by Hugh Ambrose
All of the news stories had been published by mid-October. His mother had a large scrapbook, although it's unlikely John ever read it. The long interviews had not changed the coverage very much. The Basilone household received a lot of fan mail in October. The early articles in the summer had gotten a few people to write John and his family. The photographic essay in Life and the national radio broadcasts, however, generated lots of mail. Mothers wrote to congratulate his parents. The parents of men in his outfit wrote to congratulate him. They sent clippings; they wanted to know if Basilone had seen their boys in the South Pacific. Kids wrote for autographs. Old girlfriends wanted to catch up. Women he had met on the bond tour wanted to know how it all went. A dozen women sent pictures to John and introduced themselves to him. More than a few struggled with how to start a letter to a hero they did not know. Each acknowledged that he was being besieged by letters, but as one wrote, "I'm keeping my fingers crossed a little and hope you'll answer this letter, crummy and dull as it is."152
John enjoyed reading the letters, which his mother saved for him. Some friends from his hitch in the army wrote to congratulate him. They were proud to have soldiered with him. Of course, being old buddies, they had to tease him, too. " The only part that bothers me is that you had to be in the marines," said one.153 Everyone--old friends, friends of friends, former neighbors, former teachers, strange women, fans--all of them begged him to write them back, to call them, to let them know he had heard from them. They acknowledged how busy he was, but pleaded for a visit. They also called his house, called his brothers, and left word with his cousins.
Among the mail came a slick brochure from the War Activities Committee of the Motion Picture Industry, wrapping up the success of its Third War Loan Campaign. Flight Five of the Airmada, featuring Manila John, John Garfield, Virginia Grey, and others, had sold just over $36 million in war bonds. A few others had a higher total. Flight Three had topped them all with $94 million in bond sales.154
In late October, John went up to visit his friend Stephen Helstowski in Pittsfield, Massachusetts.155 The real reason, as Steve knew, was for John to meet Steve's sister Helen. He had been infatuated with her since he received her letters on Guadalcanal. Since his return to the States, Basilone had spoken of her several times to the press with such enthusiasm, it was reported that he would marry Helen Helstowski. 156 He spent a few days there, double-dating with Steve and his girlfriend. They got along very well and the relationship grew serious.157 He could not stay long, though. In early November he boarded a train for Raritan.158 There was more work to be done.
EUGENE SLEDGE'S HOLIDAY BREAK FROM THE V- 12 PROGRAM DID NOT GO AS HE expected. He returned to Georgia Tech three days early. Whatever the reason he gave his family, the tension inside of him resulted from the secret he was keeping from them. He had flunked both physics and biology and earned Cs in English and economics. So far as Captain Payzant could tell, Private Sledge was "below average" in intelligence and "not inclined to study," nor did he possess the "necessary officer qualities." The dean of the college agreed with Payzant's recommendation that Sledge be reassigned. On October 31, 1943, Private Sledge and forty-four of his colleagues were put under the command of Corporal James Holt, who escorted them to the Marine Corps base in San Diego "for recruit training and general service."
The recruits shipped out the very next day. Their train to San Diego stopped in Mobile for a few hours before steaming across the Southwest. Eugene did not attempt to phone his parents. He feared their reaction. He waited to write to them until the end of his first complete day of boot camp at the USMC Recruit Depot, which was also his twentieth birthday. The letter explained that he had not flunked out. Upon reviewing his file, Captain Payzant had decided that Sledge was not prepared for the engineering course required in the second semester, since he had had no previous courses it in. "At the last minute," Sledge had been "reassigned." Although Gene had asked to remain in the program, the captain had sent him to boot camp. "So you see," Eugene concluded his first letter to his parents, "I don't feel bad about coming here." He described his delightful train trip across the country. The mountains of Arizona had been especially beautiful, leading him to suggest a family trip to visit them after the war.
THE BATTALIONS OF THE 1ST MARINE DIVISION WERE DISPERSED AFTER THEIR troop transports had steamed back within range of "subs and jap heavy bombers" in mid-October. Some units found themselves on the eastern tip of New Guinea. Sid's 2/1 built their bivouac on Goodenough Island, one of a small group of islands near the tip of New Guinea and firmly under the command of MacArthur. One look at Goodenough Island and most concluded the 1st Division was "back in the boonies again!"159 Sidney saw a "beautiful island with mountains which seemed to touch the sky." They set up their bivouac near the base of a mountain, pausing every few minutes because of the enervating heat. A clear, cold mountain stream beckoned them in the afternoon. Being near an airstrip and a river made it all seem familiar, although this time there were no enemy forces on the island--just "gooks," the marines' popular slang word for any nonwhites.
While they awaited MacArthur's orders, the marines of the 2/1 hiked through a jungle dotted with small villages to stay in shape. One afternoon during a ten-minute halt, Sid spied some sugarcane nearby. He walked over and cut some stalks, handing them out to all the Southern boys. A few moments of joyful chewing caught people's attention, so they "taught the Yankees to peel the cane and cut it into chewable-sized pieces and soon had the whole platoon, including officers, chewing sugarcane. The Yankees thought we were brilliant."
The exercises on Goodenough also included an introduction to the LST, or Landing Ship Tank. Essentially a giant Higgins boat, the LST had a very shallow draft, allowing it to beach itself onshore. The tall bow doors swung open, and a ramp came down allowing trucks, jeeps, hundreds of men, and equipment to pour forth. The division's new Sherman tanks, far larger than the old Stuart tanks and mounting 75mm main cannons, made quite an impression. The practice landings took place at Papua, New Guinea, on October 24. These landings proceeded in the prescribed manner until the afternoon when the 2/1 and its Sherman tanks arrived at a village. The natives looked to Sid as "nine-tenths white and the women all dressed only in grass skirts. They all came to smilingly gawk at us and we were delightedly gawking at them when our officers proceeded to get us off of that island faster than we had come ashore." No fraternization would be permitted. As the LST steamed away, Sid heard someone say, "There must have been a lot of active missionaries on that island." When the 2/1 landed back on Goodenough, "as usual H Company had to unload the ship."
Although close enough to the front to have air raids, How Company enjoyed all the discipline of a bivouac area. When they cooled off too long in the river and returned to camp ten minutes late, the gunnery sergeant ordered them to miss lunch. When the colonel inspected their tents and found a mess cup in their trash pile, the platoon was put on report. These lapses, however, did not prevent Deacon from being promoted to sergeant. With the promotion came a transfer to the 60mm mortars. The 81mm mortars practiced on the same range as the 60mm, though, so for the time being the two friends still saw a lot of one another. Out on the range, the #4 gun squad set up the fastest, changed azimuths most accurately, and laid their bombs on the target in the fewest number of rounds. Before departing Goodenough, they witnessed a demonstration of the new bazookas and Bangalore torpedoes. Watching in fascination, Sid forgot for a moment about the endless rifle inspections, the piles of red ants, and the deluges of rain that threatened to drown him while hiking.
A FAIR NUMBER OF LIEUTENANT MICHEEL'S GREEN PILOTS MISJUDGED THEIR approaches and flopped or skidded into Narragansett Bay.160 A carrier landing bounce drill, conducted on a runway painted with a ship's outline, demanded a high level of precision and timing. A Landing Signal Officer stood on his corner of the outline with his large paddles, waving in the Dauntlesses of Bombing Two. They landed tail first, trying to hit the spot where the arresting wires would lie
on a real flight deck, then powered up immediately to climb back into the sky, get into the groove, and repeat it. On other days they made dummy bombing runs against any Atlantic convoys in the neighborhood, or rehearsed coordinated attacks with army units marching on Cape Cod. The nights of the Snake Ranch had ended. With a big city nearby, and with Boston and New York within range of any officer clutching a two-day pass, finding good places to get drunk and chat up women came easily.
Not one to live the wild life, Mike looked upon all these shenanigans with a veteran's aplomb. "I'm not getting shot at. So that's good." That fall he passed the one-thousand-hour mark in flight time and his skipper recommended his promotion, describing his "quiet, even and pleasant disposition and strong character." Mike's experience had been "very helpful to the other pilots of the squadron." Vernon Micheel, now a full lieutenant in the United States Navy, had become a senior naval aviator.
Jean had stayed in touch with him. She arranged to come up to see him with a friend of hers, but it fell through at the last minute. Later in October, though, Bombing Two received orders to prepare to ship out to the West Coast. The wolves began to receive longer passes. One night on the phone Jean said, "Why don't you come down and visit me one weekend?" Mike agreed. A few days later he got on the train and was walking down the aisle when he saw Richey, one of his squadron mates. Mike sat down and started making conversation. "Where are you going?" Richey said he was going to Philadelphia. Mike asked, "Where are you going in Philadelphia?" Richey said Germantown. Mike said, "Well so am I. Who are you going to see?"
"Jean Miller."
"Who?!"
"Jean Miller," Richey repeated. Catching himself, Mike let a moment pass before he asked casually, "What's Jean look like?"
"Oh, she's about so tall with long hair down to her shoulder, henna colored hair. She's an athletic build." That sounded like a spot-on match.
"Oh, ok, well, see you later Richey." Mike found a reason to find another seat. Getting off the train, "the first thing I did I went to the telephone and I called up and Jean answered the phone. I said, 'I'm at North Philly station, were you expecting me this weekend?!'
" 'Yeah. Why are you talking like that?'
" 'Well, I just came down on a train with Richey and he says he's going to see a Jean Miller.'
" 'Oh,' she says, 'I know her, she . . . lives over in the next neighborhood.'" Jean went on to explain, the relief evident in her voice, that people often mixed up her and the other Jean. It took a little assurance to convince Mike. He had been ready to get back on the train. Everything turned out all right, though. When the weekend ended, they said good-bye with the understanding that he was headed off to the war. In one way this fact had always been there, since Lieutenant Micheel refused to think beyond the war. He was not one to speculate about the future he did not control. Jean had already guessed that she should not expect too many letters from her quiet Mike while he was away.161
On October 24, 1943, the orders came through for the pilots of Bombing Two to fly their aircraft to Alameda, California. Before they left, they took a squadron photo in front of their mascot, Vertigo, the Sea Wolf. Mike called Jean to say goodbye. On the thirty-first, he and his new, regular rear seat gunner, Aviation Machinist's Mate First Class Charles Hart, flew across America, toward the Pacific.
PRIVATE EUGENE SLEDGE MADE NO ATTEMPT TO HIDE HIS DELIGHT AT BEING IN boot camp in his letters home. Everything looked perfect. The Spanish influence on the Recruit Depot's architecture, with terra-cotta roof tiles and court-yards framed by arched walkways, held all the allure of the new and the exotic. The important buildings had been painted in camouflage. Recruit Platoon 984, to which Sledge and sixty-three others joined summarily, assembled in front of their drill instructor (DI) that first evening. "You're okay in my book," the DI began, "because you are a complete volunteer platoon." The DI stopped his talk for a moment, interrupted by a boot from another platoon standing at attention and uttering "Yes, sir" constantly. After draping a steel bucket over the boot's head, the DI declared his surprise at the "fine physical shape" his new platoon was in. He promised them Platoon 984 "would be treated better than the draftees," because they had had "guts enough to get into the Corps without being drafted." The face of every man in 984 shone with the praise even as it likely betrayed a trace of concern about the man with the bucket over his head yelling " Yes, sir!" over and over again.
Being demoted again, this time from private to "boot," did not bother Eugene a bit. He prepared himself to "catch plenty of sand." In his formal induction interview, Eugene neglected to mention his membership in his high school band and his tennis lessons at Marion, instead choosing to assert that his sports had been boxing and football. Sledge had not come all this way to play in the band. He set his sights on getting into Sea School after boot camp. Sea School prepared marines to serve on the navy's battlewagons and carriers.
His platoon moved into some tents near the edge of the base, next to a large factory that produced B-24 bombers. Every few minutes, one of the big four-engine planes rolled off the assembly line and roared overhead. The tents leaked, so Platoon 984 left ponchos on their beds to keep them dry. The damp bed and hard training soon gave Gene the first of a number of colds and fevers. In spite of his fastidiousness about his dress and hygiene, he loved it. He gave himself over to the Marine Corps, hustling for all he was worth. The lessons learned at Marion Military Institute and from Captain Payzant helped him negotiate the treacherous terrain of a boot, where any missteps brought instant punishment. He felt sorry for those men who had had no such preparation.
While those in the 984 with no prior training had a harder time adjusting to the discipline, Eugene's problem was with his parents. Due to the lag in letters created by his sudden departure, he had not heard their reaction. Amid all of his breezy letters about boot camp, he made sure to build his case. About a thousand men from V-12 had been "gyped like I was." Every one of them agreed the officer training program had problems. Eugene Sledge, however, was not a good liar. In one of his first letters, even as he explained again how he had been let go because he lacked training in engineering, he included the lines "For yours and father's sake I will always be sorry I was a failure. But I have one consolation, that is if I had passed everything I'd will be here anyway. So you see, I'm really not a failure." While the depth of his relationship with them may have caused him to inadvertently admit he had flunked out, it did not prevent him from offering what amounted to a bribe: "if I have to sell eggs and chickens do it, I'm going to get a degree in history or business after the war."
The fateful reply arrived at Eugene's mail call on November 16. Dr. and Mrs. Sledge had acknowledged his transfer. He replied at once, opening his letter with "I got your two letters today and boy it was like a blood transfusion to hear from home. You can't realize how relieved I am to know you realize that it wasn't my fault because I am here." He shared their disappointment. He knew that his sudden departure had given them a scare. He appreciated their surprise that he had not phoned home while in the Mobile train station. Being denied permission to use the phone had made him sick. Now that they understood, though, he had a clear conscience. He dropped it, smartly, and wrote letters describing his life as a boot and the rigors of extended order drill. After listing the types of candy he would like to receive and letting them know he did not need his dress blue uniform sent, he agreed with his mother's choice for the new watch she wanted to purchase for him. With his gold watch locked away for the time being, "an American shock and waterproof is just the type. Don't pay too much for it."
As usual, he asked for the news from home and wondered about the health of his horse, Cricket, and his dog, Deacon. He knew his father had been out in the countryside, hunting ducks and squirrels, and Gene sorely missed being with him. The highlight of the week was the appearance of the comedian and movie star Bob Hope, who had given a show at the base theater. Although the boots had not been allowed to attend the show, Hope had walked out on the o
utdoor stage afterward. Bob brought with him the comedian Jerry Colonna and a few beautiful actresses and singers. They performed an abbreviated version of their show. Looking out at all the young men, Hope observed their hair had been cut so short, "they must have cut it from the inside."
ALTHOUGH HE WAS OFFICIALLY ON FURLOUGH UNTIL THE END OF NOVEMBER, Manila John's public relations duties continued on a sporadic basis. On November 9, he and his brothers Carlo and Angelo went into Manhattan to record a radio show.162 The three brothers read from their scripts. The central story involved Manila John talking about the night he "killed all those japs." He said little beyond "we kept our guns going until we had them licked," and had his brother Carlo say, "You and your crew killed thirty-eight japs right in front of your emplacement." The oblique reference to Cecil and Billie Joe represented a small victory, as did having the announcer pronounce the name Basilone correctly, with the final e enunciated. The radio program used the viewers' interest in his story as the backdrop for John praising all of the war workers who "gave us the stuff to fight with."
The conclusion began with Carlo, who said, "I'll never forget that Sunday you left home for overseas. Remember? All of us kids at mom's house and after putting away all that grub, you got up to go . . ." Angelo jumped in at this point, with "And all you said was 'Goodbye folks--be seeing you in the funnies.'" The three laughed as scripted, "ha, ha, ha," as they papered over the tense night three years ago when John had informed their parents he had quit his job and joined the marines. Sal and Dora had not been happy. Angelo continued. " That's just what happened, so help me. One day my kids were reading the comics, and there you were: Sergeant John Basilone, a hero." John said, "Yeah, sure, sure," and their laughter came more easily as the program ended.