Hero of the Pacific

by James Brady

“As if in rehearsal, we all hit the ash. Just at that moment, there was a terrifying roar, indescribably loud and angry. As we were slammed into the ground, we saw Sergeant Basilone hurled bodily into the air. It was as if a huge hand had reached down, smashed him deep into the volcanic ash. As we picked ourselves up, dazed, groggy and numb from the concussion we saw Sergeant Basilone lying half-buried in the swirling volcanic ash. He was unconscious and from the peculiar position he was in, appeared to have been hit bad. Sammy, who until this moment was too shocked to move, recklessly ran over to Basilone and was trying to rouse him.”

  There are additional contradictions here. Other accounts have Basilone killed with three other men in a group as they advance on Motoyama Airfield #1, not on the beach. Here he seems to have been the only one in the unit to have been hit. Though later Phyllis has the scout Sammy telling the wounded Basilone, “Sarge, it’s horrible. Most of the group got it,” the official Marine Corps casualty record blames small-arms fire, not a big shell. In Phyllis’s version Basilone is still alive but unconscious. Several of her sentences later, he is awake and trying to shove his intestines back inside his body, and he is speaking. Others say he died instantly. Some say he lived half an hour. Phyllis has him living for hours and his men calling for help: “Medic, medic!” In the Marine Corps the call is always for “Corpsman, corpsman!” our term for a medic.

  But these are details, and perhaps I’m nitpicking. Phyllis’s account of her own brother’s death deserves a hearing. Without my injecting further critical commentary, this is how she narrates the story in the Somerset Messenger-Gazette on Valentine’s Day 1963, eighteen years after his death, of Manila John’s last hours:

  “You could see Sergeant Basilone fighting his way back to consciousness. In deep shock and tottering on the brink of complete unconsciousness, the sergeant was fighting back. His face, twisted and contorted with pain, was set in grim determination. By now Sammy was crying as he cradled Basilone protectively in his arms. Basilone slowly and with great effort, opened his pain-wracked eyes and said, ‘Sammy, what happened?’ Sammy, convulsed with grief, could only mutter, ‘Sarge, it’s horrible. Most of the group got it.’ We watched silently, knowing the rest of us should move on, yet not wanting to leave the two of them alone on this God-forsaken beach. As we leaned over, Sammy was removing Sarge’s hands which were clasped tightly over his stomach. The sight before our eyes was horrifying. Basilone’s hands were drenched with deep scarlet blood, which trickled back to his wrists when Sammy elevated Sarge’s hands over his head. The hot nauseating smell of blood and torn guts swirled slowly under our nostrils. We gulped back hard, but Sammy couldn’t take it. He started to heave, horrible, retching, vomiting. It was then Sergeant Basilone displayed the intestinal fortitude he was so noted for. Ever so slowly and with a deftness surprising in such a muscular man, Basilone reached down into the sickening bloody mess that were his intestines, and placed them back into his torn and gashed open stomach. The effort must have been exhausting, as he lay back breathing heavily, biting huge gulps of the dust-laden air. Sammy had reached the dry retching stage. Suddenly, as if propelled from a catapult, he dashed madly down the beach, shouting, ’medic, medic!’

  “Don’t ever discount the courage and bravery of our medics. This lad was typical. There he was, oblivious to the hell and destruction being showered upon him as he tenderly ministered to the wounded. We watched as Sammy talked to him and gestured in our direction. No doubt Sammy told him the wounded Marine was Sergeant Basilone. It made no difference to the medic. A Marine was a Marine, Medal of Honor or not. To his credit, and keeping in the spirit of the Corps, he calmly finished bandaging his patient. Then, and only after making the wounded youngster as comfortable as possible, did he accompany Sammy back to us and Sergeant Basilone. We watched hopefully as the medic silently, and with tender hands, examined Basilone’s wounds. Reaching for his kit, he fished out a hypo and bending loosely to Basilone’s ear, he said softly, ‘It’s OK, Sarge. I’m going to give you a shot of morphine. That’ll ease your pain until we can get you to a doctor.’ The enemy by this time had succeeded in stopping any more landings.

  “Basilone’s only chance to live was to be taken back in one of the empty assault boats as it returned for another load. Seeing Basilone tug at the medic’s sleeve, we edged closer to hear his words. ‘Level with me, Doc. Am I going to make it?’ Hanging on for doc’s reply we heard him tell Basilone, ‘Sarge, I’ll give it to you straight. If I can get you back to the hospital ship in a couple of hours, you have a chance. Right now we’re pinned to this goddamned beach. Your guess right now is as good as mine. I’m going to stay with you and the first boat that hits the shore will have you and I as passengers on the way back. Meanwhile, when the pain gets unbearable, yell out. I’ll give you another shot. That’s the best I can do for you now.’ Basilone nodded he understood.

  “We watched fascinated as his life blood slowly and relentlessly kept oozing out, trailing brilliant crimson streamers down his side, turning the black volcanic ash into a dark purple spot which spread out ever so slowly. He was bleeding to death before our eyes and we were powerless to stop the flow.”

  In the Taebaek Mountains of North Korea in January 1952 I watched a Marine bleed to death coming back from a combat patrol. We had him on a stretcher, and it took the wounded man maybe seven hours to die. Toward the end he thought he was Jesus. Loss of blood eventually kills you; along the way it weakens not only the body but the intelligence, the judgment, the brain. Lose enough blood and you don’t make much sense anymore. In Phyllis’s story, Basilone was not only physically tough, he was still remarkably cogent.

  In her account, as hour after hour passes, Sammy and Basilone have a discussion of what Basilone wants the young Marine to tell his brother George when and if George hits the beach. Basilone says he’s had it, that he knows there’s no chance. Sammy argues with him. Then Sammy pulls out a pencil and takes down Basilone’s instructions about his brother. Basilone asks the corpsman, “Doc,” for a cigarette. Doc then lights a cigarette for Basilone and places it between his lips. But the wounded sergeant coughs and the butt comes away soaked with blood. Then Sammy reaches inside the pocket of Basilone’s “tunic” and pulls out the miniature Bible many combat soldiers were given and carried during World War II, worn as protection in a pocket over the heart. Sammy begins to read the Lord’s Prayer. As he finishes, Basilone’s face, “now in peaceful repose, turns toward us.” The Marines drop to their knees in prayer, as John Basilone “slipped away.” Sammy, unbelieving, tries to rouse him, but the corpsman tells him, “Kid, it’s no use. He’s gone.”

  Here is Colonel Joe Alexander’s briefer account: “On the left center of the action, leading his machine gun platoon, in the 1st Battalion 27th Marines’ attack against the southern portion of the airfield, the legendary ‘Manila John’ Basilone fell mortally wounded by a mortar shell, a loss keenly felt by all Marines on the island.”

  Did he die on the beach, on the approaches to the airfield, from a mortar round or gunfire? On this last question, the official USMC casualty report backs up neither the family biographies nor Colonel Alexander. No mortar explosion is cited. Basilone’s death in this report, drawn up on March 7, 1945, two weeks after he died, reads like this: “Nature of wound, GSW [gunshot wound], right groin, neck, and left arm.” Robert Aquilina of the Corps’ History Division reference branch in Quantico concludes that Manila John probably bled to death from these gunshots.

  Marine casualties that first day ashore amounted to some 2,400 wounded and 501 killed, and Alexander reports in a small but very human sidebar that survivors of that deadly February 19 still remember how cold it was the first night after the landing, so unlike the tropical Pacific many of them knew from earlier fights.

  Jerry Cutter, Basilone’s nephew, has his version of his uncle’s death, conflicting dramatically with his mother’s more detailed version. Here, probably no truer but less flowery and imaginary, is what Cutter and writer Jim Pro
ser wrote: “Sergeant John Basilone was killed by an enemy mortar shell at approximately 10:45 a.m. February 19, 1945. He suffered massive abdominal wounds but lingered for approximately twenty minutes before succumbing from shock and loss of blood. Four Marines died from the same explosion. His last words were spoken to a Navy corpsman who attended to him following the explosion. That corpsman has vowed never to reveal those final words.”

  So the two Cutters, mother and son, differ. In Jerry’s story, no final message to George, no last cigarette, no Lord’s Prayer, only twenty minutes of life, no three or more talkative hours, no peaceful look on his face. As to death by mortar shell or small-arms fire, Joe Alexander and the official casualty report are also at odds on that one specific item. There are other versions of his death as well. But it is the family versions that appear to stray furthest from the facts.

  Clearly, they love the man, but trying to make a great warrior even better—a superman, an icon, conjuring up dialogue never spoken, prayers never prayed, inventing scenes that never happened, laying it on thick about feats of arms surely within Basilone’s competence, but which never happened—is no service to a great man.

  The service record book on Gunnery Sergeant John Basilone, his dates of enlistment, promotions, duty stations, transfers, and the like, filed at Marine Corps Schools, Quantico, Virginia, ends with this simple entry on his death: “Killed in action, February 19, 1945, Buried in grave 41, row 3, plot 1, 5th Mar Div cemetery, Iwo Jima, Volcano Islands.” That’s all there is, no poetry, no flourishes, no heroics.

  PART FIVE

  COMING HOME

  Gunnery Sergeant John Basilone, originally buried on Iwo Jima, was re-buried in 1948 at Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors. Marine comrades are seen holding the American flag during services as members of the family look on. (Seated left to right) Basilone’s sister Phyllis (in light jacket); his mother, Dora; and his father, Salvatore.

  27

  In the traditional Marine Corps protocol of death, the family must be officially notified before any media are contacted. Inadvertently, though quite properly, it was a Basilone clan member who first learned of John’s death on Iwo long before anyone at home got the news. George, John’s brother, whose Marine unit went ashore several days after the first waves, was approached by a sergeant assigned to seek him out with the bad tidings. The sergeant saw the name Basilone stenciled on a backpack, and according to Bruce Doorly’s account, called out, “George, I need to talk to you.” Alarms went off, since George had never seen this sergeant before. “How come you know my first name?” A subsequent and famous photo shows George kneeling, a thoughtful, wry half-smile on his face that resembled John’s so closely, at the simple white cross marking the temporary grave on Iwo. Coincidentally, another Raritan Marine named Tony Cirello would find John’s pack in the sand and return it to George.

  When the word finally came to Raritan on March 8, sixteen days after Manila John’s death, there was some confusion. A reporter that morning phoned brother Angelo Basilone’s house on Second Avenue. His wife answered, then went directly to the parents’ home on First Avenue to ask the matriarch of the family, Dora Basilone, if she knew anything. Dora didn’t, and for a time the two women took comfort in the possibility that this was all a mistake and the reporter had gotten it wrong. Ten minutes later via Western Union a War Department notification (I suspect it was actually a Navy Department wire, which would be standard operating procedure for a Marine death) arrived, not at the Basilone family’s front door, but at Pop Basilone’s new place of work at Holcombe & Holcombe (he had sold his own shop). It went to Sal Basilone because he was officially listed as next of kin in John’s service record book. This is how the telegram read: “Deeply regret to inform you that your son, Gunnery Sergeant John Basilone, USMC, was killed in action February 19, 1945 at Iwo Jima, Volcano Islands, in the performance of his duty and service to his country. When information is received regarding burial, you will be notified. Please accept my heartfelt sympathy.”

  It was signed, “General Alexander Vandegrift,” who had been John’s commanding officer on Guadalcanal and later presented him with his medal. The circle was closed.

  In Camp Pendleton, Sergeant Lena Riggi Basilone, John’s wife, got a similar wire.

  Salvatore immediately phoned home and broke the news. It was official now, official and confirmed—no more comforting doubt, no hope there’d been a mistake. Bruce Doorly writes in his book, “Dora was in a state of shock and described as being on the verge of collapse. Salvatore quickly came home and soon word of John’s death sped throughout the town. When a local Raritan boy died in the war, the word always spread quickly. Police Chief Lorenzo Rossi went around town informing people of John’s death. The station master at the Raritan Train Station told commuters as they walked to the train. The church bells at St. Ann’s were rung. Father Amadeo Russo [the youthful John’s mentor] soon arrived at the house to comfort the family. The Basilone house was quickly flooded with visitors offering their sympathy. John’s sister Dolores described for Doorly’s monograph how she was notified. She was in class at Somerville High School when the principal of the school came in and said her dad had called. She and her younger brother Donald had to go home. No other information was given them but when the principal himself drove them both home, they started to realize that something major had happened. They were informed of John’s death when they arrived home.”

  Both local newspapers, the Somerset Messenger-Gazette and the Plainfield Courier News, were afternoon papers, and on that same day, March 8, Basilone would be their front-page lead story. On a larger scale, the New York Times commented editorially, “Being a Marine fighting man, and therefore a realist, Sergeant Basilone must have known in his heart that his luck could not last forever. Yet he chose to return to battle.” Also that day, March 8, Marines were still fighting on Iwo, pushing forward against fierce opposition. In Germany U.S. infantry and armor crowded onto the congested Remagen Bridge across the Rhine while desperate Nazi counterattacks continued. In Burma, British and Indian divisions broke out of their bridgeheads across the Irrawaddy, west of and “on the road to” Mandalay, where in Rudyard Kipling’s poem “The Road to Mandalay” “the old flotilla lay.”

  Back home in Raritan, while everyone mourned John Basilone, the family thought about and prayed for another son, George, still believed to be on Iwo. How dreadful it would be to lose another boy on the same lousy little island. On Saturday the tenth there was a requiem mass at St. Ann’s. Town flags flew at half-staff, and the American Legion post changed its name to “Sgt. John Basilone Post 280.” Word arrived that Basilone had posthumously been awarded the Navy Cross. One of his officers on Iwo, Justin Gates Duryea, had submitted Basilone’s name for a second Medal of Honor, only to be informed by higher echelons that all the Congressional Medals they could give were already gone. Heroism was one thing, bureaucracy remained very much another.

  At St. Ann’s they held a memorial mass later on Sunday, April 29, 1945, with Father Russo saying the high mass and the chaplain of nearby Camp Kilmer (named for the New Jersey poet killed in World War I), Reverend Raymond Kilmera, there to concelebrate. The Marine Corps dispatched a Marine color guard and a colonel, Harold Parsons. Governor Walter Edge sent the state adjutant general, and other local officials attended, as did people from the VFW and American Legion and the Army and Navy Union. Two Boy Scout troops were on hand, a band from Camp Kilmer, a detachment of troops and WACs from Fort Dix, and civilians from other New Jersey towns—Camden, Perth Amboy, South Orange, Trenton, and Newark.

  A month earlier, on March 26, after thirty-six days of battle (remember that optimistic estimate that this might be a seventy-two-hour fight?), combat on Iwo ended with a final suicide attack by 500 Japanese troops against Basilone’s 5th Marine Division. By the time the guns fell mute, 25,000 Americans were casualties, 7,000 of them dead. On that day on the Western Front the American 7th Division began to cross the Rhine. In the Philipp
ines 14,000 American soldiers landed against hostile opposition near Cebu City.

  When I first went down to Basilone’s hometown that January morning all those years later on the early train out of Newark, and those three old boys from the Basilone Parade Committee met me at the depot in the red truck, they told me that when news of Basilone’s death came, it was like the world ended in Raritan, just came to an end, not as literally but just as certainly as it had out in the Pacific for Manila John.

  But worlds don’t come to ends. Amid the grief, life goes on. And the war itself went on, until it eventually ended, too late for Sergeant Basilone and for so many more. Among them were small-town boys from burgs like Raritan where local people put up markers and ever after recalled.

  Germany surrendered in May, Japan on August 15, 1945. On that mid-August day an impromptu parade of thanksgiving made its straggling way along Somerset Street in Raritan, and when the VJ Day march ended, the celebrations continued at local places like Orlando’s Tavern, where John Basilone used to drink, and where Tony Orlando hosted a victory party. Surely toasts were drunk to Manila John’s memory. He would have liked that. One unnamed local serviceman was quoted as saying on that last day of the war, “I keep thinking of my buddies who won’t come back.” But many of the dead would be coming back.

  During World War II, we often buried the bodies of our men where they died—Italy or Normandy or the Pacific islands—with the tacit understanding that our people would eventually be brought home and planted here where they grew up and where they belonged. In 1948, three years after he died on Iwo, John Basilone came home from Iwo Jima.

  And so it happened that in April of that year Raritan would have yet another opportunity to mourn and celebrate their local hero. The government had begun moving bodies back from Iwo’s ad hoc cemeteries, giving families the option of choosing a burial near home or a plot at Arlington. Dora initially preferred to have John buried at Raritan, where the family lived and where he grew up. But local funeral director Anthony Bongiovi, nearly one hundred years old when I interviewed him, told me there was indecision at first. He admitted he didn’t want to be in the middle of it, didn’t welcome having to handle the job with its possible complications.