Amphibious warfare has never been a cakewalk. It’s the type of battle that brings men, machines, and sheer willpower up against the elements—and typically under the fire of the enemy. But if you go back through the history of modern warfare, it’s obvious that one bit of gear made a huge difference in the way battles were conducted along shorelines: the amphibious vehicle.
For the United States, amphibious skills were never won through mere brute force. They were won through learning, adapting, and improvising—sometimes the hard way—how to get troops and supplies onto the beaches where they were least anticipated, sometimes under the most atrocious conditions that could be imagined. This learning started far earlier than the Pacific beach landings during World War II. It dates back to the American Revolution, when small groups of Marines and sailors made bold shore raids in whatever vessels were available to them.
In the 18th and 19th centuries, amphibious warfare was easier. Leaders sought weak points—weakly defended coasts upon which they could insert themselves quickly and hit. Even in big operations such as the attack on Veracruz in the Mexican-American War, troops generally landed without exposure to the full wrath of defensive enemy fire. But times changed dramatically with the development of global warfare. The horror of Gallipoli in World War I—where Allied forces were massacred trying a gigantic beach landing—placed a long, sour shadow over later planning. Numerous military strategists decided that massive amphibious assaults were a risk not worth the gamble. But not all of them.
A minority of Marine Corps and Navy officers, for the most part, out of the public eye, started to think differently. They developed new technologies and tactics in secret that would ultimately be crucial. Their endeavors could have remained theoretical for years, had it not been for a helpful shove from Mother Nature during the 1930s.
It was prompted by a disastrous hurricane that struck Florida in 1928. A civil engineer, Donald Roebling, saw rescue work botched as trucks and boats got bogged down in the watery, swampy chaos. He set out to construct a new type of vehicle—one that would float atop water, wade through mud, and yet perform on dry ground. What he constructed was the Alligator, a peculiar-looking, tracked vehicle which was neither land nor sea, but was capable of doing both.
Roebling’s invention was never intended for war. He designed it for rescue operations and relief missions. But as the world moved closer to global war, military leaders began to take notice. The U.S. Marine Corps, always seeking to improve the way to get onto land, saw huge potential in the Alligator. With some persuasion, Roebling consented to modify his design for warfare. The result was the LVT, or Landing Vehicle Tracked—what Marines would begin to refer to as the “amtrac.
The military suggested changes: make it tougher, more seaworthy, and ready for battle. Roebling cooperated fully, and when the government began mass-producing these vehicles, he even waived his patent rights—a selfless act that later earned him the Award of Merit from President Truman. By the time World War II ended, more than 18,000 LVTs had been built, each one carrying the DNA of Roebling’s original rescue vehicle.
Since the beginning, the LVT’s design has continued to change. Initial models were basically floating trucks, useful for carrying supplies but not too useful otherwise. Combat necessitated quick changes. The LVT-4 placed the engine in the front and included a rear ramp, which facilitated the easier deployment of troops in combat. Subsequent models, such as the LVT(A)(1) and LVT(A)(4) received armor and firepower, the latter even mounting a 75mm howitzer. They were not swift, but they were persistent. With their tracked vehicles, they could cross ground on which regular automobiles would drown, bog down, or fail.
Tarawa tested the LVTs to their limit in 1943. The Japanese had defended the small island of Betio with bunkers, machine guns, and artillery. To make matters worse, a coral reef ring encircled the island, halting conventional landing craft well short of the beach. The LVTs were the sole means by which Marines could make it through. Under intense fire, they battled through the surf, drove over reefs, and inserted troops into the battle in line of departure. Many were destroyed in the process. Some were disabled, others were shot up—but without them, the battle would’ve been a slaughter before the first Marine hit dry land. Even after the beachhead was established, LVTs continued to transport supplies and retrieve wounded. They had gained their place in the annals of military history.
And then Peleliu. The countryside there was savage—coral ridges, caves, and heavy jungle made it impossible to move. Japanese defenders converted every rock and trench into a fort. LVTs again aided Marines ashore, but the battle that ensued was far from simple. The island drained both sides of their strength. Early expectations of an easy victory were lost as the fight became one of the war’s most agonizing slogs. Nevertheless, the LVTs were present, fighting with the troops, again demonstrating that amphibious vehicles weren’t only handy—they were vital.
Long after the war, the tale of the LVT didn’t end. Its versatility extended far past battlefields. In 1947, parts of the United Kingdom were plagued by severe flooding. Remarkably, vintage LVT-4 Buffalos were employed to seal gaps in riverbanks and push through locations inaccessible by boat and truck. In one village, several of these vehicles were swept away by the waters and only recently found, still in good condition decades later—a testament to how military technology can be used for the betterment of humanity in surprising ways.
In other parts of the world, the legacy went off in another direction. Following China’s civil war, captured American LVT(A)(4)s ended up in the possession of the People’s Liberation Army. The Chinese, lacking original parts and ammunition, substituted 75mm howitzers with Soviet-produced 57mm ZiS-2 anti-tank guns. The strange hybrids may have been improvised, but they worked and demonstrated exactly how versatile the LVT platform was. Even across ideological lines, the fundamental concept of an amphibious tracked vehicle remained universal.