The Pacific

by Hugh Ambrose

  Life magazine had not, however, lifted the veil concealing the story of the POWs. Its story followed a week's worth of stories appearing in the Chicago Tribune and the one hundred newspapers affiliated with it. The Tribune's series would continue for the rest of February, detailing the story of Lieutenant Colonel William E. "Ed" Dyess, the army air corps pilot who had returned with McCoy and Mellnik. The way Colonel Dyess began his story indicated that he had a different message from that offered by McCoy and Mellnik in Life.

  Dyess began his account two days before the Japanese attack on the Philippines in order to impress upon the reader that the U.S. forces in the Far East had been expecting a Japanese attack. At great length he detailed the quick destruction of American military might on Luzon, followed by its slow disintegration on the peninsula of Bataan. At every turn, he made it plain that valor could not mitigate the huge deficits in numbers, arms, and materiel that the Americans and Filipinos had faced. The big joke in the air corps had been a note written to President Roosevelt: "Dear Mr. President: Please send us another P-40. The one we have is all shot up."28 Dyess described catching and eating lizards after their rations ran out. As Ed Dyess made clear that the Americans had been abandoned by their country, the Chicago Tribune published tables showing the hundreds of millions of dollars in tanks, aircraft, and artillery the United States had sent to Great Britain, the Soviet Union and other allies at the same moment. The facts set the Roosevelt administration's "Europe First" policy in stark relief. America's real enemy was the Empire of Japan.

  When Dyess's series came to the surrender, it overlapped with McCoy's and Mellnik's story. The Life magazine article had omitted the start of the war entirely, thereby evading any questions as to how the defeat had come to pass, and focused on Japan's treatment of POWs. It grabbed readers' attention with specific atrocities from the March of Death from Bataan. The second page featured an artist's rendering of one horror. The caption under the picture explained: "Americans were forced to bury other Americans alive. At the point of jap bayonets this man is forced to hit a countryman with a shovel and bury him." A long description of the conditions in the POW camp followed. The Japanese had killed five thousand helpless Americans. Mellnik and McCoy believed that "not more than 10% of the American military prisoners in the Philippines will survive another year of the conditions which has existed at the time of our escape."

  Amid promises that none of these descriptions had been exaggerated, the authors explained at length that all of this had occurred as the deliberate policy of the imperial Japanese government. McCoy and Mellnik wanted to establish these facts for the record to prevent the Japanese from claiming that these atrocities had never happened, or that its political leadership had not been aware of conditions in these camps. In this way the article might create pressure on the Japanese government to take better care of the men. Most of all, though, the escapees wanted to increase the American people's feeling of urgency and necessity to make a supreme effort in the war.

  The story of the monstrous cruelty committed at Cabanatuan and elsewhere caused the national sensation of which all POWs, not just the ten who had escaped, had dreamed. The editorial page of the Chicago Tribune declared that in the Pacific, the United States faced "the task of dealing not merely with Hitler and his gangsters, but with a race of Hitlers who have made gangsterism their state religion."29 Congressmen used words like "revenge" and issued pledges to "ruin Japan" by bombing Tokyo. The public bought more bonds to quicken the pace with which America destroyed the hated enemy.30 The gift that McCoy, Dyess, Shofner, and the others had so desperately wanted to give the men left behind in Cabanatuan had been delivered.

  The stories from the escapees also fed the ongoing debate in Congress about the promotion of the POWs. Senator Chavez and his allies believed they had all the proof needed to justify the promotions. The families became more strident because they considered the promotion issue to be recognition of their sons' and brothers' sacrifices. Interviewed by congressmen who visited him in New Guinea, MacArthur told them his men "didn't surrender . . . they fought until they were too weak to stand and fight any longer."31 His comments seemed to support the idea of promoting the POWs.

  Austin Shofner saw the promotion debate as a sideshow. As escapees, he and the others had proven their courage and had been promptly promoted upon return. The manner in which Melvyn McCoy and Stephen Mellnik had become famous as the leaders of the escape rankled him, though he said nothing. Shofner wanted the public's fury at the debacle on Bataan to be directed toward a frank appraisal of the leadership of General Douglas MacArthur. From what he had seen, the Japanese invasion need not have led to the March of Death. MacArthur and his staff had allowed their air force to be destroyed on the ground a full nine hours after learning of the enemy's offensive. The defense strategy he had crafted had descended into a rout. Hundreds of tons of foodstuffs had never made it to Bataan. Tens of thousands of men had paid a huge price for the mistakes made by MacArthur. This accounting, however, did not occur.

  In the national discussion that followed its appearance, pity for the POWs' suffering gave way to acceptance that the American troops had not been equipped to fight Japan. Left unsaid, but certainly part of the public's calculations, was the growing realization that war demanded sacrifice, even callous sacrifice. In the estimation of many knowledgeable observers, the men who had fought on Bataan and Corregidor had slowed the enemy's advance and given the United States time to prepare for war; they had lifted morale in the United States and had inspired her troops like nothing "since the Alamo."32 This logic placed them in one of America's favorite stories: the gallant stand of the lost cause. It removed from the POWs the stigma of shame. The tide turned against Secretary Stimson. The families of the POWs, who had for so long been outraged and heartsick, would be mollified.

  A potent blend of mythology, patriotism, practical necessity, and skillful public relations overwhelmed all those who, like Shifty Shofner, had experienced a different truth. The public understood that the sacrifice had been an unfortunate necessity and, once the blot of cowardice had been removed, moved on. Public opinion on the fate of the Philippines contrasted sharply with the disdain with which Americans regarded Admiral Kimmel and General Short, the two commanders of U.S. forces in Hawaii on December 7, 1941. These leaders had been summarily relieved of duty in the wake of the attack upon Pearl Harbor, their careers ruined. Douglas MacArthur had been awarded the Medal of Honor "for the heroic conduct of defensive and offensive operations on the Bataan Peninsula."

  ON FEBRUARY 10, EUGENE SLEDGE COMPLETED HIS TRAINING WITH A TEST OF HIS skill on the 60mm mortar. He scored a 94, two points shy of being certified as Expert. It angered him to have come so close because it reminded him of his rifle test, but also because an Expert rating would help him make corporal quicker. Gene was pushing hard, as usual. He had only just witnessed a live-fire exercise and would not fire a live round himself for another week. Although his request for a transfer to the tank corps had not been granted, he was enjoying the life of a marine.

  His platoon had been issued carbines (lightweight semiautomatic rifles), a sure sign they would ship out soon. Most of his platoon "armed themselves to the teeth" with pistols and knives. Censorship forbade him from being too obvious about his imminent departure, but the signs were in his letters. He got some pictures taken in his blues and sent them home along with a box of nonessential items he could not take with him. He thanked his parents for hiring someone to have his room "done over" in preparation for his return and reminded his father about his request for a .45 automatic pistol. Eugene could hardly wait to ship out. He closed a letter to his mother with "Love you & pop more than tongue can tell & heart can wish." In mid-February Private First Class Sledge was placed into the Forty-sixth Replacement Battalion. A week later, his replacement battalion shipped out on USS President Polk.

  Out at sea Eugene read a lot, mostly the New Testament to renew his faith, and a few outdoor sporting magazines, which r
eminded him of all the great hunting trips he had had with his father. Standing in the hot sun watching the trackless Pacific, he felt the pride he had wanted to feel of doing his part for his country. The passing days gave him a marine's deep tan, sea legs, and something else Gene had wanted so badly he could only now admit it. He was catching up to his older brother Edward, who had shipped out for England in November.

  THE RUMOR ARRIVED IN HILO DAYS BEFORE THE AIRPLANES DID. IN EARLY February Bombing Two traded in their Dauntlesses for SB2C Helldivers. Trading in the old Dauntlesses for the navy's modern dive-bomber meant an imminent deployment to a carrier. Everybody liked the idea, especially the young wolves. The Helldiver carried more bombs, flew faster, and had four 20mm cannons. Rumors about the Beast did not intimidate them. It "had wings, an engine . . . and various other things."33 The Helldivers they received had not come directly from the factory. Walking up to them on the flight line, Mike's preflight check confirmed his first impression: "they sent us some old junkers." The condition of the airplanes concerned Mike both as a pilot and as the squadron's engineering officer.

  The skipper of Bombing Two looked to Mike as the key officer to lead the transition because he was the only one who had flown the SB2C. The squadron was informed it had a month to get carrier qualified with the SB2C. Lieutenant Micheel told them about the high stall speed, which meant they had to carry more speed into their landing approach. He led the flights off their airfield, nestled between the ocean and two tall volcanoes, to show them how impossible it was to dial in the right trim on the Beast. The Dauntless could be trimmed to fly straight and stable; the SB2C could not. A pilot had to keep an eye on the SB2C. Before long, Mike became as busy being the engineering officer as the flight instructor. The aircraft suffered from the same malady that had gotten them and Mike kicked off the Yorktown a year ago: the wing lock.

  The manufacturers of the Helldiver, Curtiss-Wright, had solved the problem of the locking wing by installing a wing lock lever inside the cockpit. When the wings were let down in flight position, the locking pins inside the wings were inserted. To lock the locking pins in position, the pilot pushed in the wing lock lever down by his feet. The lever, though, had a problem caused by the plane's vibration. Mike and his comrades noticed "you'd be flying along and pretty soon you'd see that thing moving out so you'd sit up here and boot it back in." Lieutenant Micheel found himself in the hangar with the mechanics. One of the crew's chief warrant officers wondered, "Why don't you put a bungee on it?" Mike tried it. It held the wing lock lever in place and also allowed it to be unlocked quickly. All of the cockpits were outfitted so that the bungee cord could be connected to the lever on one end and a secure bit of metal on the other.

  New SB2Cs, fitted with improved wing lock levers, arrived to replace the old ones they had trained in. The Beast, however, had not earned the pilots' trust the way the Dauntless had. The squadron's skipper, Campbell, reported to his superiors that "most pilots felt that it was a decided change for the worse. The reputation of the SB2C was bad and on the whole the pilots did not trust the plane and felt that they would be unable to dive accurately therein."34 It was too late. The air group's other squadron, the torpedo planes, arrived. Air Group Two's CO explained that they had been assigned duty aboard USS Hornet because the air group currently embarked on Hornet "isn't doing very well and we're going to go replace them."

  THE MARINES WHO WOULD MAKE UP BAKER COMPANY TRICKLED INTO CAMP Pendleton from a variety of sources. The men who had been paramarines arrived with their trousers tucked into their jump boots. Others, usually NCOs, had been yanked from behind their desks in D.C.; these men frequently carried some extra pounds around their waists, but at least they did not have a chip on their shoulders like the men who had been picked to be paratroopers. Those marines considered themselves elite, even if they had not seen action. A few veterans of the war, like John Basilone, found themselves salted into Baker Company, 1st Battalion, Twenty-seventh Marines. One of the new men, Corporal Tremulis, had manned a 20mm antiaircraft gun along the flight deck of USS Yorktown. He had had to swim in the open ocean when the captain had ordered the ship abandoned during the Battle of Midway.35

  The majority of the men flooding into the 1/27 in late January, though, came from boot camp. They found their new battalion slightly chaotic. Some routine was imposed through the physical training held each morning out in front of their barracks. One afternoon, Captain Le Francois went on liberty in San Diego and failed to return. Officially listed as absent without leave, Le Francois had "gone over the hill," in marine parlance. Experienced men going AWOL was not an isolated occurrence, although most returned eventually--happy to be busted in rank for a few extra days of liberty.36 Baker Company received a second skipper and never heard of Le Francois again.

  The 5th Division HQ set out a formal training schedule on February 8, even before all the men had arrived.37 The schedule began with the physical conditioning of the individual, training the individual with his weapon (snapping in), and training the individual for his job within the squad. The squad hiked to each of the firing ranges scattered about the vast grounds of Camp Pendleton. While most divisions trained five days a week, the 5th Division HQ decided to speed up the training cycle by working ten days on and three days off.38 The marines in John's machine-gun platoon concentrated on the .30-caliber air-cooled Browning Machine Gun.

  One afternoon on the machine-gun range Sergeant Basilone watched Private Charles Tatum, the seventeen-year-old he had met on his first day with Baker Company, whipping the gun back and forth like it was a hose. The sergeant tapped the private on the shoulder and said, " Tatum, you're probably the worst machine gunner in the Marine Corps. You got to be gentle with it. Don't spray it."39 He repeated the earlier admonishments against burning out the barrel. "Fire it in bursts. Don't spray it. Treat it gently." The machine gun was not an all-powerful weapon. Tatum listened in rapt attention.

  Every marine knew the name Manila John Basilone and knew his story. It conjured up images of "brute strength and determination."40 The men of Baker Company, though, came to know a sergeant who did not take himself too seriously, much less consider himself special. He fit in. The words "Medal of Honor" never came out of his mouth so no one got to know "Manila John."41 The men in his platoon addressed him as Sergeant. Other sergeants called him John since none of them went back far enough with him to call him "Manila." He did not encourage anyone to call him that.42 Perhaps he felt the name belonged to the legend.

  The happiness and good cheer that the men noticed marked the return of John's natural disposition.43 In mid-February, the 1st Battalion returned to its barracks after completing one of their first bivouacs. After giving them some time to get squared away, Colonel Butler then called his battalion into formation for an inspection. The men reported with their khakis pressed, field scarves tied as prescribed, their fingernails clean, their shoelaces of uniform length. They carried no packs, only their cartridge belts and personal weapons. The companies passed in review of the battalion CO, Colonel Butler. Baker Company's lieutenant called out, "Eyes right!" and saluted as they passed the colonel.44 Colonel Butler inspected each man and his weapon. The company commander followed along. Inspecting hundreds of marines took time. The colonel liked what he saw. He praised the men for a great job and promised them steak and eggs as a reward.45 He then asked Sergeant John Basilone to step forward. He did. The colonel handed him some papers and said, "It's now Gunnery Sergeant John Basilone."46

  This promotion was the moment he had been working toward. Before the war began, men had dedicated most of their lives to reaching the exalted position of a gunnery sergeant. Henceforth, he would be called Gunny. In the world of men who trained hard and fought wars, the gunny had authority, a certain amount of autonomy, and a lot of respect. Officers like Colonel Chesty Puller often stated that the senior NCOs were the "backbone of the Corps." The promotion came with the princely sum of $158.90 per month in pay, including an extra $2 "for Medal of Honor."47 Si
nce Baker Company had recently been assigned a gunnery sergeant, John was transferred to Charlie Company. Basilone moved his seabag into the barracks of C/1/27 about a hundred yards away. He was right where he wanted to be.

  THE TROOPSHIP STEAMED TO THE DOCK OF A BUSY PORT. EUGENE SLEDGE AND THE other marines of the replacement draft disembarked. Rows of tents of the replacement depot at Noumea, New Caledonia, awaited them. Situated near the Old Mission Church, the camp had a mess hall serving the best food Sledge had ever had in the corps, including fruit juice. There were a lot of rules and the usual delay in finding out what happened next. Men came and went at the replacement depot, so there was little camaraderie. Aside from some physical training, there was little to do. Days turned into weeks before he was even processed completely into the system.48

  Until his mail caught up with him, Sledge contented himself with reading what he had brought with him. He enjoyed looking at the selection of photos of his family, his horse and dogs, his prized gun collection, his house. He could picture in his mind the pretty azaleas and japonicas blooming on the grounds of Georgia Cottage. He walked into the town of Noumea often. He found the architecture identical to New Orleans' French Quarter and stepped around every corner expecting to see the Cabildo, one of New Orleans' landmarks. In the evening, he might visit the Red Cross to get some free V-mail paper, although he did not care for "dehydrated letters" and found writing difficult since "everything was a secret." He looked forward to being assigned into an outfit and began to hope that it might be the same as Sidney Phillips's unit. After a few weeks he received his first mail call and a letter from Sidney. Although he expected to be rotated home, Sid joked that he would stay if Eugene was put into his outfit.