American was coming.
Jackson used the terrain. Peleliu’s coral ridges created natural channels between positions. A man who knew how to read the ground could move from cover to cover without exposing himself to more than one pillbox at a time. Jackson had spent three days watching how the Japanese defensive network operated. He understood their blind spots.
He approached the second bunker from its eastern flank. The coral here rose in jagged formations that blocked the firing slits’ angles. Jackson crawled the last thirty yards on his belly, dragging his BAR through the volcanic rock. The Japanese inside heard him. They could not see him. They began throwing grenades blindly over the bunker wall.
Japanese Type 97 grenades had a four-second fuse. Jackson counted the explosions, waited for the pause between throws, then moved. He reached the bunker wall and pressed his back against the concrete. His phosphorus grenades were gone. He had used them all on the first position, but he still carried fragmentation grenades. He still carried his BAR. And he had learned something from the first assault—Japanese pillboxes had ventilation shafts, small openings in the roof designed to prevent carbon monoxide buildup from weapons fire. The shafts were only four inches wide, too small for a grenade, but not too small for a rifle barrel.
Jackson climbed onto the bunker roof. He found the ventilation shaft. He shoved the muzzle of his BAR into the opening and emptied an entire magazine straight down. The .30 caliber rounds ricocheted inside the concrete box. Japanese soldiers died where they stood. Jackson reloaded and fired again. Twenty more rounds into the darkness below. When he dropped back to the ground, no one inside was moving.
Two pillboxes down. Ten remaining.
Chapter 3: Geometry and Grit
The third and fourth positions sat close together, mutually supporting. Each one covered the other’s approach—standard Japanese defensive doctrine. Kill the men attacking your neighbor. Jackson could not assault one without being shot by the other.
He solved the problem with geometry. The two bunkers faced southwest toward the Marine lines. Their firing slits covered a 120-degree arc. But directly between them, a narrow corridor existed where neither bunker could bring its weapons to bear. The corridor was only eight feet wide. A man would have to move through it perfectly straight or catch bullets from one side or the other.
Jackson ran the corridor at full sprint. He reached the third bunker before its defenders could reposition their guns. He jammed his BAR into the firing slit and fired until the magazine clicked empty. He threw his last fragmentation grenade through the aperture. Then he moved to the fourth bunker and repeated the process.
Four pillboxes destroyed. Approximately fifty-five Japanese soldiers dead. Jackson had been fighting for less than twenty minutes. His ammunition was running low. His BAR had jammed twice from overheating. The barrel was so hot it burned his hands through the wooden foregrip. He had no more grenades, no more explosives.
A logical man would have stopped, fallen back, resupplied. But Jackson had seen something during his assault on the fourth bunker. Through the smoke and dust, he had spotted Marines from his platoon beginning to move forward. His attack was working. The left flank was advancing. If he stopped now, the remaining eight pillboxes would pin down those Marines exactly as they had pinned down Jackson’s platoon an hour earlier. More men would die in front of those concrete walls.
Jackson looked at his ammunition count. Three magazines, sixty rounds, eight bunkers remaining. The mathematics no longer made any sense, but Jackson started moving anyway.
Chapter 4: The Tunnel
The fifth pillbox was different. Larger than the second, third, or fourth, not as big as the first, but this one had something the others lacked—a rear entrance. Japanese defensive engineers had learned from American tactics. Marines liked to assault bunkers from the flanks where the firing slits could not reach. So, the engineers built escape routes, tunnels connecting pillboxes to rear trenches. If Americans attacked from one side, defenders could retreat, reposition, and counterattack.
Jackson did not know about the tunnel. He approached the fifth bunker using the same tactics that had worked before—find the blind spot, close the distance, kill everyone inside. He reached the bunker wall, pressed his back against the concrete, prepared to climb to the roof and find the ventilation shaft.
A Japanese soldier came out of the ground five yards behind him. The rear tunnel exit was camouflaged with coral rocks and palm fronds. Jackson had walked right past it. The soldier emerged with a bayonet fixed to his Arisaka rifle. He lunged at Jackson’s back.
Jackson spun and fired from the hip. The BAR’s .30 caliber rounds hit the Japanese soldier in the chest. The man fell backward into his own tunnel entrance, but the noise had alerted the bunker’s defenders. Jackson heard shouting inside, heard boots scrambling on concrete. He had seconds before more soldiers came through that tunnel.
Jackson dropped to one knee and fired into the tunnel entrance. The narrow passage channeled his bullets. Anyone inside took rounds directly. He burned through an entire magazine in four seconds, slammed in his second to last mag, kept firing. When the shooting stopped, three Japanese soldiers lay dead in the tunnel. The fifth pillbox had gone silent.
Five down. Seven remaining.
Chapter 5: The Counterattack
Jackson’s situation had changed. The Japanese in the remaining positions now knew his location. They knew his tactics, and they had radios. Colonel Nakagawa had established a communication network across Peleliu’s defensive positions. Each bunker could report to a central command post. The command post could coordinate counterattacks, redirect fire, and send reinforcements.
Jackson did not know that runners were already moving through the Japanese tunnel network. He did not know that Nakagawa’s officers had identified the single American who was systematically destroying their southern perimeter. He did not know that the remaining seven pillboxes had received orders to concentrate their fire on one target.
What Jackson knew was simpler. He knew that Marines were advancing on his right. He could hear their rifles. He could hear their sergeants shouting orders. His assault had broken the defensive line’s cohesion. The Japanese could no longer coordinate their fire against multiple threats. They were reacting instead of controlling.
The sixth pillbox sat on elevated ground—a coral ridge fifteen feet higher than the surrounding terrain. The position gave its defenders excellent visibility. They could see Jackson coming from two hundred yards away. Jackson could not sneak up on this one. He could not find a blind spot. The Japanese had clear sightlines in every direction. He had one magazine left, twenty rounds.
A Marine rifle squad appeared on Jackson’s right. Six men who had pushed through the gap Jackson had created. Their sergeant saw Jackson crouched behind a coral boulder, saw the elevated bunker, saw the impossible geometry. The sergeant did not give orders, did not coordinate. He simply pointed at the bunker and led his men forward. Six Marines and Jackson attacked simultaneously from two directions.
The Japanese gunners could not cover both approaches. They chose to fire on the larger group, the rifle squad. Jackson reached the bunker while the defenders were distracted. He climbed the coral ridge from its blind side. He found the ventilation shaft. He shoved his BAR into the opening. Twenty rounds—his last magazine. He made every bullet count. The sixth pillbox fell silent.
The sergeant’s rifle squad had taken casualties. Two wounded, one dead, but they were still moving forward, still fighting. Jackson looked at his empty weapon, looked at the six remaining pillboxes. He needed ammunition. He needed grenades. He needed help. For the first time since his assault began, Arthur Jackson was not alone.
Chapter 6: The Japanese Response
Colonel Nakagawa’s command post had tracked the destruction of six defensive positions in less than thirty minutes. One American had killed approximately sixty soldiers. The southern perimeter was collapsing. Nakagawa faced a tactical problem. His defensive doctrine depended on interlocking fields of fire. Each pillbox protected its neighbors. Remove one position and the network weakened. Remove six and gaps appeared large enough for entire Marine platoons to exploit.
The colonel dispatched a counterattack force—forty soldiers from his reserve company. Their orders were simple: seal the breach, kill the Marine who had caused it, restore the defensive line.
Jackson did not know reinforcements were coming. He was busy scavenging ammunition from dead Japanese soldiers. Arisaka rifles used different ammunition than his BAR—useless. But Japanese soldiers also carried grenades. Jackson collected seven Type 97 fragmentation grenades from the bodies around the sixth pillbox. He collected two Type 99 magnetic mines designed for use against tanks. He could not find more BAR magazines, but he had found a dead Marine’s M1 Garand near the third bunker. The Garand held eight rounds of .30 caliber ammunition—the same caliber as his BAR.
Jackson improvised. He stripped ammunition from the Garand’s clips and hand-loaded individual rounds into his empty BAR magazines. Slow work, tedious, but it gave him forty rounds—two full magazines.
The rifle squad that had helped him take the sixth pillbox was reorganizing. Their sergeant had been hit in the shoulder, still functional, still giving orders through hand signals. The squad had lost one man dead and two wounded. Three Marines remained combat effective.
Jackson and the three Marines prepared to assault the seventh pillbox when the Japanese counterattack hit. Forty soldiers emerged from a tunnel entrance two hundred yards north. They moved in two columns. No bonsai charge, no screaming, just disciplined infantry advancing through the coral ridges with rifles ready.
The Marines saw them first. The squad’s BAR man opened fire. His weapon jammed after three rounds. Coral dust had fouled the mechanism. He dropped behind cover and began clearing the stoppage.
Jackson stepped into the gap. He braced his BAR against the coral outcrop and fired controlled bursts. Five rounds. Pause. Five rounds. Pause. He could not afford to waste ammunition. Every bullet had to hit. The Japanese formation scattered. Soldiers dove behind rocks. Others pushed forward, trying to close the distance. Their own fire intensified. Bullets cracked overhead. Coral fragments sprayed Jackson’s face.
The three Marines added their Garands to the fight. Eight-round clips. Aimed fire. The distinctive ping of empty clips ejecting punctuated the chaos. Japanese soldiers fell—ten, fifteen. But more kept coming. They had numbers. They had discipline. And they had orders to retake this ground at any cost.
Jackson’s first magazine ran dry. He reloaded his last twenty rounds. The Marines were down to their final clips. The squad’s BAR man had cleared his jam, but had only one magazine remaining. The mathematics had turned against them again. Four Americans with perhaps sixty rounds between them against twenty-five Japanese soldiers still advancing.
Then the coral ridge behind the Japanese erupted in explosions.
The Seventh Marines had pushed three rifle platoons through the gaps Jackson had created—forty men with rifles, BARs, and grenades. They had circled behind the Japanese counterattack force. They had waited for the right moment. That moment was now.
The Japanese found themselves caught between two American forces—Jackson and his three Marines in front, forty Marines behind. The crossfire was devastating. Japanese soldiers fell in clusters. Some tried to retreat to their tunnel entrance. Marines cut them down before they reached it. In less than three minutes, the counterattack was over. Forty Japanese soldiers lay dead on the coral. The southern perimeter’s last reserve was gone.
Six pillboxes remained. And now Jackson had ammunition. He had grenades. He had forty Marines ready to follow him into the final positions.
Chapter 7: The Final Assault
The largest bunker complex on the southern peninsula sat three hundred yards ahead. Three pillboxes arranged in a triangle, mutually supporting, heavily manned. The Japanese had concentrated their remaining defenders in this final strongpoint. Jackson checked his weapon, checked his grenades, looked at the Marines forming up around him. The last fight was about to begin.
The triangle formation was the strongest Japanese defensive position on the southern peninsula. Three pillboxes, each one covering the approaches to the other two. Approximately thirty soldiers divided among the three bunkers, plus a network of rifle pits and fighting holes connecting the positions. Standard Marine doctrine called for preparatory bombardment before assaulting a fortified position of this size—naval gunfire, air support, at minimum, a barrage from the regiment’s mortar platoon. None of that was available. The naval guns had moved on to support operations elsewhere. Marine Corsairs were busy attacking targets on the northern ridges. The mortar teams could not fire without hitting the Marines already advancing through the area.
Forty-three Americans would take the triangle with rifles, grenades, and one man who had already proven that concrete walls could not stop him. Jackson organized the assault in less than two minutes. He used hand signals, pointed at positions, divided the Marines into three groups. Each group would attack one pillbox simultaneously. Jackson would take the center bunker—the largest one, the one with the best fields of fire. The Marines moved out at 0847.
They had been fighting for over an hour. The temperature had climbed past 105 degrees. Dehydration was becoming a factor. Several men showed signs of heat exhaustion. They kept moving anyway.
Jackson led his group of twelve Marines toward the center pillbox. The approach required crossing sixty yards of open ground. No cover, no concealment, just volcanic rock baked white by the Pacific sun. The Japanese opened fire when the Marines were halfway across. Two men fell in the first three seconds—one dead, one wounded in the leg. The remaining ten kept running. They had learned from Jackson’s earlier assaults: speed was survival. Hesitation was death.
Jackson reached the bunker wall first. He pressed against the concrete and pulled the pin on a Japanese grenade. The Type 97 had a four-to-five-second fuse. He counted to two, threw the grenade through the firing slit, and ducked. The explosion silenced one machine gun, but the bunker had two firing positions. The second gun kept shooting. Marines outside were dying. Jackson pulled another grenade, counted, threw. Another explosion. The second gun went quiet.
He climbed to the roof and found the ventilation shaft, shoved his BAR into the opening, emptied his magazine into the darkness below. Screams echoed up through the concrete. Then silence. The center pillbox was dead.
On his left, the first assault group had reached their target. A Marine corporal had shoved a satchel charge through the firing slit. The explosion collapsed half the bunker’s roof. Japanese survivors stumbled out into Marine rifle fire.
On his right, the third group was struggling. Their pillbox had a reinforced entrance facing away from the Marine advance. Japanese soldiers inside were throwing grenades faster than the Americans could close the distance. Jackson did not hesitate. He sprinted across the open ground between bunkers. Bullets kicked up coral around his feet. A round grazed his thigh. He kept running. He reached the third pillbox from its blind side—the same blind side the Marines could not approach because of the entrance on the opposite wall.
Jackson found the ventilation shaft. He had two grenades left. He dropped them both into the opening. The explosions killed everyone inside. Three pillboxes destroyed in less than four minutes. The triangle had fallen, but Jackson was bleeding. The bullet that grazed his thigh had cut deeper than he realized. Blood soaked his dungaree trousers. His left leg was weakening with every step.
He looked south. The remaining three pillboxes stood between the Marines and complete control of the southern peninsula. Jackson had killed approximately fifty Japanese soldiers, destroyed nine bunkers, been wounded at least once. The logical thing was to stop, get medical attention, let fresh Marines finish the job. Jackson loaded his last magazine, and started walking south. A Marine sergeant grabbed his arm, pointed at the blood, pointed at the aid station behind them. Jackson pulled his arm free. Three pillboxes remained. He was not finished.
The tenth pillbox fell at 0912. Jackson killed its five defenders with grenades dropped through the ventilation shaft. His leg was still bleeding. He had wrapped a torn piece of dungaree fabric around the wound. It was not enough. Blood seeped through the makeshift bandage with every step.
The eleventh pillbox fell at 0921. This one required help. Jackson’s ammunition was exhausted. A Marine private named Henderson brought up a satchel charge. Jackson placed it. The explosion killed seven Japanese soldiers.
The twelfth pillbox was the last. It sat on a small rise overlooking the beach where the Seventh Marines had landed three days earlier. The position had been firing on Marine supply parties since D-Day. Its two machine guns had killed at least fifteen Americans. The bunker’s commander had watched eleven pillboxes fall that morning. He knew he was next.
Jackson approached from the northeast. His leg had stopped responding properly. He was dragging it more than walking. Blood loss was affecting his vision. The coral ridges seemed to shimmer in the hundred-degree heat. Three Marines followed him. They had refused to let him assault the final position alone. One carried extra grenades. One carried a flamethrower. One carried a BAR with ammunition to spare.
The Japanese opened fire at one hundred yards. The Marine with the BAR returned fire—a suppressive burst that forced the enemy gunners to duck. Jackson and the other two kept moving. At fifty yards, the flamethrower operator stepped forward. The M2 flamethrower had an effective range of forty yards. He needed to get closer. Jackson provided cover. He took the BAR from the supporting Marine and fired in controlled bursts. The weapon kicked against his shoulder. His wounded leg buckled. He dropped to one knee and kept shooting.
The flamethrower operator reached effective range. He triggered a three-second burst. Burning fuel arced through the air and poured into the pillbox’s firing slit. The screaming lasted less than ten seconds.
At 0933, the twelfth pillbox fell silent. Jackson collapsed against a coral boulder. His dungarees were soaked with blood. His hands shook from exhaustion and adrenaline. His BAR lay across his lap, barrel still hot from the final assault.
In approximately ninety minutes, Private First Class Arthur Jackson had destroyed twelve Japanese pillboxes and killed fifty enemy soldiers. He had broken the southern defensive line. He had enabled his platoon’s advance. He had changed the tactical situation on an entire sector of the island.
Navy corpsmen reached him within minutes. They cut away his blood-soaked trousers and dressed the wound. The bullet had passed through muscle without hitting bone or artery. Jackson would keep his leg. He would also keep fighting. Three days later, still limping, Jackson was back in combat.
Epilogue: Legacy of Courage
Word of his assault spread through the Seventh Marines within hours. Officers who had watched the attack from observation posts described what they had seen—a single Marine charging positions that should have required company-level assaults. Pillboxes falling one after another. Fifty Japanese dead. The regimental commander forwarded a report to division headquarters. Division forwarded it to corps. By the time Peleliu was declared secure on November 27th, Arthur Jackson’s name had reached the desk of Admiral Chester Nimitz.
The Medal of Honor recommendation was submitted in early October. The citation detailed every pillbox, every kill, every moment of the ninety-minute assault. The paperwork moved through channels with unusual speed.
On October 5th, 1945, President Harry Truman stood in the White House. Thirteen months had passed since Peleliu. The war was over. Japan had surrendered, and Arthur Jackson, now twenty years old, stood at attention while the president placed the Medal of Honor around his neck. Truman read the citation aloud: twelve pillboxes, fifty Japanese soldiers, conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty.
Jackson returned to Oregon after the ceremony. He had a medal. He had a limp that would never fully heal. And he had memories that would follow him for the rest of his life.
For decades, Arthur Jackson did not talk about Peleliu. He married, raised a family, worked for the United States Postal Service, delivering mail. His neighbors knew him as a quiet man who walked with a slight limp. Most had no idea about the medal in his closet.
Jackson remained in the military reserves, transferring from the Marine Corps to the Army Reserve and serving through the Korean War era. He rose to the rank of captain, trained younger soldiers, and never spoke about the twelve pillboxes.
In 2011, at age eighty-six, Jackson visited the USS Peleliu. The Navy had named an amphibious assault ship after the battle where he had earned his medal. Jackson walked the decks, spoke to more than a thousand sailors and Marines assembled in the hangar bay. He told them about the pillboxes. He told them about the men who did not come home. He presented the ship’s captain with his Medal of Honor flag, one of only two flags each recipient receives. The captain had it framed and placed in the ship’s hall of heroes alongside photographs of the eight Marines who earned the Medal of Honor at Peleliu. Jackson was the last surviving Medal of Honor recipient from that battle.
On June 14th, 2017, Arthur Jackson died in Boise, Idaho. He was ninety-two years old. Marine Corps body bearers from Bravo Company, Marine Barracks, Washington, carried his remains. Full military honors marked his burial at the Idaho State Veteran Cemetery.
Fifty Japanese soldiers had tried to stop one nineteen-year-old Marine on September 18th, 1944. Every single one of them died. The Marine lived another seventy-three years.
