Welcome to Beyond the Call, where history, leadership, and heroism come alive. Today’s story explores Platoon Sergeant Joseph R. Julian at Iwo Jima in 1945, a powerful account of courage and responsibility in combat. If you enjoy learning more about military history and extraordinary individuals, you can find more articles, podcasts, and resources at Trackpads dot com.
On a small island of black volcanic sand in the Pacific, the Marines of the 5th Division fought for every yard of ground. The air was thick with smoke, dust, and the constant crack of rifles and machine guns as they tried to push inland from the beaches. Japanese defenders had spent months carving bunkers, pillboxes, and caves into the rock, turning each rise and ravine into a trap. Beyond the Call is the Monday feature of Dispatch: U.S. Military History Magazine, and this story focuses on one platoon sergeant who faced that maze of fire and chose to stand up when others physically could not. The scene that made his name began as just another hard push forward on a brutal campaign.
Joseph R. Julian started far from Iwo Jima, in the town of Sturbridge, Massachusetts. He grew up in a place where neighbors knew each other and where the war overseas first appeared as headlines and radio bulletins rather than personal loss. He graduated from Southbridge High School, an ordinary young man in an unsettled time. After the United States entered the war, he made a decision that would shape the rest of his short life and enlisted in the United States Marine Corps Reserve in January 1942. That choice carried him from New England to the hot, demanding training grounds of Parris Island.
At Parris Island he became a drill instructor, responsible for turning civilians into Marines. Day after day he walked the training fields, correcting rifle grips, pushing recruits through marches, and insisting on discipline that sometimes felt harsh in the moment. He knew that every habit learned there might later decide whether a man lived or died in combat. Teaching others forced him to master the details himself and gave him a deep sense of responsibility for the people under his charge. Over time he earned a reputation as a Marine who understood that leadership was more than giving orders; it was accepting that others would rely on his judgment when it mattered most.
As the war intensified, Julian moved from training recruits to preparing for combat with a frontline unit. He joined the 5th Marine Division, a formation built for some of the hardest amphibious assaults in the Pacific. Within that division he served in the 1st Battalion, 27th Marines, as a platoon sergeant in a rifle company. The division drilled relentlessly, practicing landings, assaults on fortified positions, and coordination with supporting arms. All of that effort pointed toward one operation that loomed over their planning: an attack on an island called Iwo Jima, whose airfields the United States needed for the air war against Japan. When the division finally sailed, the training days were over. The men were headed toward the real test.
By March 9, 1945, the battle for Iwo Jima had moved well beyond the beaches. Julian’s battalion received orders to attack a complex of trenches, caves, and pillboxes that blocked their sector of the line. The enemy positions were tied together so that any attack would draw fire from several directions at once. As Julian’s company moved out, they crossed ground made of loose volcanic ash that offered almost no cover. Machine guns in concrete and rock pillboxes opened up, sweeping the slope. Mortar shells burst among the Marines, throwing fragments of steel and stone into the air. Within moments, the forward elements of the company were pinned flat on the black sand.
From his position as platoon sergeant, Julian saw the attack falter under that storm of fire. Men hugged the ground, unable to raise their heads without drawing bursts that snapped just overhead. The strongpoint ahead of them had become a wall, and every minute spent motionless meant more casualties and more time for the defenders to adjust their fire. He quickly directed his platoon’s guns into better positions, placing automatic weapons where they could at least return some fire and make the pillbox crews keep their heads down. That helped, but it did not break the grip of the defenses. The key positions still dominated the slope, and the company remained stuck in the open.
Julian understood that if the strongpoint held, the battalion’s advance in that sector might fail. Waiting for artillery or heavier support was an option, but one measured in lives as much as in minutes. Acting on his own initiative, he gathered satchel charges and grenades, including white phosphorus grenades that produced intense heat and blinding smoke. Then he did something no one could reasonably order another person to do. He rose from the fragile shelter of the sand and began moving alone toward the pillbox whose guns had stopped the attack. Every step carried him through ground the defenders had already measured with their weapons.
He ran, dropped into shallow holes, then moved again as bullets churned the ash around him. Mortar fragments cut the air, and the noise of firing blurred into a constant roar. Reaching a point close enough to strike, he hurled his explosives and grenades into the pillbox opening. The blasts ripped through the interior, killing some of the defenders and driving the survivors into a connecting trench that ran behind the bunker. In seconds, he had turned what had seemed like an unshakeable firing point into a shocked and damaged position. Instead of retreating to safety, he decided to continue the attack.
Julian grabbed a discarded rifle and plunged into the trench system the enemy had just used for shelter. In that cramped, twisting passage, combat came down to seconds and feet. Corners were taken at a rush, with almost no time to react. In that harsh space he fought his way forward, killing several more defenders and clearing that stretch of trench. When he emerged from the far side, the pillbox he had just attacked was no longer the anchor point it had been moments before. A vital piece of the enemy’s line had been cut open by one man acting ahead of everyone else.
The fight was not finished. Other caves and firing positions still poured bullets and shells into the company’s area. Determined to complete what he had begun, Julian secured more explosives and joined another Marine willing to follow him into the fire. The two of them acted as a small assault team, moving under covering fire from their comrades, sprinting forward to throw charges into cave mouths, and firing into openings before pulling back. In a series of rapid attacks, they knocked out two more cave positions that had been feeding the storm of fire onto the Marines pinned below. Each success reduced the enemy’s strength, but it also drew more attention to the pair who were clearly driving the attack.
One major strongpoint remained, a pillbox whose guns still threatened any attempt to exploit the gains Julian had carved out. For this final task he picked up a bazooka and its ammunition and moved forward once more. To use the weapon, he had to expose himself on open ground long enough to aim and fire. Under converging machine gun and rifle fire he calmly loaded and launched rounds into the remaining structure. Shot after shot slammed into the target as he adjusted for effect. On his fourth round, the pillbox was finally destroyed. In the moments after that last hit, enemy fire struck him and mortally wounded him. He fell on the slope he had helped to win.
With the main pillboxes and caves silenced, the Marines who had been pressed into the ground could at last stand up and advance. The company moved through the shattered defenses, clearing remaining pockets of resistance and securing the objective assigned to their battalion. That success reinforced the integrity of the line, allowing neighboring units to push forward without fear of an exposed flank. While no single action could decide the entire battle for Iwo Jima, the capture of that strongpoint formed one of the many essential steps that carried the division across the island. Julian’s last decisions had turned a stalled, desperate situation into a hard-won breakthrough.
The official Medal of Honor citation for Joseph R. Julian uses formal phrases such as “gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty.” On paper, those words can sound distant. On Iwo Jima, they described a Marine who rose from cover under intense fire, not just once but again and again, and who deliberately took on tasks that would almost certainly cost him his life. References to a “one-man assault” and to attacks carried out “unassisted” condense into a few lines a series of charges with explosives, grenades, and a bazooka against positions that had defeated an entire company. The citation’s mention of his “bold decision” and “relentless fighting spirit” points back to that sequence of choices made in seconds and minutes, long before anyone knew how the day would end.
When the citation notes that his conduct “contributed materially” to the advance of his company and to the success of the division’s operations, it ties his personal sacrifice to the broader purpose of the battle. The immediate result was a captured strongpoint and renewed movement in his sector. The larger result was one more step toward securing an island whose airfields would later save many bomber crews returning from missions over Japan. The closing statement that he “gave his life for his country” is a formal way of acknowledging that the price of that advance was paid in full by a man who might otherwise have survived the day had he stayed in place with the rest.
Julian’s actions also reveal the character traits that leaders still study. He showed initiative by acting without waiting for explicit orders when inaction meant certain failure. He accepted personal responsibility for breaking a defensive knot that threatened his platoon and his company. His courage was not the absence of fear but a conscious decision to face near certain danger to protect others and preserve the mission. These qualities are not limited to battlefields. In every field of work and service, there are moments when someone must step into a difficult role because they understand that others depend on their resolve.
Joseph R. Julian did not return from Iwo Jima. He died on the island he had fought so fiercely to help secure and received the Medal of Honor posthumously. In his hometown of Sturbridge and in the wider Marine Corps community, his name lives on in memorials, histories, and quiet remembrances. For those who study the Pacific War, his story stands as a concrete example of what small-unit leadership and personal sacrifice can mean in the harshest conditions. Remembering him as a son of Massachusetts, a drill instructor, a platoon sergeant, and a Marine helps keep his memory grounded in real human experience, not just in ceremonial language.
When listeners think back on his story, they can picture a man who began life in a peaceful New England town and ended it on a blasted slope of volcanic ash, making choices that changed the fate of the people around him. His actions remind us that the history of great campaigns is written not only in maps and orders but also in the split-second decisions of individuals. Joseph R. Julian’s legacy is one of courage used in the service of others, and that is a lesson that reaches far beyond a single battle or a single war.