Guadalcanal. September 27, 1942.
The beach at Point Cruz had become a killing ground. Hundreds of U.S. Marines from Lieutenant Colonel Lewis "Chesty" Puller's 1st Battalion, 7th Marines were pinned down, surrounded on three sides by Japanese forces. Machine gun fire raked the shoreline. Mortars screamed down from the jungle. The Marines had attempted an offensive that morning—it had failed, and now they were trapped with their backs to the sea.
Without evacuation, they would all die or be captured. But getting to them meant running a gauntlet of Japanese fire that had already destroyed several boats.
At the offshore command vessel, a young Coast Guardsman stepped forward.
His name was Douglas Albert Munro. He was 22 years old, a Signalman First Class who had grown up in Washington State and joined the Coast Guard at age 18. He wasn't supposed to be a combat hero—Coast Guardsmen ran landing craft, provided logistics, supported operations. They weren't typically in the thick of fighting.
But Munro had been watching the disaster unfold. He knew those Marines were going to die unless someone did something immediately. He knew the Japanese had zeroed in on the beach. He knew any boat going in would be targeted mercilessly.
He volunteered anyway.
"I'll take them in," Munro said.
He assembled a flotilla of ten Higgins boats—the flat-bottomed landing craft that could approach shallow beaches. These boats had no armor, minimal protection. They were essentially floating wooden boxes. Against machine guns and artillery, they offered almost no defense.
Munro didn't care. Marines needed saving. That's all that mattered.
He briefed his crews: get in fast, load as many men as possible, get out. Speed was survival. Hesitation was death.
Then Munro climbed into the lead boat, took position at the helm, and pointed toward the beach where hundreds of desperate Marines waited under relentless fire.
"Let's go get our boys," he said.
The boats roared toward Point Cruz.
Japanese gunners saw them coming immediately. Machine gun fire erupted from the jungle. Mortar rounds splashed into the water. Bullets hammered into the wooden hulls of the Higgins boats. One craft took a direct hit and began sinking. Another veered away, its coxswain killed by a sniper.
Munro kept going.
He drove his boat straight through the fire, past the wrecked landing craft, past the floating bodies, directly toward the beach where Marines crouched behind whatever cover they could find, shooting back at an enemy they could barely see.
When Munro's boat hit the beach, Marines scrambled aboard. There was no time for organization, no time for counting. Men threw wounded comrades onto the boats, jumped aboard themselves, shouted for others to hurry. All around them, bullets snapped through the air and kicked up sand.
Munro positioned his boat between the Marines and the heaviest Japanese fire. He was literally using his landing craft—and himself—as a shield, drawing enemy fire away from the evacuation.
The other boats followed his lead, coming in one by one, loading Marines, backing away. The evacuation was working, but barely. Japanese fire was intensifying. More boats were hit. The water around them churned with impacts.
Then one of the Higgins boats got stuck on a sandbar. The engine roared uselessly. Marines were still aboard, trapped, taking fire. If the boat couldn't get free, everyone on it would die.
Munro saw it happen. He had already loaded his boat with Marines. He could have pulled away, gotten them to safety. His part of the mission was complete.
Instead, he turned back.
Directly into the heaviest fire. Toward the stuck boat. Under machine guns that had his range, his speed, his trajectory. Every Japanese gunner on that beach was firing at the boats.
Munro drove straight back in.
He maneuvered his Higgins boat alongside the stranded craft and used his own boat to push it free from the sandbar. Bullets pounded both vessels. Wood splintered. Men screamed. But Munro held position until the stuck boat's engine caught and it began moving.
"Go! Go! Get out of here!" Munro shouted to the other coxswain.
The freed boat pulled away, Marines aboard, headed for safety.
Munro turned his own boat to follow. The evacuation was complete. Every Marine was off the beach. Over 500 men had been pulled out of what should have been a massacre. The mission was successful.
That's when the burst of Japanese machine gun fire caught Douglas Munro in the head.
He collapsed at the helm. Blood poured from the wound. His best friend, Ray Evans—another Coast Guardsman who'd been serving as his boat hook—caught him as he fell.
Munro was dying. The wound was fatal. There was nothing anyone could do. In moments, he would be gone.
But even as he lay there, even as his life drained away, Douglas Munro asked one question. Just one. The only thing that mattered to him in his final seconds of life:
"Did they get off?"
Ray Evans looked at his dying friend and told him the truth: "Yes, they all got off. Every one of them."
Douglas Munro smiled.
Then he died.
He was 22 years old. He had volunteered for a suicide mission, used his own body as a shield, returned into murderous fire to save a stuck boat, and refused to retreat until every single Marine was safe.
And in his last moment of consciousness, the only thing he cared about was whether he'd succeeded in saving them.
That is what a hero looks like.
Over 500 Marines survived that day because Douglas Munro refused to leave them on that beach. Five hundred men who went home to wives, girlfriends, mothers, fathers. Five hundred men who had children, who built lives, who grew old.
All because a 22-year-old Coast Guardsman from Washington State decided their lives were worth more than his own.
On May 24, 1943, President Franklin D. Roosevelt presented the Medal of Honor to Douglas Munro's parents in a White House ceremony. The citation read, in part:
"For extraordinary heroism and conspicuous gallantry in action above and beyond the call of duty... Munro made contact with the shore party, directed the landing of the small evacuation boats, and... courageously placed his craft with its 2 small guns as a shield between the beachhead and the Japanese... and directed the beachhead operation and the evacuation of the Marines. He valiantly continued his protective pattern... until the last boat loaded. Emerging from his craft to permit one more man to be loaded, he was killed by enemy fire."
Douglas Munro remains the only member of the United States Coast Guard ever to receive the Medal of Honor.
Not because the Coast Guard lacks courage. But because Munro's act was so extraordinary, so perfectly selfless, so completely heroic, that it stands alone in the service's history.
Today, the U.S. Coast Guard honors Munro's memory in every way possible. The newest Legend-class cutter—the Coast Guard's most advanced ships—is named USCGC Munro. Coast Guard Day is celebrated on August 4th, but September 27th is observed as Munro Day throughout the service.
At Coast Guard training facilities, recruits learn about Douglas Munro. They learn about his choice. They learn about his last words. And they learn what it means to be a Coast Guardsman: Semper Paratus—Always Ready. Ready to serve. Ready to sacrifice. Ready to ask, in your final moment, "Did they get off?"
The Marines who were there never forgot. Lieutenant Colonel Chesty Puller—who would become the most decorated Marine in history—called Munro's actions "the finest act of heroism I have ever witnessed."
The Marine Corps and Coast Guard share a bond because of September 27, 1942. To this day, Marines speak of Munro with reverence. He was one of them that day, even though he wore a different uniform.
There's something about Munro's last words that captures everything about true heroism. He didn't ask "Did I do enough?" He didn't ask "Will anyone remember me?" He didn't ask for help or express regret.
He asked if the mission succeeded. If the men got off. If his sacrifice accomplished what he'd intended.
And when told yes, he smiled.
That smile—in the face of death, in the midst of agony, at the end of everything—that smile meant: It was worth it. I'd do it again. I'm content.
That's the kind of love that has no ego, no self-concern, no calculation of cost versus benefit. It's pure. It's complete. It's the kind of love that looks at 500 lives and decides, without hesitation, that they're worth one.
Douglas Albert Munro gave everything. And in his last conscious moment, he was happy because others would live.
If that's not the definition of a hero, then nothing is.
Signalman First Class Douglas Albert Munro
Born: October 11, 1919
Died: September 27, 1942 (age 22)
Service: United States Coast Guard
Action: Point Cruz, Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands
Decoration: Medal of Honor (awarded posthumously, May 24, 1943)
Lives Saved: 500+ U.S. Marines
Last Words: "Did they get off?"
Rest in peace, Coast Guardsman. Every Marine you saved lived because of you. Their children and grandchildren exist because of you. Your sacrifice will never be forgotten.
Semper Paratus. Always Ready.
You were ready when it mattered most.