The Forgotten “Black Angels” of Peleliu: How Overlooked Marines Redefined Courage

On the afternoon of September 15, 1944, the coral sand of Peleliu burned under a relentless Pacific sun. The lagoon behind the invasion beaches was choked with burning amphibious tractors, shattered landing craft, and drifting smoke. Cries for medics cut through the thunder of artillery. It was the sort of battlefield no one forgets.

Among the men moving through this chaos was Private First Class Ruben McNair of the 7th Marine Ammunition Company. Sweat, salt, and dust clung to his uniform as he hauled another heavy crate across a landscape that looked more like a scrapyard of war than a beachhead. He was tired, frightened, and already beginning to understand that nothing about this operation would go according to plan.

He also knew something else: he and his comrades weren’t supposed to be here like this.

They were not infantry, at least not officially. McNair and many of the men around him belonged to the 7th Marine Ammunition Company and the 11th Marine Depot Company—segregated African American support units drawn from Montford Point, the separate training camp created for Black Marines. They had been told they were there to move supplies, not to fight. Their training had been shorter than that of white Marines, their roles limited by policy rather than ability.

Peleliu was about to ignore all of that.

Men the War “Wasn’t Supposed to Need”

During training, many of these Marines had been reminded of the boundaries others set for them. They were told they were not “combat material,” that their job was to haul ammunition and stay behind the fighting line. The message was clear: they were expected to support the war, not stand at its spearhead.

But war cares little for preconceived roles. Peleliu, a small island in the Palau chain, was supposed to be secured in three days. General William Rupertus, commander of the 1st Marine Division, believed the operation would be tough but brief: seize the airfield, neutralize the garrison, move on toward the Philippines.

Instead, the island turned into one of the most grueling and controversial battles of the Pacific campaign. The defenders had turned Peleliu into a maze of fortified caves, concrete positions, and interconnected tunnels. Roughly 10,000 experienced soldiers were determined to fight to the end.

By the afternoon of the first day, the Marines of the 1st Division found themselves pinned down under intense fire from the ridges overlooking the beaches. Casualties mounted quickly. Some companies were losing nearly half their strength. Stretcher teams were overwhelmed. Unit lines became thin and brittle.

That was when the call went out for volunteers.

“You’re Infantry Now”

On the beach, Sergeant James Thompson of the 7th Ammunition Company gathered his men as orders filtered down. The 7th Marines, fighting inland from one of the invasion beaches, had taken heavy losses and needed immediate reinforcements: ammunition carriers, stretcher bearers, and anyone who could fire a rifle.

Some of the men hesitated for a moment—not out of fear, but out of disbelief. They had been told they were support troops. They had trained as such. Yet the reality in front of them was undeniable. The infantry units were battered. The line was under pressure. There simply weren’t enough riflemen.

Thompson cut through the uncertainty with blunt clarity: they were qualified on the rifle. The line needed them. That made them infantry now.

Among those who stepped forward were Ruben McNair and five others: Lee Douglas Jr., Samuel Love, Marcus Henderson, William Taylor, Eugene Foster, and James Whitfield. They came from different parts of the United States and different walks of life—dockworkers, city kids, young men barely out of their teens—but they shared one thing: they wore the same uniform and faced the same danger as every other Marine on that island.

As they moved toward the front, they passed wrecked vehicles, shattered equipment, and wounded men being dragged back toward the beach. It was a harsh welcome to the fight they were never meant to join.

Into the Line on Peleliu

When the six Black Marines from the ammunition and depot companies arrived near the positions of the 7th Marines, they met an officer with a blood-stained bandage wrapped around his head. For a split second, he hesitated when he realized these reinforcements were from support units and were African American. Old assumptions collided with a new reality.

Then a burst of enemy fire nearby erased any remaining doubt. The need was too urgent for prejudice. The officer’s tone hardened. He laid out the situation: casualties, gaps in the line, exhausted riflemen, wounded who could not be evacuated, enemy positions that would not stop firing.

They were given a simple mission: move ammunition forward, bring the wounded back, and if the enemy attacked, fight.

Some of the Marines in the line had never expected to see Black Marines beside them in combat roles. Some carried the same prejudices that were common at home. But on Peleliu, between the coral ridges and the airfield, survival mattered more than preconceptions.

The next hours would change many minds.

The Night the “Black Angels” Earned Their Name

The crucial test came in the early hours of September 16, when an enemy counterattack surged out of the caves and ravines. In the dark, under flares and tracers, the line felt like it might snap.

The six men from the ammunition and depot companies were no longer just hauling crates. They were fighting. McNair worked his M1 rifle steadily, firing into the dark as shapes moved toward the line. Lee Douglas fought with both rifle and knife. Samuel Love took over a 37 mm gun whose crew had been killed, using it at close range. Henderson and Taylor created a rhythm of covering fire and reloading, keeping their sector from collapsing. Foster pressed a captured light machine gun into service, using an enemy weapon to break up the assault. Whitfield moved quietly among positions with a pack of grenades, throwing them with the accuracy of a practiced ballplayer.

In the middle of this chaos, McNair saw a young wounded Marine lying exposed between the lines. The advancing enemy was closing the distance rapidly. Without stopping to calculate the odds, McNair ran out to him, firing one-handed to keep attackers at bay while dragging the wounded man by his web gear.

He did not make it back alone. Douglas, Love, Henderson, Whitfield, and Foster all helped, forming a shield of fire and bodies around the casualty. Grenades burst nearby. Bullets kicked up fragments of coral. Somehow, they got the young man back to cover alive.

A nearby Marine sergeant watched this unfold. His voice was thick with exhaustion and something approaching amazement as he spoke:

“Black angels. Y’all are black angels.”

The name stuck. It passed from fighting hole to fighting hole that night, across squads and platoons. The “Black Angels” were no longer anonymous support troops. They were the men who had carried ammunition under fire, dragged wounded Marines out of the open, and held their section of the line when it might have fallen.

A Costly Battle, a Quiet Legacy

Dawn on September 16 revealed the price of the night’s fighting. The attack had been repelled, but the toll was high. And Peleliu was far from over. The battle would grind on for more than two months, as Marines fought through the Umurbrogol ridges in some of the harshest conditions of the Pacific war.

Throughout the campaign, the Black Marines of the 7th Ammunition Company and the 11th Marine Depot Company continued to shoulder a staggering workload. They carried ammunition forward and wounded back again and again, often under direct fire. They manned weapons whose crews had been hit. They held positions that others had been forced to abandon. Their work combined the worst of logistics and front-line combat.

The 11th Marine Depot Company suffered 17 wounded—an especially heavy loss for a unit that, on paper, was not supposed to experience direct engagement. It was one of the highest casualty rates for any African American Marine unit in the Pacific.

Their performance did not go entirely unnoticed. Major General Rupertus, the division commander, wrote letters praising the conduct of the Black Marines, noting their effort and cooperation and stating that they had “earned a well done” in the eyes of the division. The phrasing reflected the attitudes of the time—commendation mixed with a reminder that their presence was still seen as a “privilege” rather than a basic right. Yet even within those limits, it was a rare official acknowledgment that these men had proven themselves as Marines in the toughest possible environment.

Despite a brief wartime press release, their story quickly faded from public view after the war. As accounts of Peleliu focused on the ridges, the airfield, and the long casualty lists, the contributions of support companies and segregated units were often condensed to a line or omitted entirely.

Two Wars at Once

For the men of the 7th Ammunition Company and the 11th Marine Depot Company, Peleliu was only one battlefield.

They fought one war against a determined enemy on a small island far from home. At the same time, they were caught in a broader struggle against the policies and attitudes that had doubted their ability to serve in combat in the first place.

When they returned to the United States, many found that their wartime service did not shield them from the discrimination they had known before the war. Some returned to communities where segregation was still enforced by law and custom. Others discovered that, outside the Corps, the recognition they had earned on coral ridges meant little in civilian life.

The broader institution also changed slowly. The armed forces were formally desegregated in 1948, but full integration in the Marine Corps took years to realize. The Montford Point camp remained open until 1949. It would take another conflict—the Korean War—before the Marine Corps became fully integrated in practice.

In later decades, efforts were made to honor the Montford Point Marines collectively, recognizing their role in breaking barriers and establishing a legacy of service that stretched far beyond any single battle. But for many individuals, that recognition came late in life, long after Peleliu’s sand had cooled and the war had become part of history books.

Remembering the Black Angels

The story of the Black Marines on Peleliu is about far more than a single act of bravery or a single night’s battle. It is about men who were given fewer resources and fewer chances, then asked to perform under conditions that tested even the most seasoned units—and who did so with undeniable courage.

They were told they were not expected to fight. They were given less training than their white counterparts. They were assigned to support roles and kept out of the spotlight. Yet when the moment came, they stepped into the line, carried ammunition and wounded through fire, held ground in the face of attack, and earned the respect of those who fought beside them.

Their tale is a reminder that heroism is not bound by assignment, rank, or background. It can emerge from the least expected corners of a battlefield. It also reminds us that history, as it is commonly told, often overlooks those whose stories complicate easy narratives.

When we read about Peleliu today—about the ridges, the caves, the airfield, and the long lists of casualties—we should also remember the men from the 7th Marine Ammunition Company and the 11th Marine Depot Company. Remember the nickname whispered in the dark between bursts of fire: the “Black Angels.”

Their courage helped hold a line on a distant shore. Their determination challenged assumptions inside their own service. And their legacy continues as a quiet, powerful chapter in the long story of both the Marine Corps and the struggle for equality.

It is a story that deserves not just a footnote, but a place in the main narrative whenever we talk about what courage looked like in the Pacific War.