It became apparent very quickly that James Burchette and James Butler were destined to become close friends. Both hard-working farm boys from North Carolina, the two young men were drafted into the U.S. Army on the same day in 1944 and soon discovered a kindred spirit in one another.

Neither man liked to wear shoes, both had a penchant for pushing boundaries, and each purposely chose not to seek deferments so they could do their part in the war.

Both men still laugh when they recall the moment nearly 65 years ago that they consider the beginning of their long, unique friendship.

It was their first day of basic training at Ft. McClellan in Alabama and the entire company had been ordered not to leave the barracks under any circumstances. They were then told those orders would remain in effect for one week.

It took only minutes before Burchette and Butler decided to disobey them.

As Burchette looked outside he saw other new recruits walking toward the camp’s store and didn’t see any reason why he shouldn’t join them.

“I said to Jim, ‘Listen, those guys walking the street out there are dressed just like me and you so why can’t we go to the PX?’” said Burchette. “Jim said, ‘Anyone else want to go?’ Nobody else dared leave. So we went to the PX and got us one of those five-cent beers and a pint of ice cream and came back. We didn’t do anything extraordinary and acted just like everybody else. Why wouldn’t it work?”

“And it did work,” laughed Butler. “We didn’t get caught.”

“That made us a little bit closer,” said Burchette.

The friendship would only strengthen over the next several months as the men trained in Alabama and Hawaii before entering the hellish maelstrom on the island of Okinawa. Even under the worst conditions of battle the two men remained concerned about each other’s welfare.

When Burchette was lying in a hospital bed suffering from a poisonous snake bite he saved a large portion of his Lucky Strike cigarettes for his buddy still fighting on the front lines.

Several weeks later it was Burchette who caught Butler in his arms after a Japanese sniper artfully placed a bullet deep into his chest. After helping to carry his friend to safety, Burchette crawled away from American lines and into a war-torn landscape to hunt down the sniper who wounded his friend.

‘We’re war buddies,” said Butler. “That’s what we call each other. When you go through something like we did it makes you closer.”

For more than six decades the two friends never discussed their experiences on Okinawa. Burchette finally broke the silence in January when he gave a 75-minute presentation at a senior living facility in Angier.

“I gave them a lot of facts,” said Burchette.

Butler was more hesitant to share his story. He had completely avoided anything that would remind of him of Okinawa for so long that he wasn’t sure how to discuss it.

“After I left I never wanted to look back,” said Butler. “I never wanted to read anything about it or see anything about it. I don’t like talking about it. It makes me nervous.”

But with his good buddy sitting by his side Butler decided it was time to tell his story and Burchette was ready to share more than just facts. He was ready to tell a much more personal account about one of the bloodiest battles of World War II.

After hearing their stories it is easy to understand how difficult it must be to dig up such painful memories. It’s also hard to believe that they survived such a living nightmare in the first place.

Two farm boys

The two war buddies grew up in very similar circumstances in the 1920s and ‘30s. They were years of long hours and hard work on the family farm during some of the worst economic times the country ever experienced.

Butler was born June 25, 1923 in Snake Bite Township in Bertie County, one of two sons and two daughters raised by James and Payloe Butler.

Butler’s father had farmed rented land until September 1930 when he used most of his savings to buy the land for himself. The timing couldn’t have been worse as the nation began a headlong plunge into the Great Depression.

“We had quite a time holding onto it,” said Butler. “We worked pretty hard. We had tobacco, cotton, peanuts, corn, soybean, cattle and hogs. We stayed busy pretty much year round. We also had to cut a bunch of wood to heat the house and cure tobacco. My daddy use to say that tobacco was a 13-month a year job. But tobacco was the money maker.”

Even with the grueling work schedule Butler was able to find time to develop some impressive athletic ability. He played baseball and basketball and also ran on his high school’s track team.

Despite all the hardships the family faced the Butlers always strove to help those even less fortunate. And in the mid-1930s there were plenty of less fortunate folks all around.

“The thing I remember clearly that is so striking is people walking up and down the road with an old coffee pot, a skillet and the clothes on their back just living off the land,” said Butler. “If there was corn they would go out and pull it and eat it off the cob. People would give them that stuff.

“We had a vacant house on the farm and my daddy would leave an ax there. They would go and cut some wood and build a fire and my mother would give them some stuff to cook. The next day they would be gone.”

Butler graduated from high school in 1940 and was eager to stay on the farm and work. But his parents urged him to attend college and he soon left home for North Carolina State University. It turned out to be a short trip.

“I did not distinguish myself academically and at the end of the year I went back to the farm where I wanted to be the whole time,” said Butler.

When the war began with the bombing of Pearl Harbor on Dec. 7, 1941, the 18-year-old Butler figured he would soon receive his draft notice. But agriculture became an important component of the war effort and for the next two years he received deferments in order to keep the family farm productive.

In 1944, Butler decided it was time to leave the farm and take an active part in the war. His father, who served in the Army during World War I, wasn’t very happy with the decision.

“My dad would have liked to keep me home,” said Butler. “He said, ‘I’ll go down to the (deferment) board and see if you can get deferred again.’ I said, ‘No, I’m no better than anybody else. I might as well do my part.’ I wasn’t anxious to go but I felt like he shouldn’t try to get me another deferment.”

Butler’s father held a much clearer understanding of what it meant to fight in a war. It was hard for him to hide his emotions when the time came to say goodbye to his son.

“My father was a bugler in World War I and his company was scheduled to go replace an outfit on the front lines when the Armistice was signed,” said Butler. “The only time I ever saw my father upset was when I left to go overseas. He knew what was going to happen over there. I didn’t know but I found out.”

Burchette, born August 18, 1924 was one of five children raised by Elijah and Ruth Burchette on the family farm in Fuquay.

Just like Butler, he worked long, hard hours on the farm but still found time to play sports. He and his older brother, E.T. (who would parachute into France on D-Day) could usually be found either working in the fields or playing ball.

“E.T. and I grew up playing ball together,” said Burchette. “We didn’t have a basketball goal but we put a hoop on the side of the barn. We learned to play basketball that way. In the summertime we played baseball and we were both gifted.”

The family didn’t have much money but the children never realized it. They focused on all the good things they had and didn’t waste time worrying about things they didn’t have.

“It was the Depression big time,” said Burchette. “Things were hard. But we had food to eat, a school to go to and excellent parents who provided for us.

“It was hard work but when I was asked to go plow a field I didn’t mind. I loved to do it and was proud of my work. I wanted to do it right.”

The brothers were playing basketball on that Sunday in December of 1941 that would live in infamy. E.T. went to work in the shipyards for a year before being drafted. Neither he nor E.T. was upset by the draft notice.

“It wasn’t hard for us, not at all,” said Burchette. “It was just time to go.”

Burchette received deferments for the next few years as he worked on the family farm. There was some griping on the homefront about all the rationing but for the most part families pulled together during the war years.

If a family had sons in the service neighbors would help with farm chores and cutting wood.

“Daddy told me that when I went into the service people came to help them out,” said Burchette.

With a few sad exceptions, low morale was never much a problem.

“Most everybody’s morale was high except the parents when they got the message that someone was wounded or killed,” said Burchette. “That made the neighborhood come even closer together.”

A neighbor, Wade Allen, was the first person that Burchette knew who was killed. Unfortunately, it was far from the last.

“He was training in Florida on a plane that guarded the coastline,” said Burchette. “Something happened to his plane and he disappeared into the ocean. He was the first I knew but then there were several more.”

By 1944, Burchette wasn’t interested in receiving any more deferments. He felt the time had come for him to do his share in the war.

“I was ready,” said Burchette. “It was time to go and do what you could.”

Army green

On Sept. 26, 1944, Butler and Burchette were officially inducted into the U.S. Army at Ft. Bragg. Because of their last names, the two were usually grouped together all the way through training.

“They did things alphabetically,” said Burchette. “I was just ahead of him in line. I got the top bunk and he got the bottom bunk.”

While at Ft. Bragg, Butler was surprised to run into an old friend from his hometown who was known for his strength and headstrong ways.

“I heard someone say, ‘Hey, Little Jim.’ It was Tommy Connor,” said Butler. “Tommy was six-foot-six, 250 pounds of rip cord steel. He was one tough cookie. We talked for a few minutes and I said, ‘I see you got to be a corporal.’ He said, ‘Hell, I was a sergeant last week.’ That fit Tommy’s personality exactly.

“He said, ‘Now, if anybody gives you a hard time tell them you’re my friend because they know me here.’ After the war he got into a fight at the Stockyard Café and threw a guy through a window. A judge declared his fists a lethal weapon. Tommy was tough.”

After a short stay at Ft. Bragg the new recruits were sent to Ft. McClellan, AL for basic training. With war raging in both Europe and the Pacific, the Army squeezed 17 weeks of training into just 15 weeks.

“We rushed through it,” said Burchette.

The training may have been rushed but it still proved invaluable. Both men said the things they learned in basic training eventually helped save their lives on Okinawa.

Shortly after the war ended, Burchette met his company’s training instructor, Capt. Cousins, in a bar in the Philippines. He quickly remembered Burchette and the other men in that group.

“He said we were the easiest men he ever trained in his life,” said Burchette. “The majority of us were from eastern North Carolina and had come off the farm. We did everything they said in the way of training and we learned a lot. We learned how to live. Once we hit Okinawa we knew it was either kill or be killed. That’s the way we lived.”

One of the toughest aspects of training for Butler and Burchette was wearing shoes all the time. Both were used to going barefoot on their farms and the new Army boots they were forced to wear were uncomfortable.

Every chance they got they took off those boots and walked to the PX where they always won bets by displaying how tough their feet were.

“I could light a match on my heel and step on (lit) cigarette butts,” said Butler. “We’d go to the PX and (win) a lot of beer that way.”

After basic training the men were told they were being sent to Europe where the Battle of the Bulge was still in doubt for the Allies. But eventually the company was loaded on a train and sent to the West Coast before being shipped to the Pacific.

Burchette didn’t care what theater of war they were headed for but Butler was saddened by the change of orders.

“I had a little bit of a preference,” said Butler. “I was a history buff and wanted to see all those places in Europe.”

On the way from Alabama to California the company had a short layover in New Orleans. The memories of those crazy hours spent in the Big Easy still make both men smile.

“I wish I could do as much in a month as I did in that town,” said Butler. “We hit New Orleans like a storm.”

After short stays in Ft. Ord, CA and Vancouver Barracks, WA, Burchette and Butler spent 30 days undergoing amphibious training in Hawaii. Then they were loaded onto a troop transport headed for Okinawa.

“We had no idea where we were headed,” said Butler.

Butler and Burchette were assigned as replacements for L Company of the 383rd Regiment, 96th Infantry. As the invasion of Okinawa got underway, the two friends waited at sea for orders to go ashore. “We didn’t know what was happening,” said Butler. “We were on a ship waiting to go in.”

They would wait on that ship for nearly 10 full days.

Operation Iceberg

Butler and Burchette were better off not knowing what awaited them on the island of Okinawa.

The invasion, dubbed Operation Iceberg by the Allies, began on April 1, 1945 and didn’t conclude until late June. During that time the Allies, mostly Americans, suffered over 12,500 dead and nearly 39,000 wounded. The Japanese losses were staggering with an estimated 110,000 killed and less than 10,000 captured. Adding to the horror was the death of tens of thousands of Japanese civilians.

The fighting on the 60-mile long island was horrific. The deeply entrenched Japanese fought fanatically and American soldiers and Marines matched the enemy’s courage, determination and ferocity.

Brutality was commonplace and death a constant companion. The putrid stench of dead people and animals hung in the air constantly.

During the day, the Americans advanced slowly against Japanese hidden in trenches, pillboxes and caves. At night, the Japanese would attempt to infiltrate enemy lines and kill Americans with knives and swords.

Look for part two of Burchette and Butler’s story in next week’s issue of the Holly Springs Sun.

The tenacious nature of the close quart­­­­ers fighting quickly wore many men down. Some lost their minds while others simply lost their humanity.

The war turned good, honest men on both sides into merciless killers on the battlefield. Neither side asked for quarter nor was any given. Taking prisoners was rare; killing the enemy without a pang of regret was not.

The bloodletting of the last major battle of World War II etched a legacy of cruelty and savagery on a massive scale.

On April 10, Butler and Burchette were ordered to enter this ghastly world. Young, eager and naïve, neither felt any fear as they landed on the beach and made their way toward the front lines.

“Going into combat didn’t frighten me,” said Butler. “Now, after I got in it I got a little frightened.”

“After all that training I wasn’t frightened,” said Burchette. “I also never thought that I could get killed.”

The two men were replacements for L Company, which only had 38 men remaining out of over 100. Butler was placed in a rifle squad while Burchette was assigned as a machine gunner.

“I was the 13th man in the (12-man) Third Squad, which meant I was a roamer,” said Butler. “I carried a lot of messages and stuff early on.”

It didn’t take long before Butler came in possession of a Browning Automatic Rifle, a weapon he cherished from the moment he held it.

“I got to be a BAR man because there was a company moving through our lines to take our place and they had a guy with them who was shaking like a leaf,” said Butler. “He had a BAR and he couldn’t change the firing pin, which was a pretty simple operation. He begged me to trade (weapons) with him. I told him I could fix that thing for him and he said he didn’t have the time but he would trade me. So we switched bandoliers of ammo and guns. I kind of liked it and kept it.”

But just as Butler was beginning to get used to his BAR he was ordered to carry the company’s flamethrower. He hated every minute of lugging around the over 60-pound weapon on his back.

“When I got that flamethrower I had to let someone else keep the BAR for me,” said Butler. “My daddy used to talk about being (exhausted) from work. I never knew what he meant until I carried that flamethrower a couple of days. It was tough.

“Of course, the Japanese didn’t like them. They are an awesome weapon. So they killed anyone (carrying a flamethrower).”

Butler suggested that three-man rotation should be used for carrying the flamethrower but the idea was quickly dismissed.

“They said, ‘Ah, you’re doin’ alright,’” recalls Butler. “I said, ‘You put this damn thing on your back and jump in a rice paddy up to your knees and you’ll see how alright it is.’”

Two of Butler’s scariest moments on Okinawa came while he was toting the flamethrower. The first incident occurred as he approached Japanese soldiers in a cave and prepared to fire the weapon. Much to his astonishment the only thing shooting from the flamethrower was unlit fuel.

“I was going to use it one time and the guy who had it before me ran out of igniters,” said Butler. “All I did was spray some (Japanese) with it. That was a shocking surprise to me. I dropped down to the ground and headed back for some igniters but they already had that situation cleared up when I got back.”

The second incident also involved a cave. Butler was ordered to go inside and take care of anyone he might find.

“It was the most scared I ever was,” said Butler. “They had bamboo stuck on the ground and you had to ease your way through. If you kicked one of them it would make a noise and alert (the Japanese). I was carrying that flamethrower through there but there wasn’t anybody in that cave. That was the scariest thing I ever did, I guess.”

As the days progressed Butler looked for any possible opportunity to get rid of the flamethrower. He soon found a person happy to take over his duties.

“There was a guy in the company, Reynolds, who was a scout,” said Butler. “He didn’t want any part of being a scout. I said, ‘Reynolds, if you take this flamethrower I’ll scout.’ He grabbed it from me.”

Butler retrieved his cherished BAR and prepared to go out on his first scouting mission when he was told to change weapons.

“They told me, ‘You can’t scout with a BAR’ and I said, ‘Nobody is going to separate me from this weapon. I like it,’” said Butler. “So, I may have been the only scout in the Army with a BAR.”

While Butler moved through different assignments Burchette was becoming a master with his light machine gun. As the company advanced toward Japanese positions they increasingly relied on his marksmanship and cool head under fire.

“The squad leader said, ‘Don’t let no one fire that weapon but him,’” said Burchette. “I had such a touch on that machine gun that I could fire it one bullet at a time.”

“I fired machine guns but I don’t think I could ever have done that,” said Butler.

Burchette’s machine gun was an effective weapon but it also drew heavy fire from the Japanese nearly every time he used it. He quickly became a discerning machine gunner, knowing almost instinctively when to let loose and when to hold his fire.

“Every fifth bullet on the belt was a tracer,” said Burchette. “That’s how you could zero in on a target that was 200 or 300 yards away. But I told them, ‘I’m not going to fire unless I absolutely got to because I ain’t going to start with an automatic weapon that is going to draw fire.’ Those anti-tank guns would start to fire at us. Whoosh … bang!”

As the battle wore on Burchette became desensitized by nearly everything the war threw at him. Even the thought of killing became nearly meaningless.

“I shouldn’t say it,” said Burchette as he slowly shakes his head. “Toward the end it got to be fun. Ain’t that sad? You get immune to doing something you don’t want to do. It ain’t best for you to do it but you got to do it. It was kill or be killed and it got easier.

“To me, now, I think it’s terrible. How could I’ve shot a person? Then it was a different story.”