During the Second World War, my dad was a combat photographer in the Marine Corps. He saw all of his action in the Pacific theater. More than once he told me of a memorable episode. He was in an advance party of about half a dozen Marines who had landed on a small island for the purpose of mapping that island. So far as they knew, they weren't spotted coming onto the island, and they safely reached the destination, where they set up camp for the night. There really wasn't much they could do because of the rock and, probably, coral. They weren't able to dig foxholes or anything like that. They were just out there in the open.
Once night fell, what must have been their worst fears were confirmed. They'd been spotted. What's more, the island had evidently been pre-targeted by the enemy. So throughout the night, mortar shells, or perhaps artillery shells, were fired at them again and again and again. All they could do was lie there, listening to the shells whistling through the air toward them and waiting to see where they'd land. All around them the shells fell and exploded, and there was explosion after explosion.
But an amazing thing happened. Every time there was a direct hit, every time a shell landed in the camp, the shell was a dud and did not explode. Every single time, all night long. These dud mortar shells struck so closely that some of them scattered rocks and coral onto the Marines. But other than a few minor scratches from these bits of scattered rock, no one was injured.
