Navy Lieut. Joseph T. Tschantz Celebrated First Mass on Beachhead Less Than Week After Americans Fought Their Way Ashore
No cathedral, a dispatch from Sergeant Ray Fitzpatrick, Marine combat correspondent stated, ever had a more fervent congregation than did that little corner of sand at the end of the sluggish creek called the Asan River on the island of Guam.
It was Navy Lieut. Joseph T. Tschantz, formerly of St. Margaret’s R.C. Church. Middle Village, who celebrated the first Sunday mass on the northern beachhead. Less than a week before – on the very spot where they now prayed – the Leathernecks fought their way ashore.
With stretchers from a nearby field hospital for pews and the ankle-deep mud for kneeling benches, weary, begrimed Leathernecks joined in tribute to God.
The altar was a plant laid across two oil drums. A stiff morning breeze whipped about the legs of the chaplain. Below his vestments could be seen stained fatigue trouser tucked into field shoes caked with mud.
Out in the water, where only the night before Jap shells had been falling, amphibian tractors and ducks (amphibian trucks) toiled away at the job of unloading ships. Along the creek, two bulldozers labored to widen the channel.
Overhead our planes droned the even hum, changing now and then to a whine, as they dove beyond the hills to bomb or strafe the enemy.
Occasionally the priest’s words would be inaudible, as our nearby artillery batteries thundered out messages of death. In the moments of stillness, the crackle of rifle fire and the chatter of machine guns could be heard from the hills.
The arms of Marines attending mass were stacked to one side of the “church.” Guards patrolled the beach road and banks of the creek.
Lips of the kneeling Leathernecks moved in prayer as the mass went on. Relaxed, for a time, were the faces of men who had looked death squarely in the eye for almost 10 days.
Almost all of them stepped forward to receive holy communion. Soon the words, “Deo
Gratias,” (Thanks be to God) brought the mass to an end.
Rain had started to drip from the sky as Father Tschantz turned to the group. He raised his hand in benediction.
“With this rain, we’ll dispense with the closing prayers so you can get right back to your posts. God bless you, men. Whatever your missions may be, God bless each one of you.”
Quietly the Marines picked up their weapons, put on their battered helmets, and began moving away. Father Tschantz, folding up his vestments, paused to watch them as they went swinging down the rain-holed road in their soiled dungarees.
Sunday mass at Asan Beach was over.
