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The following "Tribute of a Marine," quoted in part, was written by former Assistant Secretary of the Navy James D. Hittle. It is printed here to provide an insight into the character of the man in whose honor this ship is named.
I had the great personal fortune of knowing Elmer Montgomery. We first met on Guam in late 1944. We needed a clerk typist, Sgt. Montgomery reported. Work piled high and the hours were long in that little quonset hut office, but when Elmer did have a moment, he would lean his chair against the wall and pull a small, white leather-covered Bible from his hip pocket. Wherever the Bible fell open in his hand he would begin to read - and find serenity.
The other NCO's had trouble figuring Elmer, but they liked him. He was quiet and a bit withdrawn, but he was no "loner." He could chuckle at a bawdy joke and join in the bull sessions, though he winced at some of the more earthy profanity.
In February we sailed for Iwo Jima. After several days of fierce fighting, division staff sections were ordered to provide replacements for badly mauled front-line units; I had to provide two. I selected the two I thought could best be spared from my supply operation. I was just about to send the names to the division adjutant when my executive officer popped into my dugout. Sgt. Montgomery wanted to see me.
The sergeant saluted and informed me he had heard about the call for reinforcements. "You're not one of them", I told him; thinking it would put his mind at ease. "That's what I want talk to you about, Colonel," he said, "I want to go forward." I explained that I considered him essential to our supply mission -and for the first time he argued. He wasn't loud, but he was firm. "I'll never feel right if I don't go up when I'm needed," the said. "I'm needed now. I'm older than most of these kids. I've had a lot of experience looking after myself while hunting back home in Montana. I can look after them up forward." I realized he wouldn't take no for an answer. I never saw Elmer again.
A Marine from his frontline unit told me the story. The platoon commander had been killed and Elmer was assigned under a staff sergeant as assistant platoon commander. The order came to attack. The patched up platoon moved across a slight rise to and into a small saucer-shaped area where it was pinned down by a carefully camouflaged Japanese machine gun. If they stayed, they would soon be blasted apart by mortars. Elmer crawled and rolled within yelling distance of the staff sergeant. The Marine who told me the story paused, pulled on his cigarette and pressed a bandage on his arm tighter against his own wound. Sgt. Montgomery yelled, "when I draw the fire, roll the platoon over the rise." And while the platoon commander was saying "no," Sgt. Montgomery stood up and firing his rifle from his hip, walked into the machine gun. "We're here because he drew the fire long enough for us to slide back over the rise."
They never found Elmer. A few minutes after his platoon reached safety, our artillery laid down a barrage on the machine gun emplacement. The big shells churned the ground and everything on it mercilessly. He and his little white leather-covered Bible became, forever, part of the hallowed ground of Iwo Jima.
I suppose memories fade and maybe Sgt. Montgomery's decoration for bravery is almost forgotten, but whenever I think back to all the brave men I have been privileged to know, Elmer heads the list.