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by Hugh Ambrose


  A large crowd had already assembled when John's car pulled into the grounds of Doris Duke Park, just across the river from downtown Raritan. He and Steve Helstowski and his parents made their way to the reviewing stand. Among the honored guests seated there was sixty-six-year-old John M. Rilley of Mountainville, who had won the Congressional Medal of Honor in the Spanish-American War.125 America's victory against Spain had enabled the extension of her sovereignty over the Philippine Islands and thus over John's beloved city, Manila. Harry Hershfield, a famous humorist and host of a national radio program, served as master of ceremonies. Once he stepped to the microphone, he kept the program rolling along. All the speakers praised the heroism of Manila John Basilone and held him up as an example for all Americans. In between the speechifying, entertainers came on to enliven the proceedings: the comedian Danny Thomas performed during one break; Maurice Rocco, described as a "Negro boogie-woogie pianist who shuns the piano stool," entertained during another.126

  On her way to the podium, the actress Louise Allbritton stopped to give Basilone, who was seated, a peck on the cheek. She turned to the podium but the crowd's reaction, as well as the enthusiasm of the assembled reporters and photographers, caused her to turn back, grab John's arm with both hands, and tug. He stood up slowly. She signaled the crowd to "watch this," and made to kiss him on the lips. John did not want to kiss her. Her kiss meant as much as Mayor La Guardia's handshake. He brushed her off and turned away slightly, smiling bashfully. She kissed him on the side of the mouth and the crowd laughed heartily. "Ah," sighed Miss Allbritton, when the operation was completed. "I've always wanted to kiss a hero." The sergeant was speechless.127 Reporters thought the actress "stole the spotlight" and concluded that John, who up to that time had "had the situation well in hand," going through the parade and ceremony "with the same courage with which he had faced the japs," had been "awed by the kiss." Another noted "a good many gals present were envious."

  At last the organizer of the event, Judge George Allgair, stepped to the rostrum. He turned to his right to address John, who joined him. The audience began to stand and cheer. Cameramen in the front row stood and their flashbulbs began going off. Allgair could hardly be seen or heard. When the judge presented the five bonds of $1,000 "on behalf of the good people of Raritan," John began to pale. The easy smile faded as the judge said the bonds represented "a pledge of their eternal love and devotion to you."128 A practiced hand at live events, though, Manila paused so the cameramen could get a photo of him accepting the bonds.

  When the man of the hour came to the microphone the crowd cheered. He gave them a big, handsome smile and the applause grew and grew into thunder. One of their own, a tailor's son, had become a rich man, a famous man with famous friends. Little did they know that this was one of only a few occasions when he hung the medal around his neck, so they could see the actual medal, rather than just wearing its ribbon on his breast. "Jersey's #1 Hero" let the smile fade slowly and looked out into the middle distance. After thanking the judge and "the good home folks of Raritan," he said, "Really, it's all a dream to me. I really don't know what to say." He forgot the notes he had in his pocket.129 So he slipped back into more comfortable territory, letting them know that "my buddies" on the front lines appreciated people "backing the attack and buying war bonds." He had intended to say, " The Congressional Medal of Honor is a part of every Marine that so heroically fought on Guadalcanal." Overwhelmed, he introduced his friend Steve, "a boy who played in the same foxhole, fought next to me, and who is on sick leave from a hospital." Steve came up and stood next to him. John concluded, "And thank you all from the bottom of my heart."

  His mother, Dora, came to the microphone. John stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders, whispering suggestions for what to say. She struggled to find her voice, but finally they both gave up, and John came around beside her and said into the microphone: "Just like a Basilone--bashful." The crowd loved it. His father stepped forward. Salvatore kept his remarks fairly short, delivered in a dignified manner and entirely in his native Italian. While he knew many in the audience spoke Italian, he intended to make a point to those who did not.

  The big event concluded with an original song, performed by Ms. Catherine Mastice, entitled "Manila John."130 John looked a little dubious as she began to sing. The refrain, "Ma- nil-a John, Ma- nil-a John, son of Lib-er-ty / Glo- ry has been bravely won and made your broth- ers free," washed over the crowd.131 The Basilone family went back to their house, a duplex in the center of town and not far from the park. The family held an open house "for the many friends of their hero son."132 A crowd covered their lawn and spilled into the street. Cameramen filmed Manila John standing outside, alternately nervously eyeing the camera and shaking hands with well-wishers. Someone asked him to kiss his mother. Happy to oblige, John kissed her and gave his father a kiss, then kissed them both again.

  The next morning, the newspapers listed the total bond sales of the Basilone Day at $1.3 million. Manila went back to work. A photographer from Life magazine took photos of him shaving, making sure to get a shot showing each of his tattoos. A reporter from Parade magazine joined the representatives from Life, each digging deep to develop big stories on him. They had arrived before Basilone Day and would remain in Raritan for the rest of the week. After breakfast, Manila John began his work with the Navy Incentive Tour. While the tour itself would not begin full- time for a week, he visited some of the factories in cities around Raritan.

  Meeting the workers on the shop floor or in the cafeteria, he was to assure them that the clothing, equipment, or armaments they manufactured for the War Department meant success on the battlefield. He also was told to thank them for working overtime. The Johns- Manville Company, which had purchased $500,000 in bonds for Basilone Day, manufactured the asbestos gloves machine gunners wore when handling hot machine guns. The asbestos company produced an advertisement featuring Manila holding the asbestos gloves. "But for these asbestos gloves," the caption read, "I would be here today with my hands and arms still blistered."133 At lunch, "Manila John" was introduced to the company's head chef, "Filipino Phil" Abarientos, an immigrant himself.

  Manila found the new job just as embarrassing as the old one. Being held up as the epitome of America's youth made him uncomfortable. Being the representative of the combat soldier meant not being a combat soldier.134 When he came home, the reporters were waiting to ask him some more questions. The photographer from Life took a photo of him eating his mother's spaghetti.

  SEPTEMBER HAD STARTED OUT ON A GOOD NOTE FOR EUGENE. THE MARINE detachment at Georgia Tech had received a new commanding officer, Captain Donald Payzant. At the ceremonial review Private Sledge read the symbols on Captain Payzant's uniform. The campaign ribbons and service awards were pinned on his left breast, the rank on his collar. The patch of the 1st Marine Division, sewn on the right shoulder, proclaimed a word known throughout the Western world: Guadalcanal. Payzant gave Eugene exactly what he wanted--more discipline and higher expectations. The veteran treated his charges "like men and not a bunch of boys"; if one of them failed to measure up, Payzant dressed him down fast.

  One afternoon in late September, Sledge mentioned to Captain Payzant that his good friend Sid Phillips was a marine. Sid's frequent letters omitted any information about where he was, of course, but Sid had recently sent his sister Katherine a metal plate covered in Japanese lettering. Sid said he had pried it off a downed Zero. Captain Payzant replied that he knew Private Sidney Phillips rather well. Sid served in H/2/1, the company Payzant had commanded on Guadalcanal.135 The shock of the "Gee, ain't it a small world" reaction preceded a ferocious curiosity to know more about Sid's life. Payzant likely shared a memory or two of the #4 gun squad. With the stories came a realization: Sid had been a part of the great victory, the first time the Imperial Japanese Army had been licked, a victory won by the United States Marine Corps. Eugene, who had just bought a leather desk set for Sid's Christmas present, decided to write him later.


  That afternoon Payzant posted the names of the men who had been flunked out and were leaving for boot camp at Parris Island. The list did not include Private Eugene Sledge. Gene stared at the list, conflicting emotions churning inside of him. He wrote his mother that evening that he still might flunk out because of his struggles with physics. "I hate to leave here by failure," he continued, "but I'll be glad to do so." He wanted to be like Sidney Phillips and "get into the brawl." Then he opened up to her with his soul. "When I'm through P.I. [Parris Island], I'll really have self-confidence. I'll have reason for it. I'll be a man then, but this fooling around isn't good for anyone."

  His mother, who did not wish to see her son become cannon fodder, astutely sidestepped the raging desire inside her son to become a man. She maintained the issue at hand had to do with keeping one's promise to one's parents. Dr. and Mrs. Sledge had fulfilled their part of the bargain. A week later his letter to her began, "I got your letter of the other day and appreciated it. I am thoroughly ashamed for saying what I did and I apologize. No one could ask for better parents than I have." Although he repeated his desire to leave the program, he moved on quickly to other news. Sid's sister Katherine had visited him. They had had a grand time swapping news about Sid and his friends. Katherine declared that Eugene heard from her brother "more than anyone else." With a semester break coming up at the end of October, Eugene spent part of this letter and the next making arrangements for his mother to visit him in Atlanta. After he showed her Georgia Tech, the two planned to travel back to Mobile. "I dream of it," he wrote his mother, "by the hour."

  MANILA JOHN'S LIFE MADE GOOD COPY. LIKE MILLIONS OF HIS FELLOW COUNTRYMEN, he had been born into a large family of limited means, the son of an immigrant. His struggles to find himself were readily apparent and, in light of his great success, his false starts took on a warm glow. The story of a boy who had dropped out of school after the eighth grade, of the young man who had quit a number of jobs, had a happy ending. During the lead-up to Basilone Day, lots of reporters had dug into every facet of his life--the rambunctious kid chased by a bull in a field; the likable, smiling young man who drove a laundry truck. They interviewed his youngest brother, his former employers, his schoolteachers. His mother, Dora, remembered Johnny's first spanking: "he had been stealing apples and I smacked him good," she said.136 Neighbors noted instances when Johnny had exhibited bravery even as a boy. The copy flowed into newsprint in the cities of eastern New Jersey and elsewhere.

  In the week after the Basilone Day parade, the reporters from Life magazine and other news outlets wanted more from the man himself. While asking him about his days as a golf caddie, they uncovered an interesting connection. John told them that he had carried bags for wealthy and influential Japanese businessmen. Manila recalled, " The Japs always carried and used cameras while on the course, which has a wonderful view of the surrounding factories, railroads and canals. They never failed to smile politely and make room for other, faster players coming through."137 Their behavior had seemed odd to him at the time; now it seemed treasonous.

  Even back in the mid- 1930s he had "smelled a fight coming" and joined the army. After his hitch was up, he decided "the army's not tough enough for me." The reporters and photographers studied the tattoos he'd acquired while in the army in great detail. "As mementos of his first enlistment he had two fine, large, lush tattoos, one on each arm," one reporter later wrote. " The right upper arm shows, in delicate modulations of blue and red inks, the head and shoulders of a full-blown Wild West girl. The left arm, in equally bold markings, bears a sword plunged into a human heart, the whole entwined with stars and flowers and a ribbon on which is written, 'Death Before Dishonor.' " 138

  The interviews allowed John to dispel one of the false stories that his own family had begun. Back in June, the Basilones had told reporters that Manila John "held several Army boxing championships."139 When asked for details, John said he had tried boxing as a middleweight in the Golden Gloves program, but he had not been "particularly successful."140 The matter dropped. When a reporter asked him later what he intended to do with his $5,000 war bond, he replied, "When the right girl comes along I'm going to buy a ten room house, and I'm going to have a bambino for each room."141

  Of course, the reporters eventually got around to discussing the night of October 24. John had not learned to elaborate much on it. Sometimes he would admit that he had been scared he wouldn't make it, like when he ran the hundred-yard dash for more belts of ammunition. At other moments, he'd insist, "I wasn't scared--didn't have time to be. Besides, I had my men to worry about. If you don't keep a cool head, you won't have any head to worry about."142 He made clear that "the next day, the japs fell back," without directly stating that his battle had not lasted three days as previously reported.

  When pushed by the writer James Golden over the course of a four- day interview "to talk about himself and his heroics," John said: "Look, Golden, forget about my part. There was not a man on the canal that night who doesn't own a piece of that medal awarded me."143 The blunt assertion did not stop the writer from pushing harder to get the story. After all, Golden figured, John must have done something extraordinary to win the Medal of Honor. Golden eventually concluded that John was "simply . . . too modest." Manila John had not even known what exactly he had done to merit the Medal of Honor until he read the medal citation signed by Roosevelt months later. Golden talked John into pulling out his old set of blues and wearing them with his medal hung around his neck for a photo. When Golden's article appeared, it repeated the same story as the others, describing Manila John as "a man-sized marine."144

  The big interviews with Life and Parade and the meetings with the local industries completed, John prepared to travel around to other factories on the Navy Incentive Tour. Before setting off, John sent a note to J.P., Greer, and his friends in Dog Company.145 He wrote them about the morning in D.C. when a corporal had walked into his room and inquired, "Sergeant Basilone, would you like to get up this morning?" 146 John knew his buddies would howl over that one. Manila also convinced his sister Mary to write a letter to Greer's family to let them know some news about their son Richard.147 He had not forgotten the promise he had made to Greer back in Australia. On September 27, he traveled back to the navy's office in Manhattan and reported in to the Inspector of Naval Material.

  ON SEPTEMBER 27, LIEUTENANT BENSON ORDERED HIS PLATOON OF 81MM mortarmen to pack their gear. They were boarding ship that night. No one in the #4 gun squad was surprised; they had been preparing for weeks. The news that the 1st Marine Division also had been transferred to General MacArthur's command for its next operation, however, came like a thunderclap. Barks of derision followed Benson's announcement. Army fatigue hats were issued. Sid threw the hat away and boarded the truck. The 2/1 arrived at Queen's Pier in downtown Melbourne at five thirty p.m. Their gear did not arrive until eleven p.m. Sid and Deacon went on a working party, of course, until the wee hours. The next day brought more of the same as they loaded their ship, one of the navy's new troop transports called a Liberty Ship. The good news came at the end of the day, when all hands got liberty. The veterans of Guadalcanal had a very clear expectation of what awaited them and therefore made the most of it. Deacon noted in his diary, "everybody drunk tonight." Deacon went to see all of his girlfriends before going over to Glenferrie to visit Shirley and her family. Sid didn't go. He had said his good-byes weeks earlier.

  At inspection the next morning, Lieutenant Benson and the top sergeant were both caught drunk. A lot of yelling ensued. A number of summary courts-martial were issued. By evening they had sorted it out and boarded the ship. A large crowd had gathered, a "waving, crying, flag- waving mob" on the dock. The local police and the Australian army's military police (MPs) were called out to keep them back. On deck, the marines blew air into their remaining prophylactics and let them drift to shore. Sid thought inflated condoms might just be going too far. The ship cast off and stood out from Melbourne's great harbor that same e
vening. For the next week, it steamed along the Great Barrier Reef, host to a battalion of marines cursing Liberty Ships, C rations, and "Dugout Doug." The men of the 2/1 figured they were headed for Rabaul or Bougainville. Rabaul was six hundred miles from Guadalcanal; Bougainville was even less. By implication, not very much progress had been made in the ten months since the #4 gun squad had last steamed through the Pacific. Looking forward to another six months stuck in a jungle, a crowd of marines took over Deacon's bunk and played for stakes as high as PS100.

  THE NAVY INCENTIVE TOUR HAD TURNED OUT TO BE QUIET AND BORING, WITH the occasional interview. The reporters may have worn Manila down because his resolution faded. In New York on October 15, the reporter Julia McCarthy tried to peel away some of the myths. She asked, "Didn't you personally kill thirty-eight Japanese, or have we been told wrong?" Before he could answer, she followed it with another: Had Manila really moved his machine gun because he had piled up so many dead? John nodded; all that was true. What about the rumor, McCarthy continued, that he had been offered a commission? John "at first admitted, then denied a report he turned down a chance to become a second lieutenant."148 His denial may have come from a desire to protect himself from being criticized for declining the opportunity for advancement. "The title I like best is 'Sarge,'" he explained, "and I like to be in the ranks.' " 149

  The incentive tour proved to have lots of holes in it, so John frequently returned to D.C. He began dating one of the female marines working in the Navy Building. When the final tour event ended on October 19, he was given a month's furlough, so he moved back to the three-bedroom duplex in Raritan where his parents had raised ten children.150 Most of his older brothers and sisters had long since moved out, though. Manila and his younger brother Don, who was just a boy, shared a room. Two sisters lived in the other.151

 

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