ACT III

"THE PAUSE THAT REFRESHES"

Christmas 1942-Christmas 1943

AMERICA'S VICTORY IN THE BATTLE OF GUADALCANAL TAUGHT HER LEADERS that the war would be both long and costly. While Washington did not discern how devastating the campaign had been to the enemy's army and navy, it knew the crisis had passed. The end of the first year of conflict found the United States assured of its connection to Australia and comfortable that the Battle of Midway had blunted the offensive capability of Japan's carrier fleet.

ABOARD USS JOHNSON IN THE HARBOR OF ESPIRITU SANTOS, SID'S SQUAD HAD A meal of the standard shipboard fare. Each man received a box from the Red Cross. Sid opened his to find the "contents completely molded and useless except for a sewing box." The ship's PX served Coca-Cola if one could get to the store in time. All in all, it was the "driest and poorest Christmas" anyone could remember. The officers, of course, were served a turkey for their Christmas dinners. When the 2/1 disembarked, they moved into a tent camp under coconut trees with lots of flies. Deacon found a PX, one run by black U.S. Army troops, which sold candy and cigarettes. Sid took some of his "jap souvenirs" and went out to some of the ships looking for trades. He also went aboard USS Enterprise, swinging at anchor in Segond Channel, but found it less generous than USS Honolulu, where he was given lots of free ice cream.

On New Year's Eve, a double ration of beer was doled out, a double feature was shown at the base theater, and the colonel announced they were departing soon for Australia. The small-arms fire that took place at midnight marked the beginning of 1943 and the fact that the veterans of Guadalcanal never went anywhere without their rifles, clean and loaded, and their helmets. After a few days, they boarded another transport and shipped out for Australia. They arrived off the coast of Brisbane and, as usual, waited a few days. The Fifth Marines had already gone ashore to a rest camp. Word came that the Fifth Marines hated the camp and had complained. General MacArthur, who commanded all U.S. forces in Australia, had replied that there was no shipping available to take them anywhere else. It took some time, but Admiral Halsey made the ships available. Sid's ship hoisted anchor and got under way; the 1st Marine Division sailed south, to Melbourne. Along the way, the heat of the tropics subsided.

Through a narrow pass, the ship steamed into a large bay and at last came to the dock on a clear summer day in mid-January 1943. Sid's squad knew something had changed when they were told to leave the heavy mortars behind; someone else would unload them. The embarkation ramps dumped them off at electric trams. The trams took them through the downtown to a station, where trucks took them on a short ride to the Melbourne Cricket Grounds, a stadium. "Women and girls lined the way, waving and blowing kisses." Sid and his squad "knew immediately we were in heaven."

A great repast awaited them inside the stadium. In the covered sections of the bleachers, the seats had been replaced by steel bunks. The PX sold milk, Coca-Cola, cigarettes, and other treats, but as soon as it got dark, marines in stained and ragged uniforms started slipping out. Thin and weak but determined to take liberty, the veterans had to walk about a mile to reach the center of the city. Although streetlights and neon signs had been dimmed, the marines saw people wearing clean clothes and living aboveground. They saw order, peace, civilization. For their part, the Australians welcomed them like old acquaintances, usually with a cheery "Good on you, Yank." Sid felt "absolute joy and ecstasy."

THE SEVENTH MARINES, THE LAST REGIMENT OF THE 1ST MARINE DIVISION TO land on Guadalcanal, was the last to leave. After spending Christmas at Lunga Point, Puller's 1/7 embarked on January 5 and sailed directly to Melbourne. It disembarked on January 13. The marines in Basilone's machine- gun platoon carried their adopted dog, Jockstrap, in a seabag. As they came down the ramp, the Australian immigration officer noticed Jockstrap's head poking out. " That dog can't come in here." The gunners stopped, angry and armed. " The hell he can't," one replied. The official decided to look away and the unloading continued.

The city of Melbourne slid past their windows as their train took them along the edge of it and then south around the bay to the village of Mornington. Waiting trucks carried them the short distance to their camp at Mount Martha. Rows of green eight-man tents surrounded a few semipermanent buildings sheathed in tin. The remoteness of the camp made it more difficult to skip out that evening. The trouble started the next morning. John's buddy J. P. Morgan went AWOL from nine thirty a.m. on the fourteenth "until apprehended by U.S. Army military police" at four thirty p.m.¹ Manila John, however, did not get caught.

LIEUTENANT MICHEEL MET UP AGAIN WITH RAY DAVIS AND A FEW OTHERS FROM Bombing Six at North Island in San Diego when their leaves expired in early January. Bill Pittman had recovered and showed up as well. Settling into the Bachelor Officers' Quarters, the pilots would have learned that not much had happened in the Pacific since their return. Mike heard about the medals being awarded for Midway. Pilots from other squadrons had already been awarded Navy Crosses and Distinguished Flying Crosses for their participation. Unlike Bombing Six, those pilots had not been on Guadalcanal and had therefore been available to accept them. Ray and Bill had received theirs upon their return to San Diego.

They assured him that, based on what had been awarded them and others, Mike would soon get a Navy Cross. The navy's rationale had been divined. "Everybody that flew four flights" got a Navy Cross. Although "some of the guys that didn't fly four flights got them too," depending on whether they had flown the first two missions on June 4 or the second two. "Anybody that just flew the last two, they didn't get it. They might have got a DFC but they didn't get a Navy Cross." After a few days, Bombing Six received their new planes, the Dauntless's newest version (-4) and fourteen new ensigns. Mike's first flight in more than two months came in mid-January, when his squadron flew to their new naval air station at El Centro, California. Just inland from San Diego and a hop from the Mexican border, Bombing Six's new home was in the desert.

The pace of in-flight training began slowly in late January. The training began by making sure the new pilots could fly a decent formation. As flight officer, Mike made sure the veterans showed the new guys a thing or two about gunnery, dive-bombing, and the like. He also had to spend some time in the backseat of an SNJ, as his proteges practiced "flying on instruments," or performing maneuvers without being able to see outside. "Outside of making sure that they didn't fly into us," and other aerial instruction, "I really don't remember that we made any effort to bring them into the squadron." Just as he had had to find his own way when he first went aboard the Big E, Micheel and his friends expected the new men to find theirs. The friendship and trust that existed between Mike, Ray, Bill, and the others could not be extended easily. The new pilots were expected to measure up.

The beginning of February meant that Ray Davis would begin holding a monthly inspection. The squadron assembled on the flight line, outside their hangar. Ray stepped up to his friend Lieutenant Junior Grade Vernon Micheel and presented him with a Navy Cross, the highest decoration for valor the Navy can bestow and second only to the Congressional Medal of Honor. A golden cross hung from a ribbon whose thin white stripe separated two broad stripes of navy blue. Like those awarded to others who had flown at Midway, Mike's citation concluded: "His gallant perseverance and utter disregard for his own personal safety were important contributing factors to the success achieved by our forces and were in keeping with the highest traditions of the United States Naval Service."² Ray pinned on the medal, stepped back, and saluted him.

ON FEBRUARY 1, SHOFNER HAD "THE HAPPIEST DAY OF PRISON LIFE." HE RECEIVED a few letters from home. To hear that his family were all well in a letter postmarked in June of 1942 was to know joy. It moved him more than the Red Cross packages the guards had distributed a week earlier, although these boxes had contained treats like chocolate, cigarettes and cookies; necessities like canned meats, sardines, and even toilet articles. Along with all the goodies there was some clothing and a small supply of quinine and sulfa drugs. Each prisoner received two boxes, although the guards had stolen from some of the boxes. Copies of the Manila newspaper were provided to each barracks. In addition, the guards gave each man fifteen cans of canned meat and vegetables. The prison officials also made sure the prisoners had blankets, mosquito nets, canteens, and mess kits.

On top of this shocking largesse, the camp commander allowed his prisoners to send a postcard home. The chance to tell their families that they were still alive, even if it was a tiny postcard on which they filled in a few blanks, brought hope. The supply of quinine came in handy almost immediately, as Shifty had his first bout with malaria. He took the pills and hoped he had averted a trip to the hospital. Going into the hospital meant a loss of privileges. It meant the loss of his spot on a work detail. It meant he might lose his chance to escape.

Even though the lives of the POWs had improved greatly in Davao from Cabanatuan, almost half of them lacked the strength for a work detail in March of 1943. Not working made recovering from dengue fever, beriberi, tropical ulcers, dysentery, and the like more difficult. The cans of food and supplies of medicines were consumed quickly. Those who could work could steal, although the guards had become more watchful. Punishment for stealing food from the emperor of Japan was meted out with fist, boot, and club immediately. Still, it had to be done.

Using the quinine worried Shifty, though. His team of would-be escapees were not indulging themselves in all of the great canned food like the other POWs. Canned food had to be saved for the escape, just like the medicine. The camp commander made the saving of food more difficult when he cut the supply of fresh vegetables. All of the prisoners needed to work in the fields in order to make up the loss. In Shifty's case, the medicine worked. It knocked down the malaria. He remained on the detail.

Shifty went looking for a navigator. Quietly, with his poker face in place, he observed and assessed the naval officers. As with most of the marine officers, disease and malnutrition had rendered most of the navy men unfit for a difficult journey. He approached Lieutenant Commander Melvyn McCoy. At an appropriate point in their conversation, Shifty asked him if he could navigate a ship from Mindanao to Australia. McCoy knew where this discussion would go. He liked how it had begun. McCoy had met Shifty in Bilibid, played poker against him in Cabanatuan, and had watched him give money to other POWs so they could buy food.³ He knew Captain Austin Shofner had the strength and the courage to succeed. So McCoy replied that he had been a top mathematician at the United States Naval Academy. He could devise a formula for navigating the great ocean.

When at last Shifty broached the subject of escape directly, Commander McCoy let Shofner know he had already begun planning to break out with three others. He could not abandon them. This wrinkle halted the conversation. The commander and the captain returned to their respective groups. Each group had to consider if the total number of both groups--ten--would be too many. On the other hand, could the two groups afford to remain separate when they knew that whichever group went first would spoil the chances of the second? Last, they had to evaluate the men in the other group for toughness and health, if not for skill. Enough men had faltered during the many months since the surrender that having a discussion among so large a group brought great unease. The considerations created a slow dance. At length, though, they decided to go together.^r

Rather than dwell too much on their chances in a small boat somewhere in the Pacific, the men focused on the specifics. Commander McCoy assumed command, as the highest-ranking officer, a command tolerated by Shifty in part because McCoy respected all of the work and planning Shofner had already performed. Circumstances also prevented McCoy from dictating each policy. Shifty involved himself in every step of the process. Lists of equipment and tools were drawn up, amounts and types of food were specified in a penal colony where most men did not have enough to eat and many did not have "any footgear of any kind."⁴ Along with an axe, a rope, and a tent or section of tarp to provide some protection from the strong rains, McCoy insisted he have a sextant for navigation. In case the escape succeeded but the effort to depart the island did not, they gathered the seeds of fruits and vegetables.

Shofner, Hawkins, and Dobervich were plowing the casaba field with Brahma steers in late February. They and a few others from the team used the bulls to pull their carts and plow the field. Using the draft animals required the teams to go to them on Sunday, when everyone else had the day off, and bring them to a new pasture. This got the plowers out of the gated compound. McCoy and his men worked on the coffee- bean-picking details, which also worked on Sundays as per the camp commandant's orders. With little supervision, which they handily evaded, the team hid tin cans full of their supplies in various places, including Shifty's favorite: under large anthills.

Beyond the fields in which they labored, a wall of jungle stood over a swamp. The only clear path out of the fields led down the road to the city of Davao. The IJA considered the miles of dense jungle and deep swamp to form an impenetrable barrier on three sides. The team agreed, reluctantly. Recruiting a guide would force them to extend the circle of trust beyond Americans. It had to be done. Shofner, aided by Hawkins, who spoke Spanish, oversaw the selection. He started by finding out as much as he could about the Filipinos who had been incarcerated there for civil crimes. In time, he came to know two men who had the knowledge to lead the way, but who had both been convicted of murder. They were Benigno de la Cruz and Victoriano Jumarong. Ben told them he had been convicted of murder, but he had done it in a fit of emotion. He had killed the man who was trying to steal the woman he loved. He said he regretted it. Victor proclaimed his innocence. Playing his cards close to his vest, Shifty took his time in verifying their knowledge of the area before bringing them up to speed.

NOT EVERYONE FROM HOW COMPANY OF THE 2ND BATTALION OF THE FIRST Marines made roll call on the first morning at the Melbourne Cricket Grounds. The first sergeant looked out to see maybe thirty guys in formation, somewhat less than the two hundred or so he had on his muster roll. For every name he called, though, he heard an answer. He decided to call out a few names of men who had been buried on Guadalcanal and, lo and behold, they answered aye as well. On this lovely morning First Sergeant McGrath did not care. He was drunk, too.

On the second day in Australia Sid and the other privates first class received PS15, or about $48. It was a modest amount considering the United States Marine Corps owed him close to $400 after six months on the Canal, when no one had been paid. New uniforms were also issued, but because of a shortage of marine uniforms, he received an army jacket. The seabags that they had left in Wellington were supposed to be on their way, and Lieutenant Benson had his company fill out official government forms listing all of the items they had lost on USS George F. Elliott. Uncle Sam was going to repay them for the loss of their personal possessions.

At every opportunity, the marines headed up the street. They arrived in Melbourne with a great thirst: for milk, for steak, for beer and whiskey, for women, for ice cream, for everything they had missed. It would take some time, given the difficulty of understanding the accents of the merchants, for Sid to understand the new monetary system: pence, shillings, pounds, and a mysterious unit known as two bob. A pint of beer cost sixpence, though; a steak covered in fried eggs cost about two shillings; and a trip on a train anywhere in town was sixpence. Sid concluded that the fifteen pounds in his pocket, with no rent to pay or requirement to purchase food, made him a millionaire.

The warmth of the welcome the 1st Marine Division received from the people of Australia overwhelmed them. Australia had been bombed by Japanese planes, her ships had been attacked inside her harbors by Japanese submarines, and tens of thousands of her men were in Japanese POW camps. The rush of imperial conquest down the Pacific Rim seemed to be aimed right at them. Australia was fighting for its survival and for that of the British Empire, of which she was a part. The newspaper let the people know that the marines had just won an important victory. As he walked through the streets, Sid had adults walk up to him and say, "Good on you, Yank, you saved Australia." An invitation to their homes for dinner or to spend the weekend often followed. Sid attempted to explain that he was not a "Yank."

THE TRUCKS TOOK THEM TO THE STATION, WHERE THE 1/7 CAUGHT THE TRAIN to Melbourne. Manila John and his friends did not buy tickets for the train. Any money spent on something other than wine, women, and song was considered a waste, "and the song," Richard Greer added, "was a complete waste."⁵ Basilone found a bar he liked called the Barbados. The owner, of Italian descent, gave him a little leeway. "John would make what he called the blockbuster. He'd go in the bar, and he'd put an ounce of bourbon, an ounce of scotch, an ounce of rum, and an ounce of everything he can find and make an 8 ounce glass."⁶ It had the desired effect. "You start sipping it in the morning and you couldn't find your ass with both hands by dinner." Not all of the marines seen stumbling down the sidewalk were drunk, though. Malaria continued to catch up with men who had thought they had escaped its clutches. Marines filled Melbourne's new hospital.

The young women of Melbourne bewildered the marines. The girls approached the guys on the street and asked them for a date. It left the heroes of Guadalcanal with their mouths hanging open. That kind of thing didn't happen back home; but then, the dates often involved going home to her house and having dinner with her family. It involved going out with a group of new friends to see films, strolling the arcade, and the like. For more than a few, the adventures grew amorous once a few logistical problems were overcome. Women were not allowed into bars and even going into a lounge was considered risque. The bars closed at six p.m. The deadline created the "6 o'clock Swill," with men gulping the last drops from their glasses before being shown the door. The Americans learned quickly, though, that some hotel pubs and restaurants were able to serve alcohol later than bars; it was also easier to get their dates to join them in these establishments. Where to go after the dinner and drinks posed another problem. Taking long walks in one of the city's parks was popular.

Order and discipline returned to the division. Inspections and reviews were held most mornings. Each man received a shoulder patch for his makeshift uniform. The white stars of the Southern Cross adorned a field of blue. The word "Guadalcanal" ran down the large red "1" in the center. The battle, for which the division earned the Presidential Unit Citation, had become its identity. The old salts rotated stateside to train new divisions. Others received a week's liberty and skipped town. Most, however, had to content themselves with their afternoons and evenings off. It was enough time for Manila John to blow through $100 in his first month.

On February 22, the Seventh Marines went into the city as a regiment. It formed up with the First Marines, the Fifth, and the division's artillery regiment, the Eleventh. When the breeze caught Old Glory and unfurled it, Sid's eyes moistened, and he laughed heartily when his friend observed "in a loud voice how that wind burns your eyes." At twelve noon, the 1st Marine Division marched through throngs of thousands of people for six miles. The USMC bands played "Semper Fidelis" and " The Star-Spangled Banner" and the "Marines' Hymn." Australian bands also marched. The delightful melody of one of their songs, "Waltzing Matilda," got the Americans' attention. It made a great addition to the parade. "Part of that long green machine going through the streets of Melbourne," Sid felt a great sense of power well up inside of him. The sight of "every man in step, heads up, shoulders back, many thousands of miles from home" prompted Sid's friend to mumble, "Uncle Sam's Marines are showing off."

During the afternoon it became clear that the other regiments envied the First's prime location. The rivalry and insults surprised no one. The Australian troops, though, had begun to cause real problems. Marines attributed their anger to jealousy--the marines had better uniforms, lots of money, lots of free time, and had been called the saviors of Australia by Australians. The 1st Division had arrived in a city where so many young men had been called to duty, if not in the armed services, then in some other capacity of war mobilization. The circumstances had conspired to put Sid and Manila John and their friends in the catbird seat. They set about making the most of it--but also to start watching their backs when alone.

IN LATE FEBRUARY, BOMBING SIX RECEIVED ORDERS TO REPORT TO THE INSPECTOR of naval aircraft at the Curtiss-Wright Aircraft Corporation in Columbus, Ohio. The squadron would pick up new aircraft and ferry them back to their base in California. Bombing Six knew from their skipper that the new planes were the Curtiss-Wright SB2C dive-bomber, known as the Helldiver. Some pilots over in San Diego had already received some and Mike had heard that those guys "were pulling the tails off of them in dives." It did not sound like his kind of airplane. A few days later, they all climbed into the back of a transport plane for the two-day trip to Columbus.

On the first of March, Bombing Six reported in to the inspector of naval aircraft, who sent them along to the commander of the U.S. Naval Aircraft Delivery Unit. They had a few days to receive instruction on the new planes from representatives of the factory, who also assured them that the kinks had been worked out of the design.

The engineers had created the SB2C to outperform the Dauntless. Its bigger engine and four-bladed propeller produced a top speed of 286 mph. For improved speed and maneuverability, the "2C" carried its thousand-pound bomb inside a bomb bay. Its 20mm cannons provided greater protection, and a larger fuel tank added range. Mike finally got away from the company representatives and into the cockpit on March 5. He flew for about an hour in the new plane that his squadron would fly. He realized, "I was partial to the SBD [Dauntless], I didn't like that 2C. There wasn't anything wrong with it, I guess, but it just didn't fly like an airplane, it flew like a brick." Over the next few days, the squadron took more familiarization flights; then Mike flew Helldiver number 00080 right out of the factory.

Flying cross-country was harder than anyone had thought. They had to find their way, follow the rules of the airways, and follow a set flight plan. The rules and reports seemed a little bothersome to the pilots of Bombing Six, who had become accustomed to flying out in the Pacific, where "the airways were free, just roam where you want, when you wanted to."

A PRISONER NEVER KNEW WHAT THE DAY MIGHT BRING. FOLLOWING UP ON HIS earlier steps, the camp commandant decided to pay all the American officers for their work. In early March, Captain Austin Shofner signed the forms presented to him, some of which indicated he had received clothing and rations that he had not, and accepted twenty pesos. The camp officials intimated that an account had been created at a bank in Japan where more money had been deposited for him and the other officers. The guards opened a small PX and sold soda water, peanuts, fried bananas, and leaf tobacco. "Supply," Shifty noted unhappily, "was about one-tenth of the demand."

What supplies could be added to their stock were purchased and smuggled out in a work cart to a hiding place. The team also used the money to purchase key equipment on the black market run by Filipinos: nails, a hammer, a screwdriver, a small roll of wire, a compass, a bolo knife, a road map of Mindanao, and field glasses. In the workshop of the penal colony, one man made a cooking pot. Topping the list, the team's machinist crafted a sextant that exceeded McCoy's expectations.

Information about Mindanao was gathered. The detail of men who went to the ocean to make salt had some information, as did the Americans who had been captured on Mindanao. The team's Filipino guides had suggestions and the map that had been purchased provided a general frame of reference. Having picked a rendezvous point in the jungle, the team would set off for Longa-og, a barrio about fifteen miles away. The hamlet was rumored to have some guerrillas. From Longa-og, they would cross the mountains to Cateel, a barrio on the east coast, "where we were told there were some bancas [boats]."

On March 14, the team rehearsed the escape without their supplies and equipment in order to work out the timing of the rendezvous. If caught practicing, they hoped the guards would assume they were trying to steal food and beat them and put them in solitary confinement, but not kill anyone. They set D-day for Sunday, March 28, and waited for the week to pass. A few days later, Hawkins, Dobervich, and Shifty were part of a crew weeding the onion patch. The American officer in charge of the work caught Dobervich stealing onions. He began to lay into Dobervich. An argument began. Hawkins jumped in, and before Shofner knew it Hawkins had punched a ranking officer. The angry man took his report to the American camp commander, who threw Hawk and Dobervich off their work details. Another member of the team, Sam Grashio, talked his way into replacing Hawkins on Shifty's plowing detail; the two continued to cart their gear out to the hiding area, one small piece at a time. McCoy, who could not get overly angry with Hawkins and Dobervich because his own men were stealing chickens by the day, had to go make peace with the U.S. camp commander, who strove to keep the peace as a way of minimizing the death toll.

On Saturday, the twenty-seventh, the rain came down in sheets. Shifty told his team of drovers to rest in the shack since no work could be done. Lieutenant Hosume, the captain of the guard and a man who loved to smack his prisoners around, made an inspection. The prisoners were supposed to be working. He lined the team up and slapped them. He then opened their bags, which were to contain only each man's noon ration of rice. Shofner knew one man had some equipment and he himself had "a bottle containing the entire quinine supply for our escape" in his musette bag.⁷ Hosume looked in the bag. He saw the bottle of pills. However, he was looking for forbidden foods, such as fruits or vegetables. With a one- track mind, the guard they called "the Crown Prince of Swat" punched Shofner again and continued on. Shifty said he had just "established a new world's record for holding the breath." Lieutenant Hosume did find a work party carrying stolen food. He ordered all hands to work in the rice fields the next day, Sunday, as punishment.

The punishment forced a delay in their departure. It would not have mattered had it not been for the stashes of equipment hidden near the edges of the fields. The team worked a full week expecting any moment to be discovered. "We were plenty scared."⁸

THE KNOWLEDGE THAT HE VOLUNTEERED HAD SATISFIED CADET SLEDGE FOR a time, and he made steady progress in school. In late March, though, he heard from a friend who had studied chemistry in the V-12 program and had earned an officer's commission. The friend was now an officer in a technical branch, working in a laboratory. The prospect of being a chemist for the Marine Corps made Sledge sick. "With my love and interest in firearms etc.," he wrote his mother, "I'll be doggone if I'm going to be stuck away in some lab and never see any action." He declared he would sooner flunk out and go in as a buck private.

Sledge was too close to his parents, especially his mother, to make his weekly letter to her solely an ultimatum. The Sledge family was a tight- knit family. He took a moment to look forward to seeing them during the Easter break, when they could enjoy the azaleas blooming and hear the wood thrushes sing. He mentioned a letter from his older brother Edward, Eugene noted, reporting the news of a promotion. Perhaps acknowledging the news of Edward's success set him off. Eugene had "looked forward too long to being in a real outfit," to go very far with pleasant conversation. He wanted his father to get his course of study in V-12 changed to something other than chemistry. "I know father will think me a fool, but I don't care." He hated science and declared that he was not any good at it. "For once in my life, I hope you and Pop realize I made my decision by thinking and that you will . . . try and help me instead of forcing me into something I dislike."

IT HAD ALL BEGUN A MONTH EARLIER, WHEN DEACON HAD INSISTED SID GO ON A blind date. "Why?" he asked. Deacon said he had met this girl and gone around to her house to speak to her mother about a date. The mother had agreed to it provided her daughter Dorothy was accompanied by her younger sister, Shirley. The two sisters went together. "You have got to come with me," Deacon had pleaded. "She's pretty . . . I've seen her." Sid at last agreed to go. The two friends went downtown and met Dorothy and her younger sister, Shirley, who stepped forward with a smile. She reminded Sid of the actress Elizabeth Taylor.

They set off for dinner at a nice restaurant and then to see a movie. Everywhere they went, Sid could feel the jealous eyes of other marines staring at him. One old Aussie shouted, "Give 'er a go, Yank, she's o'r aight'een!" The foursome capped the evening with a visit to the amusement park at St. Kilda. The two couples took the train out to a small house in Glenferrie, where Dorothy and Shirley lived with their mother, "Tuppie," and grandmother, "Nana." Tuppie found a moment to read Sidney Phillips and John Tatum "the Articles of War," regarding her daughters' chastity. Shirley Osborne was sixteen.

None of her rules dimmed their enthusiasm for the girls or for the Osborne family. While both Sid and Deacon went out with other friends and had other adventures, a few nights a week they took the train out to the little house in Glenferrie. Even with both girls working, times were tight in the Osborne home. Shirley's father had served in World War I. The mustard gas he had inhaled in the trenches had eventually killed him. The Osborne family, it turned out, knew all too well the horrors of war, but they did not darken the conversations with it. Deacon and Sid liked to bring over groceries and make a big dinner. One night they took the family to see a movie, Gone With the Wind. Tuppie and Nana seemed confused, so Sid tried his best to explain the plot to them. "I could tell I wasn't getting anywhere. They didn't understand what I was talking about."

Rather than blow all of his money having fun, Sid sent most of his back pay home once he received it. When a carton of cigarettes bought in the PX for fifty cents would buy a round of drinks for everyone in a pub, he didn't need much cash. Sid asked his father not to put his money in war bonds, but simply to start a savings account. Sid also asked his platoon commander, Lieutenant Benson, what had happened to the forms each man had filled out, listing the personal items he had lost when the old tub George F. Elliott sank. Benson replied that the government had "checked and found that the Rolex watch company had never made that many watches in all of their manufacturing history." The swindlers had been swindled, but life with the Australians was too grand to worry.

As Sid's How Company assembled for reveille one morning on the playing field, a marine came into view. He was not only out of uniform and late for roll call; the marine had a great pile of bedding riding on his shoulders. A few snorts of laughter could be heard in the ranks. As he ran past the company headed for their bunks in the stadium's stands, the men recognized Bob Leckie. Bob, also known as "Lucky," had slept in the park outside the stadium. The laughter grew into "roars of ridicule" as Sid and his buddies surmised that Lucky had not been sleeping in the park alone.⁹ Among the First Marines, "walks in the park" had become commonplace. Catcalls from the entire battalion about his flagrant violation serenaded him as Lucky ran to his bunk to get his uniform.

During another of the usual morning drills, this one on March 29, Sid started feeling queer. He went to see the medic, who took one look at him and put him on a truck with some others. The doctors at the hospital diagnosed him with jaundice. They prescribed lots of bed rest and fruit juice. A few days later, Deacon took Shirley to the hospital to visit, but they were turned away. Being refused the chance to visit Sidney did not bother Deacon too much. He had not been able to stop thinking about Shirley for some time. She called him "Wes," a version of his middle name, Wesley.

ON MARCH 30, JUST A FEW DAYS BEFORE D- DAY NUMBER TWO, A YOUNG ARMY corpsman got a little too careless near the fence. He threw a canteen over the fence to a friend on the other side. One of the guards in the tower fired three shots; the first one killed the medic. The POWs gathered cautiously to find out what had happened. The victim had not been that close to the fence, but he had been close to the guard tower. The Japanese camp officials stated that the medic had been trying to escape. The POWs, whose lives were bordered by men in guard towers, wanted to know why the guards thought a man would try to escape in broad daylight with no food or equipment. The prisoners could only push their outrage so far, though.

On the night of Saturday, April 3, the team met. Casually, slowly, they endeavored to review key details without arousing suspicion. Hawkins and Dobervich were back on the plow squad, so it and the coffee-pickers detail were made up entirely of escapees. They knew the rendezvous point and reviewed the signal to be given to the Filipinos, Ben and Victor, who would be watching them from the church. One last great worry loomed: that their escape would provoke the Japanese into harming other prisoners. After more than a year of pain and suffering, the thought of inflicting harm on their friends came hard. They had done their best to separate their action from the others. Only team members served on the two work details. No one else knew anything about their plans. Most of all, though, was the goal. The team would escape not just for their survival, but to tell the world of the atrocity being committed by the Empire of Japan.

The pledge the team made to one another that night was bigger than any individual. Each member "made a vow if any one of us became ill . . . that would imperil the progress of the group as a whole, that they were to be abandoned. In other words, we had rules to win as a group and if someone had a problem, that was fate." They did not pledge "All for one and one for all," for good reason. Dobervich and others had survived the March of Death on Bataan. The memory of the three men who had been beaten beyond recognition just outside the gate of Cabanatuan haunted all of them. The strong would succeed. Shifty secreted a rusty razor blade on his person. He would slice open the veins in his wrists rather than be captured.

Just before eight a.m. the next morning, the two working parties approached the gate. Shifty gave Ben and Victor the sign. The four-man bull-plowing detail and the six-man coffee-pickers detail checked out at the guard station. McCoy ordered "eyes left" for his formation and gave the guard a snappy salute. They proceeded on their assigned routes until they were out of sight. By eight thirty, the two groups had met at the rendezvous point, a large anthill near the jungle. Excitedly, they "uncovered the gasoline cans and removed our gear, rolled our packs and made ready to leave." Now, where were Ben and Victor? Minutes passed. The guards used roving patrols and lookouts in the sentry tower. On a Sunday morning, they were sure to be slow, but it was only a matter of time.

Half an hour passed. "If they sold us out, they could probably get $10,000 pesos each and become heroes in the Philippines under jap rule." Someone had had to say it, although the idea of a sellout did not adequately explain the delay. The discussion turned to leaving at once, without Ben and Victor. Shifty said, "No. We don't know where we are and where we are going. We have got to have somebody." Fear kicked into overdrive and every man felt the urge to do something. The team started thinking about a strategy to patrol the area around them so they did not get surprised. Another half hour elapsed and Shifty admitted, " The suspense of waiting, unarmed, within 300 yards of the jap barracks was much worse than any heavy artillery barrage."

Ben and Victor hurried over. They had been made to stand at attention while the guards had searched their barracks. The team swung their packs and the feeling of freedom came with a powerful rush. "We literally flew through the jungle for the first hour," Shofner noticed, but it did not last. The guides missed the trail to Longa-og and backtracked to find it. A heavy rain came down, making it harder to find the trail and harder for the enemy to find them. After another hour wasted, they decided to "make our way by compass, northeast. This course would either bring us into the Longa-og trail or to the Japanese railroad which ran almost to Longa- og." Ben and Victor led the way, hacking a path with their bolos. The team carried the Filipinos' gear.

Wading through the jungle, the swamp, several creeks, and a few deep rivers, the team continued until six p.m. Exhaustion could not be allowed to overcome them, though. They had to build sleeping platforms to keep themselves off the ground and out of reach of the deadly double- headed leeches swimming in the water swirling around their ankles. The Filipinos showed them how to cut some lengths of poles and vines and broad leaves and weave them into crude rattan beds. They ate a ration of food and tried to sleep. The driving rain woke them. The singing hordes of mosquitoes woke them. A few of the bunks broke and sent their occupants into the dark water.

Each man breakfasted on six ounces of corned beef before swinging their packs over their shoulders and setting off. Within a half mile, they had sunk hip- deep into the marsh. The mud had a surprising suction. The wild thickets through which they pushed offered no dry spot where one could sit and rest. Within a few hours, the exertion had drained McCoy and his friend Mellnik. Shofner shouldered both of their packs along with his; Shifty was, McCoy admitted, "a tower of strength."¹⁰ By three p.m., McCoy and Mellnik said they could not move another step. The Filipinos spied a large fallen tree, so they made camp on top of it. Again they fashioned beds and dared to light a fire in the wilderness to cook rice and make tea. Shofner watched the hot food and drink revive his team. A debate began about whether to turn back and look for the trail to Longa-og or to continue in the northeast direction. Mellnik wanted to go back, not to find the trail but to turn himself in to the guards. He saw it "as the only chance to survive."¹¹ Shifty set him straight in no uncertain terms. With that settled, the group still needed to decide its direction. The enemy solved the problem. About 1730, Shofner and the others "heard rifle, machine gun and mortar fire, and also saw some large fires which we concluded were nipa huts burning. We knew this firing came from the japs searching party and presumed they were on the trail we have missed. We took a compass bearing on the fire, determined to go in this new direction in the morning. From the sound we estimated the japs were about 2 miles away."

The mosquito swarms grew fierce at dusk. The nets afforded enough protection to allow the tired men some rest. Well after dark an "eerie sound" awakened them, "the beating of the signal drums by the wild people." Bong-de-de-bong. Bong-de-de-bong. They had heard of the jungle telegraph used by natives, but it sounded more ominous when one was encased inside a swamp. They had heard something moving in the darkness occasionally. Someone asked the guides, "What are they saying?" Shofner interjected, " They're saying bong-de-de-bong, heads-are-available! Heads-are-available!" That brought a chuckle, which broke some of the tension. During the night, a few more beds gave way. "We were not very good woodsmen," Shifty noted.

The next morning the team set off in better spirits with the prospect of exiting the swamp. The water receded somewhat by noon and they waded ashore at about two p.m. In an hour, they found the railway line that was the trail to Longa-og. The infantry training of the marines took control. A scouting party was sent up the trail to the village, an OP was maintained at the spot they had met the track; the rest of the party pulled back five hundred yards and waited. The scouts returned at dark after a hike of three kilometers. They had found some deserted shacks and evidence of a large unit of enemy troops having visited very recently. Were the Japanese farther up the track, the escapees wondered, or had they returned to Davao? As that was discussed, the team inventoried their food supply. Although each man had consumed only his daily allotment--one twelve- ounce can of sardines or corned beef--they had not planned on getting lost. Food was short.

In some ways, the decision of what to do next was made for them. They could not stay there because they had only a few rations left. They could not wade back into the jungle in any direction. Taking the road to the right led them to Davao. Tired and scared men, though, come to agreements slowly. The marines suggested moving out in a tactical formation: the two groups of five men would leapfrog each other. One would be safe in the bush while the other hiked down the track. With a plan for the morning, they began preparing a place to sleep above the silent predators on the forest floor.

The next morning they skipped breakfast and set off in patrol formation, one group leapfrogging the other, up the railroad track. Four kilometers up the track they came to the scene of a firefight. Empty cartridge cases, dried blood, cigarette butts, and hardtack littered the railroad tracks. About five hundred yards farther, they came to a hamlet. Chickens, dogs, and other domesticated animals ran amok, but the inhabitants had fled. Some of the huts, with a roof made of nipa and walls of bamboo, had been set afire in the last day or two. After posting guards, the team went into one of the huts to cook some food in the sandbox. One of the lookouts returned within moments, reporting that he had heard a metallic click. He had whirled around to catch sight of two armed Filipinos in the bushes near the railroad. The Filipinos, upon being seen, had fled in the direction of Longa- og.

Those men may have been guerrillas, but they might also have been guides for the enemy. The team agreed they must move quickly for Longa-og. They had to make contact with the guerrilla forces. The railroad was the only path. Packing up the uncooked food, they set off. They hiked ten kilometers, reaching the village about three p.m. The villagers conducted them to a specific spot and stepped away. They heard a voice shouting in a foreign language and they all dropped to the ground. More yelling caused some of the team to yell back, until one voice rang out clearly: "You're surrounded! Surrender!"

Aside from a few bolo knives, they had no weapons. They held up their arms in surrender. A whistle sounded and fifty armed men stepped out of the bushes. The Filipino guerrillas searched them for weapons. "We told them we were Americans." The hostility did not abate. Ben and Victor, however, slipped into their native tongue and the situation changed quickly. The guerrillas began to believe that Shifty and the others were not spies of some kind. While told how the team had come to the village, however, the guerrilla leader expressed surprise that they had survived the swamp. No locals ever went through it. It teemed with crocodiles.

The Americans told the leader about seeing two armed Filipinos near the railroad. Those men worked for him, the guerrilla replied; they had fired at men they assumed were IJA. "However, the ammunition was faulty and the rifle did not fire." No apology followed. The guerrilla leader at last accepted their identity and introduced himself as Casiano de Juan, captain of the barrio and leader of the local guerrillas. In their brief conversation with him, the escapees nicknamed Casiano "Big Boy." Soon the guerrillas and the escapees all walked back into the village of Longa-og as compatriots.

The villagers welcomed them as friends. The Filipinos' generosity overwhelmed the escapees. Great quantities of fruit, meat, eggs, and more were proffered and gratefully accepted. Big Boy brought them to the barrio's meetinghouse. Other villagers removed the fighting gamecocks that lived there. In the evening, the Filipinos held a feast for the Americans. The escapees got to know Big Boy, who was a sergeant in the Mindanao guerrillas and had escaped from the enemy several times. The emperor had a reward on his head. The Americans had witnessed his toughness; now they saw in him the personification of the Filipino personality: easygoing, warm, kind. For the feast the villagers served the local delicacy, balut. To make balut, the villagers left an egg under a chicken for twenty days, then boiled it. Half formed, the embryo's feathers and beak could be recognized in the goo. The locals bit down on the beaks, which "popped like popcorn," and ate quickly. The Americans knew enough not to slight the honor being paid them. Shifty bit down on one, grinned, and said, "Good."

The carabao steaks went down easier. Resembling a water buffalo, the carabao provided plenty of savory meat. Over the next few days, the men ate every few hours, rested, and washed themselves. In his diary, Shifty described the dishes served at every fabulous meal. All the villagers hated the Japanese and loved Americans. Shifty met a boy who had had the first two fingers on his right hand cut off by the Japanese to prevent him from firing a rifle. At Big Boy's hut they enjoyed drinking tuba, the first alcohol they had tasted in a long time. He told them he would bring them to his superiors when he had made arrangements. He also told them of a radio on Mindanao that communicated with Australia. That got their attention. The group began to discuss changing their plans in light of this dramatic news. They might just make it home after all. As much as the news excited Shifty, he took a few days to relax. Lying in the hut and listening to the rain drum on the roof gave him a deep sense of peace. He slept soundly.

Supplied by the good people of Longa-og, the Americans began the journey to the home of Dr. David Kapangagan, an evacuee from Davao City who could connect them to the guerrilla movement. At every stop along the way, the villagers welcomed them, feted them with music and feasts, let them sleep in their beds. The relaxed and fun life continued at Dr. Kapangagan's house, where they waited for a few days. One night ten or twelve very pretty girls came to invite them to a dance. The Americans walked in the torch parade to the dance, watched the locals perform, and even returned the favor by singing a song. Shifty found himself "called on to do the Tennessee Stomp."

On April 17, Captain Claro Laureta of the Philippine Constabulary arrived. He affirmed the existence of a large guerrilla force on the northern coast of Mindanao--his constabulary was a part of it--but he refused to confirm the report about the radio communication with Australia. The team listened intently, probing for more answers about the guerrillas, their whereabouts, leadership, goals, and the journey. The trek to the northern coast would take them through a remote area controlled by tribes of Atas and Honobos."After a meeting all the party decided to change plans and go to the guerrilla headquarters on Northern Mindanao." Captain Laureta organized food for their long journey and guides. On April 21, they set off on the long trek north.

AFFECTION FOR THE SB2C DID NOT GROW ON THE PILOTS OF BOMBING SIX. The manufacturer had suggested the nickname "Helldiver." Its pilots, however, preferred to call it the Beast. It required a lot of attention in level flight and real concentration when landing because of its shaky hold on the air. As part of his April fitness reports, Ray Davis (now a lieutenant commander) asked Lieutenant Micheel to state his preferred duty. Mike said he would prefer to become a fighter pilot on a carrier in the Pacific. He wanted out of El Centro, a backwater training base, and in to the navy's new fighter plane, the Hellcat, which had earned rave reviews. Neither Davis nor apparently the U.S. Navy evinced any interest in letting a skilled dive- bomber pilot get away. In mid-April Bombing Six cut its training schedule short and flew east.

They stopped in Columbus, Ohio, and let the technicians of the Curtiss-Wright check their planes. Mike arrived three days late because of engine trouble. Once the factory engineers gave his plane, number 00080, the all clear, he set out to catch up with his squadron, but ran out of gas and lost two days. He landed at NAS Norfolk, part of the navy's vast complex there, on April 22, well behind the rest of his squadron. The new pilots in Bombing Six had already begun to enjoy an advantage he had not had a year before: practicing carrier landings on a flattop out in the Chesapeake Bay in advance of landing upon their new fleet carrier.

After its new pilots qualified as carrier pilots on a small "jeep" carrier in Chesapeake Bay, Bombing Six landed their SB2Cs aboard the new fleet carrier, USS Yorktown, on May 5.¹² Yorktown had been commissioned two weeks earlier. Her name recalled the carrier lost at Midway as well as ships dating back to the dawn of the United States Naval Service. The pilots found her passageways crowded with workers and tradesmen of all kinds, completing the installation of the furnishings, fittings and equipment.

Of course she was bigger, the new Yorktown. Although not as large as Saratoga, Yorktown's flight deck beat Enterprise's by about eighteen feet in length. The longer airstrip pleased Mike, who had always "puckered" at takeoffs more than most. Bombing Six had joined Air Group Five, including thirty-six Hellcats, a scouting squadron that also flew the SB2C and brought the total number of Beasts on board to thirty-six, and eighteen Avengers, the navy's torpedo plane. Jimmy Flatley, one of the most respected fighter pilots of the war, commanded the carrier's air group. His squadrons began practicing their landings on their new carrier as she steamed up and down Chesapeake Bay, preparing for her shakedown cruise.

WHEN SID WAS RELEASED FROM THE HOSPITAL, HE RETURNED TO FIND HIS battalion had left for field exercises. The 2/1 returned a few days later and, when the men of #4 gun squad caught sight of him, they expressed their disappointment that he hadn't died. Sid smiled. Deacon and W.O. shared stories of long marches, extended order drills, and gunnery practice, so Sid was glad he had missed it. Conditioning hikes, though, became a common morning duty, with Lieutenant Benson leading his mortar platoon around and around the Fitzroy Gardens, a beautiful park near the cricket grounds.

The mortar platoon usually had the afternoon off, with long liberties on weekends. Deacon and Sid often went to tea with the Osborne family. One afternoon, though, Sid met up with one of the new guys in the squad, Tex. They took the tram to Young & Jackson, a large pub across the street from the main railway station at the center of town. The pub boasted a painting of a nude young woman named Chloe. While taking a good look at Chloe, Sid drank a pint of beer. Tex downed three scotch and waters. The two walked down the street to another pub. Sid sipped a beer and Tex poured in three drinks. They walked out on the street. Six American sailors were crossing the street toward them. "Tex spread his arms and told them to stop right where they were and get back on the other side of the street because this side of the street belonged to us." Tex threatened to swab the deck with them. Horrified, Sid tried to look mean. The sailors decided to skip this fight. "Are you trying to get us killed?" Sid asked.

"I can tell which sailors would and would not fight," said Tex. He had a head full of steam as he walked up the street. Sid "let Tex go ahead without me shortly. Why fight unnecessary skirmishes in a long war?"

"WE WERE," SHIFTY GUESSED, "THE FIRST WHITE PEOPLE TO USE THIS TRAIL." THE hike over the mountains on a trail he could not always see followed a few days paddling in a dugout canoe. While the Americans labored, quickly coming to the last of their strength, the Filipinos carried all of the supplies up the slopes with ease. Their encounters with "bushy- headed" people armed with spears, shields, bows and poison-tipped arrows went well. On the far side of the mountains, they bade farewell to most of their guides, climbed into boats, and began floating down the Agusan River toward the northern coast.

The cities of the northern coast of Mindanao, like Butuan and Buenavista, had large guerrilla presences, but also IJA garrisons. The carefree life of the backcountry gave way to vigilance. On May 5, the team arrived in Medina and was guided to Lieutenant Colonel Ernest McClish, an officer in the U.S. Army before the war and now commander of 110th Division, Tenth Military District of the Mindanao guerrilla force. Colonel McClish took them to the home of Governor Panaez, the "Coconut King of the Philippines," for dinner. They sat down at a table with silver-ware, tablecloths, napkins, and a meal as good as anything in the United States. An eleven-piece orchestra serenaded them. After dinner, McClish gave Shifty a cigar.

The next day, McClish took them all on a long horseback ride to the town of Gingoog. The radio there was out, so they rode on to a guerrilla outpost in Anakan. From there they sent two messages. One went to the office of the Commander in Chief of U.S. Forces in Australia, General Douglas MacArthur; the other went to the Marine Corps' Australian HQ. Making contact with their headquarters was a glorious moment of achievement. No immediate reply was received. In the evening, after enjoying a fine meal in a house with electric lights, Shifty took a moment to remember. That day, May 6, marked the one-year anniversary of the surrender on Corregidor. He and the others gave thanks. The next day the local Chinese community donated clothing for the Americans, and just in time, too, since a number of parties and fiestas awaited. Shifty and the team attended one in the Chinese area before attending a ball celebrating the coronation of a queen. Shifty got a laugh out of wearing a clean pair of coveralls to a formal ball with women in gowns and men in white evening coats.

On May 10, Lieutenant Commander McCoy and Major Mellnik left the team and proceeded to the headquarters of the Tenth Military District in Misamis, under the command of Colonel Wendell W. Fertig. All of the guerrillas on the island reported to Colonel Fertig, including McClish's division. McCoy and Mellnik hoped to send more messages to Australia and to inquire about transportation off Mindanao. After they departed, Ed Dyess went after them. Colonel McClish induced the remainder of the escapees to help him run his operation. He promoted each member of the team and assigned them a job. Shifty became Major Austin Shofner of the 110th Division in the Army of the United States. He set about organizing the guerrillas of Mindanao to fight the occupiers.

MANILA JOHN HAD BEEN ENJOYING HIMSELF IN AUSTRALIA. ALTHOUGH HE DIDN'T say much about it, he did usually have to spend part of each payday paying off debts incurred within the last pay period.¹³ His buddy J.P. had caused a stir back in March when he allowed his enlistment to expire.¹⁴ Morgan had cashed himself out completely, all $452 worth, which some in the 1/7 must have assumed would be spent on a big drunk. J.P. had a reputation for getting into trouble and for sending his hefty poker winnings home to his wife, Katy. J.P.'s close friends knew, though, that Morgan's parents were in desperate circumstances. A mining accident had completely disabled his father; his mother had to provide full-time care of her husband.J.P. may have mustered out of the corps because he was considering going home to help. His steady pay as a sergeant, however, had won out and he reenlisted the next day.

Manila's own relationship with the corps changed soon thereafter, when he received a temporary citation for the Congressional Medal of Honor on May 7, signed by Admiral Chester Nimitz, Commander in Chief of the U.S. Pacific Fleet. He did not know much about it--his CO would have told him it was America's highest award for valor--nor did he appreciate how it would change his life. Two weeks later, on the parade ground of the Seventh Marines' camp, the regiment held an awards ceremony attended by General Vandegrift, the former CO of the 1st Marine Division, as well as the new CO, General Rupertus. The month of May heralded the onset of winter in the Southern Hemisphere and it grew quite chilly. Still without their Class A Marine Corps uniforms, the men wore the rough wool Eisenhower jackets with their 1st Marine Division patch sewn on the shoulder.

Sergeant John Basilone's years of service had made the forms and conventions of parades, reviews, and inspections familiar. This time, however, he stood not with his platoon but with a small group who were to receive important decorations. Manila knew most of the guys. Mitchell Paige, who had been a sergeant in charge of a machine-gun squad on the Canal, had been in the corps longer than John and they knew each other well. Paige was also about to receive the Medal of Honor for his actions up near the Matanikau River. Colonel Puller strode up and everyone snapped to attention and saluted. Chesty looked at Mitch and said, "Sergeant Paige, you're senior here, oh yes, now you're a looie." Paige had been promoted to second lieutenant before leaving on the Canal and his officer bars were on his collar. With a smile, Chesty said, "You'll always be a sergeant to me. You know the backbone of the Corps is the noncommissioned officer." Turning to John, he said, "Sergeant Basilone, you'll march next to Paige;" then he lined up the others.¹⁵

When the men of the Seventh Regiment were assembled, Lieutenant Colonel Puller led John, Mitchell Paige, and a handful of others out across the field, followed by the Stars and Stripes and the guidon of the Marine Corps. Chesty, striding along with his oddly shaped chest out, had received a Gold Star in lieu of his third Navy Cross. He was proud that so many of his men in the 1/7 were now being recognized. Billie Joe Crumpton was decorated with the Navy Cross. Cecil Evans had a Silver Star pinned on his breast.¹⁶ J. P. Morgan and others also received Silver Stars, although not necessarily for the same battle as Basilone.

At the ceremony, Lieutenant Mitchell Paige received the Medal of Honor first.¹⁷ Vandegrift read the citation for Platoon Sergeant John Basilone "for extraordinary heroism . . . above and beyond the call of duty," then hung the medal around his neck. Vandegrift told John it was a "great pleasure to deliver the medal" to him in the name of the president of the United States of America.¹⁸

Official Marine Corps reporters and photographers roamed at will, capturing the moment.¹⁹ They lined up the four winners of the Medal of Honor from Guadalcanal--Paige and Basilone standing next to General Archer Vandegrift and Colonel Mike Edson--for a photo entitled "Medal of Honor Men."^s Edson didn't have his medal with him, so he borrowed a ribbon from Paige. The photographers took a picture of the men shaking hands. They staged a photo of the medal being hung around Manila's neck, this time placing the camera at ground level, looking up between the outstretched arms. They took a portrait of Basilone, looking serious, with the blue and white ribbon around his neck.

Back with his platoon, though, Manila loosened up. While the cameramen snapped photos, the reporters asked questions and got their facts right. They read the citations, too. Everybody had to give their hometown addresses. The reporter who wrote a piece about Private Cecil Evans's Silver Star got good quotes from Basilone, who was only too happy to attest to his friend's courage under fire. "What a guy Evans is. He's only nineteen, has curly hair, and runs around barefoot all the time. We call him Peck's Bad Boy."²⁰

To another reporter, John called Dog Company "the best damn company in the world."²¹ The reporter quickly realized the "facts bear him out," for the company "lays claim to being the most decorated company." Along with John's medal, Dog Company had three Navy Crosses, four Silver Stars, and eleven Letters of Commendation. All the Navy Crosses went to privates first class like Crumpton. Sergeant J. P. Morgan got a Letter of Commendation from Admiral William Halsey. Captain Rodgers, the CO of Dog Company, received a Silver Star. The 1/7 had a commendation from General Vandegrift: their division had earned a Presidential Unit Citation.

At the reporter's behest, all the men of John's platoon gathered around a .30-caliber Browning water-cooled machine gun. John displayed his medal, Billie Joe Crumpton showed his Navy Cross, and Cecil Evans displayed his Silver Star.²² John's medal sat in an oblong box. From a powder blue ribbon with white stars hung a large star-shaped medallion. Inset into the medallion was a strange image: a woman with a shield shoving a guy holding some snakes. All the other guys gawked on cue and the camera flashed.

Before the ceremony ended on May 17, Colonel Chesty Puller saluted Basilone. Of all the hoopla on this day, looking the old warrior in the eye and snapping his fingertips to the edge of his brow meant the most to Manila.²³

THE SHAKEDOWN CRUISE OF MICHEEL'S NEW CARRIER, YORKTOWN, GOT OFF TO A hilarious start. The tugs pushed the great ship away from the dock on the morning of May 21 with all of the crew assembled on the flight deck. The bugler began to sound the signals relating to the ritual when an officer grabbed the microphone suddenly and yelled, "You dopey no good sonofabitch! What in the hell did you do that for?"²⁴ He continued to berate the bugler at some length as everyone on the flight deck began to laugh. The officer doing the yelling was Captain J. J. Clark, the commander of Yorktown. This display proved the word already going around about "Jocko" Clark: he demanded perfection and woe to any sailor who failed to provide it.

Yorktown steamed south for Trinidad later that day, escorted by two destroyers and a submarine because the German U-boats had not been eliminated from the waters off the eastern seaboard. Trouble started a few days later, when Captain Clark came down to the flight deck hopping mad. Unlike most senior navy officers, Jocko Clark had logged a fair amount of time on a carrier flight deck during his early career. He believed his flight deck had not been "spotted" correctly; in other words, his planes had not been positioned efficiently, and he began shouting instructions to the plane pushers on how he wanted his planes spotted.²⁵ For the next few days, the flight deck officers had their hands full dealing with the captain's demands. Yorktown had two small tractors for use in pushing planes--a novel idea--and these were used to check Clark's flight deck spot against their own.

Since all of the planes were spotted on the stern and took off toward the bow, the deck spot determined the order in which the different types of planes (fighter, bomber, or torpedo) took off. Two other factors mattered, though. Each foot of space saved when creating "the spot," and each minute of time saved while "respotting the deck," made Yorktown a more efficient and more deadly weapon in battle. A few days later, Clark came roaring down from his perch on the island to tell the boys on the flight deck how to do it again. His rounded shoulders and pronounced paunch belied the energy with which he moved. When the captain had it the way he wanted it, he turned to one of his flight deck officers, Lieutenant Henry "Hank" Warren, and said, "Mr. Warren, that's the way to spot a flight deck."

"Joe," Hank Warren asked his assistant, "how much time did that take?"

"About two minutes longer than you, Hank," said Joe.

"How much space did we save?" Hank asked.

The captain's spot, Joe replied, was "eight feet further toward the bow than you were," whereupon Lieutenant Hank Warren faced Jocko Clark. "Captain, I promise never to come up there and try to run that bridge if you'll leave me alone and let me spot the flight deck."²⁶ After a tense moment, the captain's thick, wide lips broke into a smile. "I promise." The story of Hank getting Jocko to back down was just the kind of juicy story that made it all the way around the ship, even to Mike, who hadn't flown for a few days and wouldn't step into the cockpit for a few more.

Flight operations began in earnest after the ship entered the Gulf of Paria, a large body of water between the island of Trinidad and the coast of Venezuela. The two entrances to the gulf had been blocked with submarine nets, allowing U.S. carriers--and Yorktown was one of several new Essex-class carriers preparing for its first combat tour--to focus on testing all of their systems and personnel to the utmost. Mike's flight on May 28, his first in three weeks, was supposed to mark the start of his squadron's final preparation for a combat tour. Instead, it was the beginning of the end of Bombing Six.

The SB2Cs, in Mike's words, "turned out to be a bust. We couldn't get them off the deck. We'd get up into the launch position, the wings would go down, but they wouldn't lock. So we'd have to taxi the plane off . . . to the side of the ship." The next one up might be able to lock its wings, but the plane after that and the one after that couldn't, so the whole launch sequence disintegrated into a mess, as the plane pushers and elevators worked to get the busted ones out of the way. "Most of them never got their wings locked." The ability to fold its wings had been one of the Helldiver's advantages over the Dauntless because it allowed for a tighter deck spot. The sight of four or five men climbing on each wing to weigh it down enough for it to lock, however, failed to inspire confidence.²⁷

After a few days of fighting the technology, Captain Clark ordered the Helldivers off his ship. Ray Davis gave Mike the job of going ashore with the faulty planes and seeing what could be done. At an airstrip on Trinidad, Mike and his team spent a week tinkering with the wing-locking mechanism until it worked smoothly. One of the tests they devised involved parking three planes near the SB2Cs and using the propellers to simulate a strong wind. It worked. Even as they were buffeted, the wings snapped down. So they flew back out to the ship, churning through the gulf. The "first time we get in launch position, the wings won't lock down."

Mike was angry at the SB2Cs. He had come to believe the acronym SB2C stood for the plane's rank: Son of Bitch Second Class. He said nothing as the captain chewed him out, unhappily noting that Clark assumed he had spent the week at a bar instead of working. Clark could not focus on Lieutenant Micheel for long, however. The Helldivers of the bombing and the scouting squadrons revealed other significant flaws. On June 12, a number of them pulled their tail hooks out when they caught the arresting wire upon landing, sending them crashing into the wire barrier--a barrier of last resort that damaged planes and threatened personnel. Two others developed mechanical trouble and crashed near the ship. Captain Clark expressed his anger in his characteristically blunt style, concluding with, "Kick those things off the ship. I don't want to see any of them on my ship again!" On June 12 he summarily canceled flight operations. His carrier steamed for Trinidad. That night all of the offending SB2Cs were deposited by crane at the airfields. Yorktown took off at high speed for Norfolk.

TWO WEEKS AFTER RECEIVING THE MEDAL, ON JUNE 12, MANILA FORCED HIMSELF to write his parents. He described his location as "somewhere where I can enjoy life" so that they would not worry. "I am in the best of health and very happy--for the other day I received the Congressional Medal of Honor. Tell Pop his son is still tough. Tell Don thanks for the prayer they say in school for us."²⁸ He asked for news about the family and signed off. In the envelope he included a photograph of the medal ceremony. The photo John chose to send showed him wearing his medal and standing next to Billie Joe Crumpton, wearing his Navy Cross.²⁹

He received a reply from his parents in late June. They told him that since the news of his medal had broken on June 24, they had been besieged by friends, well-wishers, and reporters and cameramen.³⁰ Manila's parents, Sal and Dora, included lots of letters. So many of the letters had requested photos of him that Dora had arranged to have a postcard made of him.³¹ A lot of the letters came from women whose sons had served on Guadalcanal; they hoped he might have some information about their marines. Sal and Dora sent him copies of the Raritan Valley News, which mentioned that Manila John's hometown planned to throw him a big homecoming celebration and also award him a $5,000 bond because, as one headline had it, he had "Held Off Entire Jap Regiment for 3 Days."³² A huge poster-sized picture of Sergeant John Basilone had been hung on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. Tony Field, an editor with Sensation magazine, had spoken to them about purchasing the life rights to the story of Manila John, to make a movie, pending the approval of John and the USMC.³³

The news of what was going on back home made him unhappy, even as he and his friend Richard Greer spent the July Fourth holiday with two female friends playing in the snow at a resort called the Australian Alps.³⁴ When he returned, he wrote his parents again. To all the requests that had been enclosed in the mail to him, he could only apologize with a white lie and say that he had been "kept very busy" since receiving the medal. As for an explanation of why he had been awarded it, he wrote, "I did what any other Marine would have done in my position."³⁵ He continued. "I sure would love to come home, but there is still a big job to do over here . . . I'm sending my medal home, so take good care of it." He concluded, " Tell Pop to save some wine for my return." Manila John did not, however, tell his parents the whole truth. Only a few days earlier, he had been found qualified for promotion to gunnery sergeant.³⁶ With his friend Sergeant Mitch Paige having made the leap to officer, Sergeant Basilone must have felt sure enough of his chances to become very excited. A promotion to the exalted position of "gunny" represented a level of success beyond what he had ever dared to hope. Already, though, another force was at work. His desire to send his new medal home to his parents went unrealized.

WHEN YORKTOWN RETURNED TO NORFOLK, BOMBING SIX TRADED IN THEIR SB2Cs for the trusty Dauntless. Other big changes for the carrier's squadrons came from the navy itself. The navy had decided to increase the number of fighters aboard a carrier. America could not continue to lose as many carriers as it had in 1942; more fighters meant more protection from enemy planes. To make room for more Hellcats on Yorktown, the scouting squadron was eliminated. The reorganization also recognized that the distinction between bombing and scouting squadrons had existed only in theory, not in practice. While Yorktown's new bombing squadron would be larger than it had been before, it would not be double the size. Some pilots would have to be transferred to other squadrons before the new carrier embarked for the Pacific.

Lieutenant Commander Ray Davis, who had seniority over the officer in command of the scouting squadron, could have chosen to stay with the new Bombing Six. He elected to go ashore and form a new squadron. Mike also went ashore, although in his case the other squadron's flight officer outranked him and elected to stay aboard. Bill Pittman and a few of the other old veterans of Bombing Six opted to go with Ray. They figured their skipper would get them into his new squadron. Once ashore in Norfolk, though, Ray found himself assigned to a desk. Ray and Mike and Bill shared a good laugh about the unexpected turn. Bombing Six had been "tossed to the winds." Mike found himself headed to Bombing Squadron Fourteen, stationed at NAS Wildwood.

In late June 1943, Lieutenant Micheel took a train up the coast a few hundred miles to the village of Rio Grande, not far from the slightly larger town of Wildwood, on the southern tip of New Jersey. He caught a bus past a smelly fish- rendering plant to the base. Located on a long marshy isthmus lined by beaches, NAS Wildwood looked the part of a naval base. Off the runways ran the taxi strips that led to rows of planes parked along the flight line. The giant hangar with its rounded roof had little offices running down either side. In a routine now familiar, he dropped his bags at the BOQ and headed over to report to his squadron commander, Lieutenant Commander Grafton Campbell.

Bombing Fourteen had just begun to exist in fact as well as on paper. Commander Campbell had arrived a few weeks earlier. Pilots had shown up sporadically since then. Mike noticed that his skipper had not yet served in combat. The navy had, however, provided the new squadron with one other seasoned veteran, Lieutenant Harold Buell. Mike knew "Hal" Buell. Hal had been a class or two behind him during pilot training. They had flown together on the second day of the invasion of Guadalcanal, when Mike had gone with Hal's scouting squadron.³⁷ Hal had spent a few weeks as a member of the Cactus Air Force. Having departed Enterprise just as she was struck by bombs on August 24, Buell's group had been forced to land on Guadalcanal. After the Battle of the Eastern Solomons, the group never flew back aboard the carrier. Fighting the Tokyo Express during those crucial days at the end of August and into September, Buell had shipped out before Mike arrived on Cactus in October.

Hardly a day had passed before the navy's new organization caught up with Bombing Fourteen. It merged with Bombing Fifteen to make Bombing Squadron Two. Since neither squadron had had time to develop an identity, the reorganization went smoothly. Campbell promoted his ops officer to executive officer, gave the ops job to Hal Buell, and made Mike his engineering officer. Mike had requested the job because he had already been ops officer and wanted the experience as an engineering officer. His experience wrestling with the SB2C certainly helped. Both Mike and Hal Buell were given a division to lead and the latest version of the Dauntless to fly.

Gregarious and ambitious, Hal Buell began picking the members of his division carefully.³⁸ He chose those who met his standards for ability and aggressiveness. Although he had bombed the Tokyo Express, Hal badly wanted to sink a flattop and earn the Navy Cross that came with it. He also considered the selection of his wingmen as a matter of survival. Mike noticed that Hal's division became something of a clique unto themselves. When new pilots transferred in, Hal would not take them. He taught his pilots that good dive- bombers didn't drop bombs. Good dive-bombers took their bombs all the way down to fifteen hundred feet and "fired" their bombs into the imperial ships.³⁹ Commander Campbell, nicknamed "Soupy," liked what he saw of Hal Buell. Buell, however, disliked serving under a skipper who had only just completed flight training and had not been in combat.⁴⁰

Having earned the Navy Cross at Midway, Mike certainly had the admiration of the ensigns in his squadron. The squadron commander, who had Mike's file, would have seen Ray Davis's recommendation that Mike be given command of his own squadron. Had Lieutenant Micheel pulled some rank, few would have looked askance at it. Mike admired Hal's dedication to the mission and the esprit de corps he instilled, but that was not his way. Mike worked with whoever was assigned to him.

All the men in Micheel's division had just come from flight school. The ensigns were as full of themselves as any young group of naval aviators could be expected to be. They wanted to live life to the fullest, whether in the air or in the arms of the young ladies of Wildwood, New Jersey.⁴¹ The pilots attended ground school. The ensigns accepted the necessity of polishing their communication procedures, enjoyed the physical training "to keep us in shape for our nocturnal recreation," but bitched heartily about the boring training films on such riveting topics as "IBP in the OS2U," and "Recognition."

Their division leader decided that his philosophy of training was "you start at the bottom and work up." When the training program began in earnest on June 30, the green pilots found themselves practicing their formation flying before moving on to wingovers, stalls, and other maneuvers that demonstrated a pilot's ability to control his aircraft. They soaked it all up because they loved to fly. His students wanted to get past subjects like navigation to practice tactical maneuvers like dive- bombing, gunnery, and carrier landings.

The ensigns of Bombing Two took every opportunity to zoom over the white sandy beaches bordering Wildwood. It made the women on the beach nervous. As one pilot put it, " There's nothing like scattering half-nude pulchritude." The young pilots took a perverse pride in frequently generating angry phone calls from the town's mayor to Skipper Campbell. If they had one concern, the ensigns feared the war would end before they entered the fray.

When it came to talk of combat, Mike emphasized two skills above all others. He taught them how to conserve gas in a variety of ways--by leaning out the fuel mixture of the engine, by regulating their speed, and so forth. Husbanding their fuel was not something one did in difficult situations. According to Lieutenant Micheel, it was a way of life. During their training flights out over the Atlantic, he also pushed them to read the waves on the water. A good pilot could look at the waves on the water and understand the strength and direction of the prevailing wind. Properly estimating the effect of the wind on his flight path made it possible for a pilot to find his way back to the carrier's deck. Imbuing the young aviators with the bitter lessons of experience was exactly what the navy expected Lieutenant Micheel and Buell to do. While Buell might speak freely of his experiences in combat, Mike wanted his students to concentrate on wave reading and fuel conservation.

Having two such experienced airmen in his squadron could make it difficult for the commander of Bombing Two. As Campbell prepared to take the entire squadron up and practice operating as a unit, he instructed his division leaders that the squadron would fly in a stepped- up formation. This meant that every plane behind Campbell's plane would fly a few feet above and to one side. The normally quiet Lieutenant Micheel voiced concern over the order. His question would have surprised the skipper, since he had recently been trained to fly in a stepped up formation. Mike said, "Well, I just came from the fleet, and we flew step down. They don't fly stepped up anymore . . . they fly step down." Scouting Six had flown stepped down in the Battle of Midway.⁴²

Flying stepped up or stepped down had to do with how the squadron protected itself from attacks by Zeros. Squadrons flew inaVof Vs in order that the guns of all the airplanes were in the best position from which to defend the other aircraft. The relative positions of the planes also had everything to do with how they maintained their tight formation. Since the start of the war, combat pilots had learned that if they flew stepped up, their leaders were below them. When things got tricky, Mike explained, "you never knew where you were when you were over the top of the guy." If you flew below the plane in front of you, however, "you always had him in sight. So that was the way we went."

Mike failed to anticipate that his comments called into question his skipper's ability. Campbell's temper flared. He had graduated from Annapolis. The blood in his veins ran Navy Blue. Micheel was a Johnny-come-lately, a ninety-day wonder. Campbell pulled an instruction manual off his shelf and proffered it. "Show me where you're flying step down," Mike sputtered, knowing without looking what the book said. "Well, they never change those [books] during the war; there wasn't anybody to work on them. There wasn't any grand place where you sent in tactics" to be adopted officially; "they just evolved and if they worked you picked them up. But there wasn't anybody reprinting the tactic books." The disparaging remarks about tactic books might have reminded Campbell of the nickname pilots like Mike had for graduates of Annapolis: "trade school boys." Lieutenant Micheel concluded with a restatement of his experience. Campbell was adamant. Bombing Two flew stepped up.

ON JULY 1, PRIVATE FIRST CLASS EUGENE SLEDGE LEFT MOBILE ON A TRAIN TO Atlanta, Georgia, and reported to the commanding officer, Marine Detachment, Navy Training Unit, at the Georgia School of Technology.⁴³ Eugene's long wait had at last ended and his enthusiasm knew no bounds. The graceful arches of the brick and stone buildings on the campus of Georgia Tech made an impression. Students filled the walks and hallways even in high summer, as Tech had adopted a three-semester schedule to speed students through their courses and thus ease the nation's manpower shortage.⁴⁴

Lieutenant Holmes, the commanding officer of the marine detachment, informed Sledge that he was a private, not a private first class, and assigned him to Harrison Dorm. A modern brick building on the southeastern edge of campus and near the Navy Armory, Harrison appealed to him because it housed only marines.⁴⁵ Eugene liked being issued "navy bedding," with which to make up his bunk, and being measured for his uniform. The first rumors he heard about his course work, however, made him wonder if he would have to ask his father to call his friend at the Marine Corps and "cuss him out." Eugene had not come to Tech to study engineering.

The next day, Eugene came close to being kicked out of the V-12 program. The doctor examining him determined that he was underweight. Private Sledge insisted he had just been ill and he would soon regain the weight. The doc passed him. Pleased with his adroit handling of the problem, Eugene began eating more. He wanted to measure up. "Don't let anyone tell you that the Marine Corps has lowered its requirements," he wrote his mother. "If you look at the doc like you aren't feeling well, out you go." The prospect of putting on the uniform of "the best outfit in the world" inspired him to have stationery printed with a Marine Corps logo above his name and to write his friend Sid Phillips.

The demands of service, however, lagged somewhat. The officers in charge of the Navy ROTC Armory plainly had their hands full with Sledge's class, the first class of students for the V-12 program. They had to order the lives of almost a thousand students from the navy, as well as about three hundred marines, and fit them in with the traditional ROTC, or Reserve Officers Training Program. Putting all of these together in the midst of a crowded campus took time.

After a week, the semester began. Reveille awakened the students at 0545. They fell out for calisthenics, led by a navy chief petty officer; then their routine became like that of college students attending Georgia Tech. The steam whistle signaled the class periods every hour from seven fifty- five a.m. to four fifty- five p.m. The V-12 program assigned its students courses in physics and other sciences. Sledge complained about having to take physics and biology, though he liked the economics class on his schedule. After class, they held drill on their parade ground, Rose Bowl Field, on the opposite corner of campus from his dorm. Curfew on military time began at 1930 during the week and the lights went out in Harrison Dorm at 2330.

Attending college in civilian clothes irritated Sledge. He had worn a uniform at Marion Military Institute. Eugene fretted about the arrival of his Marine Corps uniform in part because he and his friends were occasionally asked why they had not signed up to fight. Such questions set him off like a firecracker. Anyone who asked found out in no uncertain terms that Eugene regarded men who wanted to stay out of the war as "yellow." A uniform would solve the problem. As he put it in a letter to his mother, "I'm tired of acting like a marine and dressing like a civilian."

Eugene was surprised and even a bit disappointed at the amount of liberty he enjoyed. Putting it to good use, he put on his sport coat and went walking in downtown Atlanta. Although he found it cold, he liked the city. Its sedate pace and social order had not been disturbed by hordes of workers, like Mobile, where they filled the streets, shops, and restaurants. He found a place that offered Hershey bars for sale--not many shops did--and visited it most every day.

Gene's classmates soon came up with a plan to escape the regimentation of the V-12 program. On the weekends, they pooled their money to rent a hotel room, where they threw a big party and got gloriously drunk and perhaps romantically entangled. Eugene skipped these affairs. He read a great deal, munching on homemade chocolate or one of the other treats his mother sent him every few days. He also wrote his parents every few days. As usual for a man of eighteen years, Sledge had an easier time writing his mother his true feelings than speaking to his father directly, so he addressed them to her. She responded in kind. Since she had also purchased him a subscription to the Mobile newspaper, which he read avidly, they carried on a conversation about their respective lives and that of their country. Most of Eugene's letters also contained requests of some kind, usually for treats and frequently for items he could not find or not afford: a set of clean hand towels, or to have his film rolls developed.

He loved everything about being a marine and wanted more of it. He enjoyed drilling after class, requesting additional assignments, and pushing himself to excel. Although not "one of the boys," Eugene was adept at listening to the others, particularly those in authority, and picking up some of the habits and customs of "salty" marines. The lore of the corps fascinated him. He sought out stories about his corps' glorious defense of Wake Island. He watched the documentary about the Battle of Midway shot by the famed Hollywood director John Ford. Ford's cameramen had been located on Midway when the attack had come.

Ford's cameras caught marines in pillboxes firing .50-caliber machine guns at enemy planes zooming overhead. The explosions of the bombs and the destruction they wrought appeared in full color, as the narrator told of the enemy bombs that had destroyed the hospital and chapel deliberately. Other cameras had been aboard the carriers. The navy pilots, dressed in khaki uniforms with yellow life jackets and cloth helmets, smiled at the audience. The narrator pointed out the "seven meatballs," or imperial battle flags, adorning Jimmy Thach's plane. The film introduced the audience to the throaty buzz of a Dauntless launching off the end of a flight deck, its red dive flaps slightly extended, and the high whine of an enemy plane falling out of the sky. Building to a grand conclusion, the camera panned through the black smoke on Midway, first finding parts of enemy planes littering the airfield. The soundtrack gave way to "My Country, 'Tis of Thee," the choir singing "let Freedom ring," until Old Glory appeared high above the smoke. The choir let the last word ring: "Amen."

Pride in the corps ran rampant through the marines of Harrison Dorm. When the instruction failed to satisfy, though, Eugene went looking for Civil War sites. He took a friend to a battlefield at Stone Mountain. Another weekend, Eugene visited the Atlanta Cyclorama, a mixture of art and music designed to transport visitors back to July 22, 1864, an eventful day in the Battle of Atlanta. He loved it.

A picture from his older brother, though, was all that it took to ruin his V-12 program. Edward sent him a photo of himself with the tank he commanded. It reminded Eugene that Edward was in the war and he was not. It reminded Eugene of the promise his parents had extracted from him. Dr. and Mrs. Sledge were plainly worried by the thinly veiled denunciations of the V-12 program they began to find in their youngest son's letters. When pressed by his parents, he admitted he "had a wonderful opportunity," but he insisted, "I am a Marine now, it's still pretty irksome to be sitting in school. All of us feel the same. So don't get all upset. Every Marine here will be glad when he gets to P.I. [Parris Island], but until then, we are doing what's been assigned us."

BASILONE COULD NOT KEEP THE NEWS OF THE EXCITEMENT BREWING IN RARITAN, New Jersey, to himself. He would have known something was amiss when photographers staged some more photos. One required him to put on his dirty dungarees and his helmet. While he stood pointing off camera toward nothing, the new CO of the 1st Division, General Rupertus, and his aide, both clad in new uniforms, coolly observed. Eventually Manila would have been told that the big splash his story had made back home had attracted the attention of the U.S. Treasury Department. The Treasury raised money to fund the war effort by selling war bonds. In order to get people to purchase bonds, the department had begun to hold war bond rallies with famous people. The Hollywood stars attracted large audiences, but they needed some service personnel as well. Platoon Sergeant John Basilone would join them for a series of rallies known as a War Bond Loan Drive.

The orders came through on July 22, 1943, ordering him to Brisbane for shipment stateside.⁴⁶ With time for one last bash, Manila could not wait for the liberty bus. He started drinking at the slop chute on base. With a load of beer, John started clowning around, putting his cap on sideways and pretending he was Napoleon.⁴⁷ His friend Richard gave him a hand getting his tie on straight so that he could make it past the guards at the gate and into town. His friends in Charlie and Dog companies wanted to do something for him, so they applied for a furlough for him. They also chipped in to buy him a watch. The donations totaled the princely sum of $200--much of that would have come from the poker winnings of his buddy J. P. Morgan. Time ran out before they could get the watch, so J.P. gave him the money and told him to buy himself one stateside. Manila departed from Brisbane, Queensland, on July 25. To his great luck, his buddy Private First Class Stephen Helstowski, who had served in his platoon before being evacuated from Guadalcanal, joined him on the journey.⁴⁸

SHIFTY'S LIFE AS A GUERRILLA COULD NOT HAVE STARTED BETTER. COLONEL McClish promoted him to deputy chief of staff and made him the operations officer for the 110th Division. Major Shofner traveled throughout the division area, encompassing four provinces in northern Mindanao. By boats known as bancas, in canoes, on horseback, in a car whose engine burned alcohol, he met the leaders of the four understrength regiments. A party, fiesta, or dance required his attendance most every day. The Filipino people and an array of wealthy plantation owners supplied the cadre of U.S. military men with shelter, information, and a fabulous abundance of food. Shifty described the dishes of each meal in glowing detail in his diary.

"In all provinces except Davao," Shofner noted during his inspections, "the Japanese are compelled to stay in a small fortified area surrounded by our forces." While the enemy forces numbered above ten thousand in Davao, Shifty's area of operations held less than one thousand. Unlike Shofner's men, though, the IJA were well trained, disciplined, and well armed. The five thousand farmers and villagers who made up the four regiments of the 110th Division had hidden two thousand small-caliber weapons, most in poor condition. While the guerrillas harassed the enemy garrisons in the major cities, they focused on maintaining peace and order in the areas under their control.

Becoming a successful guerrilla leader, he realized, was not going to be easy. "There are a thousand obstacles to every task." He saw great potential. His division controlled four landing fields, two large docks, and great swaths of coastline. The division's seven launches and many sailing bancas plied the waters throughout the Mindanao Sea and the Agusan River, the largest river on the island. Most of the road network had been opened to its one diesel truck and four alcohol trucks. One of the region's lakes, Shifty thought, would make a perfect seaplane base.

Shifty's friends Hawkins and Dobervich, and the other members of the escape team, had also been promoted. Their assignments placed them in distant villages, but they saw one another often. McCoy, Mellnik, and Ed Dyess remained at the headquarters of the Tenth Military District, which commanded Shifty's 110th Division and four other divisions. The district took responsibility for all of Mindanao and a few small islands around it. It fielded about twenty thousand men. With only ten thousand rifles and other small arms, each of its soldiers shared his weapon with the others. The Tenth Military District trained its soldiers for war but more frequently used them as a police force. It printed currency that was accepted throughout the island--it had a favorable exchange rate against the money printed by the occupiers. The officers at the headquarters, and those like Shifty at the division level, presided over marriages or imprisoned criminals instead of leading strikes against enemy troops.

Throughout the summer of 1943, Major Shofner and his cohorts played a game of cat and mouse with the enemy on Mindanao. The emperor's soldiers might cause the Americans to move their headquarters, but the enemy never got close. The locals made sure "their army" had plenty of advance warning. The guerrilla officers built their organization as best they could. They spied on the enemy and provided intelligence reports to Tenth Military Headquarters so that it could be radioed back to Australia.

On August 2, Colonel McClish returned from a visit to the headquarters. He brought with him new shoes, socks, underwear, razor blades, cigarettes, and a small amount of ammunition for their rifles and pistols. He told Shifty and the others that the supplies had been dropped off by a U.S. submarine. The thought of it was thrilling. Next McClish revealed that the submarine had picked up McCoy, Mellnik, and Dyess and taken them to Australia. Before departing for freedom, McCoy and Mellnik had given McClish some general statement about helping Shifty and the others; Captain Ed Dyess had written a letter promising to get them out as well. For Shifty Shofner, it was a moment when he found out who his friends were.

LIEUTENANT HOLMES AND HIS NCOS HANDED OUT USMC UNIFORMS TO THE V-12 students on July 20 and Eugene Sledge was thrilled. His new seabag contained full sets of khaki, dungaree, and dress green uniforms. He liked the look of the khaki and figured it would look even better when he got some starch ironed into it. He asked his lieutenant about the dress blue uniform and was told that while blues would not be issued, a marine could purchase a set. Eugene immediately started looking for a set, setting aside money from his pay for it. Later, he put on his "greens," or formal uniform, and took some pictures for his family.

Every day he liked being in the marines more than the day before, marching through close order drills, attending the morning and evening flag ceremonies. At night he studied his Marine's Handbook and longed for the day when he'd get his hands on a rifle. He had no interest in smoking, drinking, or carousing. Every Sunday found him attending the North Avenue Presbyterian Church. The cakes his mother sent him allowed him to gain the weight he needed. With his thanks he sent her a USMC service pin for her lapel. He wore the corps' eagle, globe, and anchor with pride.

His uniform eliminated the embarrassment he had felt about being in civilian clothes. While walking in downtown Atlanta, though, he happened to meet a marine. By the way the man dressed, Sledge could tell this marine was a real "salt," or someone who had had lots of overseas duty. When the salt asked Sledge about his own duty, Sledge grew embarrassed as he explained the V-12 program. He figured "the only reason he doesn't laugh is because I am a Marine, and he knows I don't like my duty, any more than he likes hearing about it." When Sledge got back to the dorm, he read a letter from his mother, who was sick at the thought of his brother Edward being sent overseas and into combat. Her concern for Edward's fate irked him. She also expressed concern about her youngest son's attitude toward school.

Eugene understood his battle was with his parents. He loved them, respected them, and enjoyed their company. He appreciated all that they did for him. He treasured the picture he had of his parents and himself on the porch. Eugene had promised them he would complete the V-12 program, and keeping it was important to him. He earned a 100 percent on his first biology quiz.

The promise, however, frustrated him. His enormous drive, intellect, and commitment to his beliefs warred with his filial duty. Gene's mind was fixed on a specific goal: serving in a line company in combat. By August, his anxiety was running at a fever pitch and he began lashing out at easy targets. When a friend from Mobile joined the Seabees, Eugene opined, " The Marines consider them as a bunch of laborers and I've been told they are a pretty crummy lot."^t He criticized the press coverage of marines' contributions to the war effort. "It is a known fact that MacArthur left the 4th Marines as a rearguard in the Philippines. All but 70 were killed," he asserted, and the survivors had become prisoners. He assailed both the United States Congress and the Roosevelt administration for forcing his beloved USMC to accept draftees. " The politicians, and Army, and Navy are still striving, as they have for 169 years, to pull us under & lower our standards."

SID PHILLIPS HAD DRAWN GUARD DUTY IN LATE AUGUST. HE AND SOME OTHERS from the mortar platoon found themselves guarding the Fourth General Hospital in Melbourne. They lived indoors on real beds with clean sheets. Middle- aged Australian ladies cooked them wonderful meals and set the dishes out on platters of china. Pitchers of whole milk dotted the long table. The ladies took such good care of them, "we called them all mother and they loved it."

The mortar platoon rotated among a number of duties, including guarding criminally dangerous military prisoners who were in shackles on the hospital's fourth floor. The main entrance to the hospital was the busiest place for a marine on guard, since every doctor and every nurse wore an officer's insignia and therefore compelled the guard to snap from "parade rest" to "present arms." Sid found he could do his shift of four hours of robotic movements without difficulty. Guarding the hospital was good duty.

One morning while guarding the front door, Sid watched six khaki-colored staff cars pull up at the curb.⁴⁹ Army generals and navy admirals began climbing out. Something big was happening. First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt stepped onto the curb wearing the uniform of an army WAC.^u Sid snapped to attention, presenting arms, and "popping the leather as loud as I could." His drill instructor from Parris Island would have been proud. Roosevelt approached. Sid thought of the comedy routine on the Canal, "My wife Eleanor hates war," as she stopped in front of him. Her eyes came even with his. "Young man, are you a marine?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Were you on Guadalcanal?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Are you being well fed?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Are you being well cared for?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"What state are you from?"

"Alabama," came the reply, ringing with pride. The First Lady smiled and said, "I should have known." An officer held the door open and the official party swept inside. Private First Class Phillips "remained stone faced and at present arms until all the brass had passed by. I came back to order arms and parade rest. Then I noticed I was actually slightly quivering."

THE TRAINING SCHEDULE FOR BOMBING TWO OUT ON THE JERSEY COAST WAS rigorous but not intense in the late summer of 1943. Micheel's division of Dauntlesses might fly two or three times on any given day, but there were plenty of days when they did not fly at all. Even including the hours spent in ground school, the schedule left some time for fun.

A lot of the young men came to enjoy living life at high velocity. Hal Buell, by virtue of his seniority and his natural inclinations, became a leader of the wild bunch. He and some of the men in his squadron rented a house off base they dubbed the Snake Ranch. When not scheduled for duty, Hal's division held parties at the ranch, inviting every eligible young woman they could find. Having a bit of fun with naval lingo, one of the snake ranchers described their parties as "a kind of ground school" where "the student mingled shoulder to shoulder with the instructor."⁵⁰ Not every ensign got invited to "sit in on the seminars and even to work in the lab," so some pilots made sure that "every night . . . the wolves of Bombing Two sent their howls echoing through the streets and by-ways of Wildwood."⁵¹ The pun, intended, played on the squadron's logo, a wolf named Vertigo.

The owner of the nice hotel in Wildwood often threw parties or dances for the young officers of the NAS Wildwood. The daughter of the owner of the hotel, Mary Jane, began to date one of the pilots of Bombing Two. Mary Jane asked her boyfriend to bring along some of his friends to meet some of hers, and before long a number of Bombing Two pilots hung out at the hotel bar. Mike went a few times. That's where he met a pretty girl named Jean Miller.

Jean worked for the Quartermaster Corps as an accountant in the Navy Yard in South Philadelphia. She came to Wildwood on the weekends. She had trouble getting Mike out on the dance floor from the very beginning, but they began to see one another on the weekends. Her train would get in late on Friday, so they usually met at eight p.m. They usually went to see their friends at the hotel bar; then Mike would take her home on the trolley. "We'd sit on the front porch in the swing," until Mike looked at his watch and noticed that he had to run to catch the last trolley. By the end of August the two spent their Saturdays and Sundays together. Jean's grandmother's house was about a block and a half from the beach. Jean's mother and her uncle and aunt were also often there, along with her grandmother. Mike enjoyed being with them. Wildwood had a boardwalk like Atlantic City's famous boardwalk, offering all sorts of entertainment and food stands, because the area was a premier vacation destination. It was easy to have fun.

Jean asked her boyfriend to take her up in an airplane. All her girlfriends had been up. Mike was not enthusiastic about the idea. It was against regulations. He tried to argue that he was not qualified to fly the type of aircraft her friends had ridden in. This got him nowhere. "She pestered me." He told her he did not want to do it. Eventually, though, he relented. One Sunday afternoon he took her out to the flight line and said, " There's your airplane." It was an SNJ. She had expected a plane with a door in the fuselage, as her friends had described. Mike said he had not been checked out in the plane she described, the twin-engine SMB. " The crewman gave her a parachute to put on her and she said, 'What do I do?' "

"Climb on the wing." She looked up at the wing and then shot him a peeved look. She could not get up there herself. The crewman gave her a boost up and onto the wing. "What do I do now?"

"The seat's back there," he said. The wing, however, did not extend quite as far back as the rear cockpit. She could not step into it. To get into the rear seat of the SNJ required the use of footholds and handholds. The parachute hanging off her made it tricky. The crewman gave her a hand and Jean made it into the backseat. When Mike at last came over to explain to her how to buckle herself in and what to do in case of--She cut him off. "Forget it. If you go down, I'll go down . . . don't bother telling me what to do." After they took off Jean found she could not close her canopy, which made it rather windy. All of her friends had ridden in a nice plane with a door. It was the last time Jean asked Mike for a plane ride.

THE ARRIVAL OF ONE HUNDRED VETERANS OF THE BATTLE OF GUADALCANAL INTO Los Angeles on August 25 caught the attention of a reporter for the Seahorse, a publication of the navy's Small Craft Training Center. Interviewing the marines brought the reporter to Manila John. "To Seahorse interviewers, Sergeant Basilone was courteous, although a trifle flustered at all the attention. He is the sort one finds in thousands of high schools across the country--husky, friendly, good company."⁵² The reporter asked to see his citation for the Medal of Honor, which Manila produced. During the interview, John realized he had not read the citation, so he did so for the first time.⁵³ When asked about "the Jap as a fighting man," he replied, "they're stocky, wiry fighters and they fight for keeps."

Once he got through the Seahorse interview and the Marine Corps processing system, John immediately sent his mother a telegram. It was one sentence: "Please wire 50 dollars immediately."⁵⁴ The money helped him visit Hollywood the next night. As he walked into the Jade, he saw a girl with flowers in her hair walking out and talked her into staying a while longer. Dorothy worked in Long Beach and they had a fun night.⁵⁵ The next morning, he left for a marine base outside of San Diego called Camp Elliott.⁵⁶ The officer he met when he reached Camp Elliott may have mentioned that most every day for the past week the Marine Corps Headquarters in Washington, D.C., had telegrammed, asking for information about his arrival.⁵⁷

In a lucky coincidence, he found his younger brother George stationed at Elliott as well. George served with the 4th Marine Division. The two brothers spent two days palling around together.⁵⁸ George knew a lot more about what awaited John and could give his older brother, "Bass," the scoop. Reporters had interviewed all the members of his family, his friends, and his former employers and written articles about him. The leaders of Raritan had gotten together to hold Basilone Day. The county judge, head of the organizing committee, promised a $5,000 bond for John and "a roaring welcome--loud enough to echo in Tokyo."⁵⁹ According to George, "the town is too small to hold the welcome for you, so they are planning to have it in Duke's Park."⁶⁰ Duke's Park meant the grounds of the vast estate of the heiress Doris Duke. All of Raritan, Somerville, and the surrounding area wanted to celebrate their hometown hero, whose Medal of Honor "rated a salute from all officers, including General MacArthur."⁶¹

On the thirtieth Basilone received his orders. He was to be transferred "immediately by air" to the Marine Barracks, Navy Yard, for "temporary duty" with the USMC's Public Relations Division.⁶² The Marine Corps prohibited him "from making any statements to the Press or Radio" and directed him "to maintain proper decorum." He was given a generous per diem of $6 a day. He placed a phone call to Dorothy over in Long Beach but missed her.⁶³ He had a plane to catch. It left that afternoon and he landed in Washington, D.C., the next morning at ten thirty a.m. A car raced him to the Navy Yard by eleven a.m. on August 31.

IN EARLY SEPTEMBER, THE WOLVES OF BOMBING TWO FLEW THEMSELVES UP THE East Coast to their next duty station, NAS Quonset Point, in Rhode Island. Located on a peninsula in Narragansett Bay near the small town of North Kingstown, Quonset Point would host Bombing Two as well as the squadrons of fighters and torpedo planes that comprised Air Group Two. Having honed their skills at the individual and squadron levels, the pilots now practiced working with the whole team even as they began to practice for their first carrier landings. The necessity of creating an air group that functioned as a team had been one of the lessons learned by the Enterprise staff on August 24, 1942, in the carrier battle near Guadalcanal. The first occasion for Bombing Two to fly with the other squadrons proved fun for Mike. As directed, the squadron flew in a stepped-up formation. The other squadrons did not. The air group commander, a veteran of carrier battles, came to see them after they landed. "What are you guys doing?!" he asked. Bombing Two flew stepped down from then on. Lieutenant Commander Campbell had to eat a little crow, but he did not hold it against Mike.

AFTER A MONTH OF BEING THE DEPUTY CHIEF OF STAFF OF A GUERRILLA FORCE, Shifty Shofner wanted to do more. He wanted weapons and equipment sent from Australia so that he could lead the guerrillas in attacks against the Japanese. These attacks would not defeat the enemy troops, he knew. Shofner believed the Tenth Army Group on Mindanao, however, could force the Japanese to station two divisions there to protect its hold. The Japanese would have fewer troops available elsewhere; the Filipinos would be inspired and remain allies of America. The man standing in Shifty's way was not Colonel Wendell Fertig but General Douglas MacArthur. MacArthur believed that a large guerrilla raid would only provoke the Japanese into harming thousands of Filipinos, most of whom were farmers armed with machetes. MacArthur wanted them to be spies. He also wanted Fertig's men to give the Filipinos hope of eventual freedom, so MacArthur sent them lots of match-books emblazoned with his likeness and the words "I Shall Return." Austin Shofner believed that MacArthur refused to use the guerrillas because he, the general, found these men to be reminders of his cowardice. MacArthur had fled.

Not all of his fellow escapees saw it the way Shifty did, though. Several of them agreed with army fighter pilot Lieutenant Sam Grashio, who saw no reason to question these orders. When Grashio heard the "bitter remarks about 'Dugout Doug,'" he admitted that the general's departure had been a letdown for the troops and the lack of preparations for war had disgusted him. The situation was more complicated than that, however, and he made some obvious points. President Roosevelt had ordered MacArthur to leave Corregidor, and "it seemed to me mere common sense to save him for the rest of the war rather than let him fall into the hands of the enemy."⁶⁴ As a pilot, Sam Grashio had been at Clark Field on the day of the attack and had endured the siege of Bataan. "It always seemed to me," Sam concluded, "that the American government and people, rather than MacArthur and his associates, were mainly responsible for the inadequacy of Philippine defenses." The general had kept promising his men on Bataan that reinforcements were on the way because that had been the only way to keep them fighting. Shofner had a hard time arguing with Sam, whose body weight had dropped to eighty-five pounds during the March of Death and imprisonment. He trusted Sam. For his part, Sam admired Shifty's physical strength and his friend's unshakable optimism. These had been essential to their success. Sam and Austin had to avoid the subject of MacArthur while figuring out what they could achieve as guerrillas.

It took a while for Shifty and the other escapees to figure out that the leader of the guerrillas, Colonel Fertig, communicated with Australia on a daily basis. The colonel had kept it from them because he needed experienced and trained men to run his outfit. Fertig's Tenth Military District was on the front line of the war. He had no intention of letting the HQ in Australia know about the presence of trained infantry officers because he feared they would be recalled.⁶⁵

WASHINGTON WAS FILLED WITH THE TOP BRASS AND MANILA JOHN BASILONE was introduced to lots of admirals and generals. Although attached administratively to the Marine Barracks, Navy Yard, John reported daily to the director of the Division of Public Relations in the Navy Building. The director and his staff had not cut his orders yet, so some of the work was still in progress. They knew they would send John to New York as soon as possible to begin his work as a bond salesman. They were working on getting him involved in the Third War Loan Drive, which had begun months ago.

The U.S. Treasury Department had organized the Third War Loan Drive in association with the Hollywood Victory Committee, an organization representing the motion picture industry.⁶⁶ The loan drive was not one thing. It had half a dozen components. An "Airmada" of well-known actors, entertainers, and select military personnel had been organized into a number of "flights," which were staging bond rallies in medium-sized cities. Sabu the Elephant Boy had completed a twenty-six-stop tour.⁶⁷ The flights raised millions of dollars. The Hollywood Cavalcade, meantime, was traveling to the biggest cities. The cavalcade included Lucille Ball, Fred Astaire, Betty Hutton, James Cagney, Judy Garland, and many more. The cavalcade raised tens of millions of dollars. The actress Lana Turner raised $5.25 million in bonds by selling 105 kisses for $50,000 each. The slogan for all of the components of the Third War Loan Drive was "Back the Attack."⁶⁸

Before Basilone joined the drive, reporters wanted to interview Manila John. His story had been printed in newspapers across the country since June. The details of his "3-day machine gun rampage" amazed everyone who read it.⁶⁹ The twelve-hour battle had become seventy-two hours because of a quote by Private Nash W. Phillips, who had served in Basilone's platoon on the Canal. A reporter had found Phillips recovering from his wounds in a navy hospital in San Diego. ⁷⁰ The details Phillips had added had become part of the official story. "They stormed his position time and again," Phillips had told them, until thirty-eight bodies surrounded Manila John's foxhole. "Finally he had to move out of there--thirty-eight Jap bodies made it kind of hard to fire over the pile!"⁷¹ The USMC publicity department had adopted Phillips's quote verbatim, rather than use the facts contained in John's Medal of Honor citation. Months before John's return, it had put on the newswire a portrait of John with the caption: "Sgt. John Basilone was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for extraordinary heroism in the South Pacific. . . . He stuck by his machine gun for 72 hours without food or sleep and is credited with virtual annihilation of a jap regiment."⁷² Most newspapers included the claim that John was the only enlisted marine to be so honored.

The basic story was good but had gotten cold in the past few months. The reporters had interviewed his family and friends and a grade-school teacher and now it was time to hear from the man himself. The first interview took place in D.C. John said he could not tell the reporters much about "the one night blitz." Speaking with reporters made him uncomfortable. He began to perspire. They asked him what he thought of the enemy. He explained that they ran at the machine guns and concluded, "I don't believe they have the brains needed for victory."⁷³ Trying to explain, he continued. "They looked like a bunch of gorillas rushing us. They ought to have known better than to rush a machine gun that way."⁷⁴ As the last questions were asked, he stood up and said, " This is worse than fighting Japs."⁷⁵

It had hardly been a smashing success. No photos were taken. John was wearing the same uniform he had flown to D.C. in because his two seabags had not arrived. Worse, he had diminished the capability of the enemy. The publicists of the navy, marines, and Treasury Department did not want any of its spokespeople to refer to the Japanese as stupid because it diminished the case for buying bonds. The U.S. government needed the money generated by bonds. The navy assigned Lieutenant W. Burns Lee to coordinate John's appearances and to escort him. Burns asked Manila if he had the USMC's dress blue uniform to wear. Although John had once owned a "set of blues," he had changed.⁷⁶ "What d'ya think I am, Lieutenant," John replied, "a Navy Yard Marine?"⁷⁷ Put another way, Manila thought that the officers in Washington who pushed papers wore dress blues. Marines whose hands were stained with machine-gun oil wore Class As, the greens, when not in dungarees. He refused to wear the blues. Lieutenant Lee did not force him to wear them. The practice of calling the enemy "stupid" and "gorillas," however, stopped henceforth. As for the "3-day blitz" overstatement, the press release that accompanied John kept it as it was, although it quietly corrected the assertion that John had been the first enlisted marine to be awarded the nation's highest award for valor.⁷⁸ John was recognized as the only living enlisted man to wear it. The reporters failed to notice, though, that John had not worn the actual medal around his neck. He wore its ribbon bar on his chest.

John and his PR "handler" took the train up to New York and arrived on the afternoon of Friday, September 3, 1943. Unlike Washington, the lights of New York had been dimmed because the lights shone on ships in the harbor and made them targets for German warships.⁷⁹ He met his parents. They brought with them Alfred Gaburo, Cochairman of the John Basilone Day Committee.⁸⁰ John had once driven one of Gaburo's laundry trucks. They all had a lot of catching up to do. Gaburo would have described the plans for the upcoming parade. John's parents had to have gushed about the attention the medal had brought to them and their family. In July, the prestigious Columbian Union had invited Salvatore and Theodora to a gala at the Robert Treat Hotel in Newark and presented a plaque to them.⁸¹

The recognition of his parents by a group of New Jersey's most respected and influential citizens would have pleased John, although he may not have been suitably impressed. Such a reaction would have provoked his father to get his attention by calling John the name on his birth certificate, Giovanni.⁸²

Giovanni Basilone had grown up in a country that looked down on Italians. White America disliked their religion, their looks, and their social and cultural mores. Although his son had always been called John in public, Salvatore Basilone had been active in organizations like the Sons of Italy, which had celebrated the culture of his homeland. Salvatore, as a man who concerned himself with the relations between the two countries, had known for decades that the goal of America's immigration policy had been to keep immigration from Italy low, while encouraging immigration of those who were more Anglo-Saxon, more Protestant, and more white. His father's bitterness at such injustice was, however, old news for John.

The news Salvatore would have imparted that evening concerned the actions of the government against Italian immigrants since the war against Italy had begun.⁸³ Thousands of Italians had been arrested. Ten thousand Italians had been forced to leave their homes on the West Coast. Fifty thousand were subject to curfews and ordered to carry ID cards. Most of these people lived on the West Coast and had been classified as Enemy Aliens, a group which included all native Italians who had not completed U.S. citizenship.

The government, however, had not issued any information about its enforcement of Executive Order 9066.⁸⁴ The order signed by the president authorized the government to act against the immigrants so named and--horror of horrors--Italian immigrants were equated with Japanese immigrants. The order also created Enemy Alien Custodians. These custodians had restricted fishermen of Italian ancestry in the waters of New Jersey, New York--up and down the eastern seaboard. Italian railroad workers could not work in certain zones. Working with the FBI, the Enemy Alien Custodians arrested men for violating curfews or having a camera in their apartment. There were stories of FBI men coming to homes in New York in the middle of the night and taking men away. If a famous opera singer like Ezio Pinza could be arrested and held on Ellis Island, no son of Italy could rest easy in America.

The official sanctions had encouraged the growth of unofficial discrimination. Some businesses fired people who spoke in Italian to Italian customers. Others simply refused to hire them.⁸⁵ All of these realities existed outside of the mainstream media and had therefore become dirty secrets, passed from one immigrant to another. The Italians, the largest foreign- born group in the United States, knew not how to respond. While proud of his heritage, Salvatore Basilone was an equally proud American. He wanted the United States to defeat Italy's dictator, Benito Mussolini, as well as Germany and Japan. Criticizing the government's efforts against those Italians it deemed dangerous would be viewed as unpatriotic. Acknowledging the discrimination was humiliating.

The weight of the world was settling on John's strong shoulders. Sal and Dora and Alfred would have made sure he understood that the story of Manila John Basilone had begun to right these wrongs. In June, when the story had first broken, the navy commander who had briefed the press had said, "I don't fall for all this talk about the Italians being just natural cowards." The United Press International, whose stories ran in newspapers across the country, had pointedly directed its first story at the dictator of Italy, entitling it "Listen, Benito: We're Proud of Buffalo-born Basilone."⁸⁶ A few days later the reporters had found their way to the hero's hometown. Asked about his son, Sal spoke to the country on behalf of all Italians. "Sure, I'm proud. I love my family and I always worry about Johnny, but I love this country almost as much as I love my son and I want this war finished. If Johnny can help hurry it up, then I'm satisfied."⁸⁷ Since then, Sal had distanced himself from the groups that celebrated his Italian heritage. Dora had lied to reporters and told them she had been born in Raritan, New Jersey.⁸⁸ They stressed that three of their sons were serving in the military, Alphonse, John, and George, without mentioning that the latter two's given names appeared on their birth certificates in Italian: Giovanni and Giorgio.⁸⁹

The next morning, Saturday, September 4, John met with a group of reporters in the navy's pressroom at 90 Church Street in Manhattan.⁹⁰ He was smartly turned out in his green Class A uniform, ironed to perfection. He began by admitting that he was "nervous." The admission, and the way he flinched when the camera's flashbulbs fired, started to win over his audience. In a quiet voice, John outlined what had happened that night. The "bag of 38 Japs" that the writers kept mentioning had not all been killed by him, but also by Billie Joe Crumpton and Cecil Evans. As far as the enemy, "every time the Japs came charging at us they would yell. This would tip us off." Trying to lighten the mood, John continued. "We would yell right back at them, but what we said is 'off the record.' We would also let them have it." The reporters liked that he described the battle "without heroics," but then asked lots of questions in their search for something heroic. He repeated his joke, " This is worse than fighting the japs."

After the interview, Manila John was taken over to meet the mayor of New York, Fiorello La Guardia, in City Hall.⁹¹ John went around behind the large, ornate desk of one of America's leading politicians. The two men stood side by side, flanked by flags, looking at the reporters, photographers, and a large movie camera assembled on the other side. Mayor La Guardia, a stubby man more than a foot shorter than Basilone, was comfortable working with the media. Ignoring John, he drummed his fingers on the table, chewed his lip, and waited for the signal. When the cameras were ready La Guardia turned to John, looked up into his eyes briefly, then stared at his medal as he said, "Sergeant John Basilone, I am very happy to welcome you, the first enlisted marine to receive the Congressional Medal of Honor, and we're very proud to have you in New York City." As an Italian, the mayor pronounced the e on the end of Basilone. La Guardia reached out his hand and gave John's a vigorous shake.

"Tell me, Sergeant, are those japs tough?"

"Yes, they were tough," came the reply, "but the marines were tougher." John delivered his line while looking at the ceiling.

"The marines are always tougher."

"Yes, sir."

"I see you got the Congressional Medal of Honor here," he said as he reached up to touch the ribbon on his chest--the large medal was not hanging around his neck.

"Yes," John said, looking off aimlessly. La Guardia had already turned away, his smile replaced by the harried look of a busy mayor. He looked expectantly to the press, gauging their reaction. Inches away, John waited. The mayor, informed that he had stumbled on his line, turned back to him. The smile flashed. " Tell me, Sergeant, are those japs really tough?"

"Yes, sir, the japs were tough, but the marines were tougher."

"Marines are always tougher!"

"Yes, sir."

"Is this the ribbon of your Congressional Medal of Honor?" Reaching up, the mayor fingered the ribbon.

"Yes." Once again, the mayor dropped his hand like it was hot and looked to the reporters. He had a heated discussion with his advisors and the press corps. He decided to give a short speech. The camera came in tight on his face. John's service had been above and beyond the call of duty, he began, earnestly building toward a conclusion about Americans buying bonds "above and beyond the"--before deciding, "Aw, cut!" He started again, this time smoothly and emphatically exhorting his listeners to "buy bonds above and beyond what we can really afford. We must deprive ourselves of something. We must make some sacrifice. . . ." That seemed to go well, so he set up to make another run at John. La Guardia waited. John waited. The camera pulled back.

"Sergeant, can you tell us something about how you came to get this? You must've mowed 'em down!"

"Yes, sir," John replied to the ceiling. "I was in a good outfit. With good men. I just happened to be there. And any man would have done the same in my place."

"Spoken just like a marine, eh. Sergeant, where does your old man come from?"

"My father comes from Naples."

"And my father comes from Foggia. We're Americans!" They shook hands, and their smiles grew genuine for a moment. The mayor's handlers yelled something. La Guardia flung John's hand down and stepped away. The camera closed in on Manila John's face. Off-screen, La Guardia asked him again to "tell us something about how you came to get this medal." John repeated his line verbatim. They repeated their exchange about where their fathers came from, the camera recording John's earnest delivery, and then it was over. They had spoken at each other, or in the direction of one another, but not with one another. The mayor had played his role and in doing so had shown Manila John how to play his part. The right message had been prepared for the people of New York.

The newspapers the next day played their role. One New York paper featured a large picture of John in its Sunday edition, over the title "A Killer . . . of 38 Japs."⁹² The stories had fun with John's discomfort at being interviewed--flashbulbs made him jump more than Japanese--and assured readers that he was properly modest about his accomplishments. Manila John had praised his friends at every turn so that his audience understood "they're a great bunch." After explaining how he had come to have the nickname "Manila," the reporters described his efforts to explain that he was part of a team as modesty. What they could not get from him, they got from Nash Phillips. The Sunday New York Times explained how he had killed "38 japs single handed" over two nights.⁹³ In so doing, Manila John Basilone had "contributed to the virtual annihilation of a Japanese regiment."⁹⁴ Use of the word "contributed" covered the contributions of Able Company, which took the brunt of the attack; of the other marines in Charlie, Baker, and Dog companies, some of whom had done everything Manila had; of the soldiers of the 164th Infantry Regiment, who had arrived at a crucial time; of the Eleventh Marines, whose artillery shells rained down on the other side of the wire; and of Cecil and Billie Joe, who had held the ground--surrounded, wounded, brave--long enough for Manila John to reach them.

SEPTEMBER HAD BEGUN MUCH AS AUGUST HAD ENDED. SID'S REGIMENT HAD departed the cricket grounds for training purposes. It was bivouacked about twenty miles outside of Melbourne in fields around the village of Dandenong. It was not too far from the camp of the Seventh Marines. The training had begun in earnest: field problems and conditioning hikes punctuated with inspections and other forms of discipline. Sid had limited opportunities to sample the delights of Melbourne. Living in tents also meant more exposure to the cold, rain, and high winds of winter. One afternoon the sergeant collared Sid and put him on a working party. A truck full of marines drove into the town of Dandenong to unload coal from a train and load it on the truck for use in the stoves of the First Marines. Across the street from the rail yard stood a pub. The sergeant, after swearing all his men to silence, collected two shillings from each man. He took Sid and they went across the street.

At the bar sat a pretty blond woman with a pint of beer in front of her. She was completely topless because she was breast-feeding her baby. Sid thought her well endowed. She gave the two a friendly greeting. The sergeant ordered a quart-sized bottle of Melbourne Bitter for each man in his party. While the barkeep filled the order, the woman gestured toward the infant and told them "the little Yankee bastard's father" was an American sailor on the cruiser Quincy. The fact that the Japanese had sunk Quincy a year ago off Guadalcanal popped into Sid's head, but he did not say anything. Those naked breasts had him distracted. The young mother started in on American sailors, declaring that they were "no good." Much to her surprise, the two Americans in front of her agreed heartily. Sid's sergeant added that "most American sailors were recruited from prisons in America and had to have marines aboard ships to guard them and make them obey orders."

The sergeant left the bar with the woman's name and address and a promise to come back and see her later. Sid left carrying a burlap sack of beer bottles. The detail finished unloading and loading coal and returned to camp in high spirits, drinking beer and singing "Bless 'em All" and "When This War Is Over We'll All Enlist Again." Deacon caught Sid tipsy, though. A long sermon about "depravity" followed.

ON MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, AT THE USMC DIVISION OF PUBLIC RELATIONS, Basilone received his official orders, detailing the bond tour. Manila John would join Flight Number Five of the Airmada, departing New York on September 8. The first events, in Newark on the ninth, would be followed by others in different cities every day for ten days. Flight Five's final event would be held in Basilone's hometown on Sunday, September 19, 1943.⁹⁵ The stars of Flight Five began arriving: the actress Virginia Grey, the actors John Garfield and Gene Lockhart, as well as some other service personnel. They put on a show at the Capitol Theatre in Manhattan.⁹⁶ They also took part in a nationwide broadcast called "Report to the Nation," which included an address by President Roosevelt.⁹⁷ Everyone remembered to repeat the slogan of the Third War Loan Drive: Back the Attack One of the remarks that caught the public's attention was an admission from Manila John Basilone that "pieces of my Congressional Medal of Honor belong to the boys who were left behind."⁹⁸

In advance of their arrival in Newark, advertisements announced the "War Veterans Airmada." Ads listed the schedule of events and the names of the "war heroes" and the entertainers who were coming "Out of the Skies to You!"⁹⁹ Most of these ads ran in the newspaper, but a navy blimp floated over Newark and dropped "paper bombs." John and the others landed in Newark at ten thirty a.m. The first photo showed the cast of the Airmada in front of their airplane because flying was very glamorous and because the plane was part of the campaign.

The trip from the airport to downtown was like a parade. There was a band to lead them, fire trucks and military units to accompany them, and they sat in open cars. They did not see much in the way of crowds until they approached the site of the rally.¹⁰⁰ Up on the platform, Virginia Grey and John Garfield received a lot of attention. Grey's hairstyle and dress were noted, as well as Garfield's assertion that he "wasn't tough." The two stars began the ceremony by releasing three carrier pigeons, one for each of the Axis Powers; Italy, the lesser threat of the three, had surrendered a few days earlier.^v The pigeons carried the message "For Victory--One Down, Two to Go."¹⁰¹ Joined by the actor Gene Lockhart, they interviewed "the real stars of the show," the "five heroes." After everyone spoke, the troop went back to the hotel and freshened up before appearing at a VIP reception at the Victory Theater and a special showing of the new film Mr. Lucky. The surrender of Italy had created a lot of optimism and enthusiasm for the drive. The Treasury representative predicted they would raise more than $1.2 million in Newark, New Jersey.

The next morning, the Airmada took off for Jersey City, followed by New Haven, Providence, Manchester, Worcester, Albany, Syracuse, Rochester, and Scranton on September 18.¹⁰² Visits to City Hall and special dinners with "leading citizens" were added to their days. The events had similar names: "The Million Dollar Luncheon" and "The Million Dollar Bond Hero Premiere." John Garfield frequently introduced Basilone, giving him a big smile and handshake each time, as though they had never met. Garfield told audiences, "Don't let anybody tell you the Italians can't fight. When they have something to fight for they can flight plenty. There are thousands of them in our army and we know."¹⁰³ The actor may have been responding to the directives of the Treasury Department. Treasury had decided to hold up its bond tours as symbols of America's melting pot by emphasizing diversity as the strength of America.

The ideal of national unity had a powerful hold on the immigrant communities. In the Airmada audiences were people who had come from all over the world to chase the good life in the United States of America. They had found a country more to their liking than the ones they had left, but they bridled at the barriers they had found to their advancement: their religions and ethnicities. The U.S. Treasury Department made sure the members of all ethnic groups equated buying bonds with proving their loyalty.¹⁰⁴ According to the Treasury, the path to fame and fortune lay open to all loyal Americans. War bonds cost $18.75, but anyone could purchase stamps for a few pennies and work toward owning a bond. It would mature to $25 in ten years. Bonds represented the defense of the American way of life. The newspaper coverage of the Third War Loan Drive noted that the heroes represented all the service branches and "a number of races," although Manila John's skin was the only one darker than milky white.¹⁰⁵

The newspapers usually held more ink describing the Hollywood stars than the heroes. The stars changed over time--Eddie Bracken and Martha Scott headlined the shows in Albany--and special guests appeared, like the bandleader and song-writer Glen Miller in New Haven.¹⁰⁶ When it came to the war heroes, the news accounts usually included a photo of Manila John. The caption "Jap Killer Waves Greeting" might run above it and below it a few lines that had phrases like "mowing down nips" and "slaughtering 2,000 Japs."¹⁰⁷ The other veterans received less attention. Seaman First Class Elmer Cornwall, U.S. Navy, "told how he lost 50 pounds while adrift in a lifeboat 36 days with rations for only 15 days."¹⁰⁸ The others had similar tales: they had beaten long odds to survive being shot down or shot up. Manila John, though, was the only one to have beaten the enemy face-to-face.

Basilone liked to tease the navy vets, saying the "swabbies could really tell the sea stories . . . some of those gruesome yarns make me want to buy bonds."¹⁰⁹ If the guys had drinks at the bar at the end of the day, John usually left before it got crazy. Since the Airmada stayed at the nicest hotel in town, a crowd of folks usually showed up in hopes of meeting the Hollywood actors.¹¹⁰ Not all of the visitors were stargazers, though. Men who had served with John left messages in his box at the front desk.¹¹¹ Mothers and girlfriends of men serving overseas showed up to ask about their sons or boyfriends.¹¹² The mother of Thomas "Chick" McAllister got through the crowds to see him--her son had served with him. About Chick, whose nickname came from his boyish features, John told his mother, "Well, he is not your baby no more."¹¹³ The only type of visitor who ticked John off was "the guy who buttonholed him at the bar and asked, 'What's that blue ribbon with the white stars you're wearing, soldier?' "

"Why, that's for good conduct," John would reply, trying to let the "soldier" crack pass and be friendly, although a wearisome routine seemed to happen in each city. If the guy was middle-aged, he'd start "blowing smoke up your trousers about the First World War. If he's fairly young he starts crying on your shoulder about how he has tried and tried to get in the armed forces but he always gets turned down because of housemaid's knee or adenoids or something."¹¹⁴

The Airmada flew back to New York City on Saturday night. The anonymity of the big city offered John the chance to have a quiet dinner. He was not so famous as to be instantly recognized. An elderly woman took pity on the lonely marine she found in the hotel restaurant one evening and treated him to dinner. John never once mentioned the bond tour, the medal, or Guadalcanal. She thought him a nice young man and good company.¹¹⁵

On Sunday morning, a car arrived at eight a.m. to take Manila to the place where everyone knew his name, his face, and his story.¹¹⁶ The actresses and actor who accompanied him were not quite as well known: Virginia O'Brien, Louise Allbritton, and Robert Paige.¹¹⁷ They came down from New York on Route 29 at seventy miles an hour with a police escort to drive motorists off the road ahead of them. At the traffic light on Somerset Street and Route 31, which signaled the entrance to Raritan, Mayor Peter Mencaroni and Chairman William Slattery of the Township Committee greeted him.

Driving into Raritan, they could see their first stop, St. Ann's Church, from a distance by the crowd out front. John's schedule for the day had been published, so those who could not join him for High Mass waited outside. Manila John met his family at the church they had attended all his life. John had invited his friend Steve Helstowski, who had served with him on Guadalcanal, to join him. Basilone asked the reverend to say mass for "his buddies on Guadalcanal."¹¹⁸ In his sermon, Reverend Graham declared John's "life will be a guide to American youth. God spared him for some big work."¹¹⁹ Afterward, the reporters wanted to know what it was all about. John said he had prayed for all servicemen and for one marine in particular, a guy "who used to romp around in the same foxhole with me, but didn't come back."¹²⁰ He did not give a name. John had Steve stay close with him as they left for a meeting with "dignitaries," the members of the John Basilone Day Committee, before heading off for lunch.

John's table at lunch included Steve, his parents, and the two reverends from the church. He had some good news for his mother. After he completed the "Navy Incentive Tour," which began the next day, he would have a month's furlough .¹²¹ After the meal they drove to nearby Somerville, where the parade started at one p.m.

In the convertible, Steve sat in the passenger seat up front. His parents sat in the backseat, and Manila John Basilone sat on the back of the car, where everyone could see him. A detail of female marines flanked the car, which found its place in the long line. Twelve marching bands were interspersed amid a great variety of civic and military organizations. Numerous contingents of Italian-American societies marched. A navy blimp flew over the proceedings as Manila John's car drove two miles through thirty thousand people. He waved the whole time, smiling and occasionally blowing a kiss.¹²² Both Somerville and Raritan had been bedecked for the occasion. One storefront featured a "Jap graveyard with 38 tombstones and a machinegun, all against a Basilone picture."¹²³ Another shop had hung two large portraits side by side: General Douglas MacArthur and Manila John Basilone.¹²⁴

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 evening. 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

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 outdoor 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.

The next day, the birthday of the United States Marine Corps, would have also brought a laugh from Manila, if only to himself. As part of a radio tribute to his corps, John urged young women to join the marines.¹⁶³ Since he was receiving a stream of letters from a certain Corporal Carolyn Orchovic of the USMC's Women's Reserve, who was wondering when he would return to D.C. so they could continue dating, he obviously had nothing against women in uniform.¹⁶⁴ He went to headquarters in D.C. whenever ordered; otherwise he lived in Raritan.

Life in the home he had grown up in grew uncomfortable slowly. He liked people, and everywhere he went in Raritan, everybody knew Manila John. His friends and family knew he had a long furlough, assumed the Marine Corps would give him a cushy job eventually, and believed he was set for life. When asked about the public events, he would say, "I feel like a bull thrower."¹⁶⁵ Everyone had a laugh at that. John did not elaborate. The truth was his future did not look clear to him. The brass liked having him available for public relations duties and had extended his furlough to make that easier. When officers did speak with him about future options, these included being an instructor at the marine base in New York City or going back to D.C. and serving in the guard company of the Navy Yard. Both of these options represented more public appearances, more time in dress uniforms, more time spent behind a desk or in a room with officers and less time outside with the infantry. He began going for long walks late at night. The physical activity settled him down, allowed him to think. He also kept a bottle of scotch on his nightstand.¹⁶⁶ His close friends and his family had seen these signs before--years earlier his long walks had preceded him quitting a job. John's growing discomfort, however, mystified friends and family. Manila John had it all. Their views perhaps persuaded him not to seek anyone's advice. He told his younger sister Mary, "I had to make up my own mind."¹⁶⁷

In mid-November the mailman brought John a note from Dog Company. They had passed around his letter to them. "You didn't forget the boys," they affirmed, and used the phrase they heard in Melbourne, "Good on you, Yank." After teasing "the medal kid" about having "too many women," his friends tried to pass along a little news of their own: "all the liberty is finished & you can guess what that means."¹⁶⁸ It was not much of a guess. Dog Company had gone back to the war.

IN SHOFNER'S DIARY OF HIS LIFE AS A GUERRILLA ON MINDANAO, MORE ENTRIES concerned fiestas than firefights. He and the officers above him wanted to move beyond scouting and spying. The Filipino people expected their guerrillas to attack the enemy. MacArthur's headquarters in Australia, however, made it clear that the guerrilla units were not to attack Japanese targets. The submarines sent to Mindanao held some small arms and some ammunition, but nothing larger and not in great numbers. Although Shofner and his immediate officers tended to blame Australia, their problems went beyond equipment to organizing and training. The leaders of the various bands of guerrillas often squabbled with one another about methods, goals, and the chain of command. Simply maintaining a regular schedule of radio reports to Australia often proved difficult. In recognition of this, Shofner spent part of his time engaged in propaganda aimed at maintaining the loyalty of the Filipinos. He thrived in the make- it-up-as-you-go-along world of a guerrilla. His job involved politics, economics, and religion. It also had its advantages. "Everything fouled so bad," Shofner wrote one Friday, he had "decided to take a day off and start fresh Monday."

His life as a guerrilla leader came to an end when the USMC HQ in Australia ordered Colonel Wendell Fertig to return him, Mike Dobervich, and Jack Hawkins. The other four remaining escapees would also return, separately. Shifty's job as deputy chief of operations ended on November 1. He began awaiting his submarine home in the village of Rizal, where he had spent much of his time. Thirteen days passed before he heard definite news. Another two passed before "D-day," when everything went wrong.

The truck that ran on alcohol ran out of alcohol. The bike had a flat. Shifty walked most of the way to the rendezvous site until he found a bicycle to "commandeer." At the harbor he found Jack Hawkins, Mike Dobervich, and a few Filipino guerrillas awaiting transport. Colonel Fertig also arrived, late. His horse had run away. Scouts had been placed on the roads for miles around them. They felt safe from the Japanese. The anticipation must have been nearly overwhelming. Dobervich sent up the all clear signal for the sub too early and incurred the wrath of his friends until USS Narwhal surfaced at five twenty-five p.m. Shofner lost a bet to Fertig on the time and handed over one Philippine peso.

Unloading the sub took over four hours at top speed. A large number of guerrillas handled the boxes of medicine, ammunition, and the "I Shall Return" match-books Shifty despised. The escapees said good-bye to Colonel Fertig and good-bye to many Filipino friends who had risked their lives to protect them. As the Narwhal cast off from the dock, the band played "God Bless America." The next morning Shofner wrote in his diary that the submarine "went through Surigao straights into Pacific . . . all well."

Although he would have to learn to like the sub's soft bed, the familiar food and the hot coffee were most welcome. The ship's captain, Lieutenant Commander Parsons, hailed from Shelbyville, Shofner's hometown, and his mother's maiden name was Shofner. They had some catching up to do. The sub made its best speed while on the surface. Twice they spotted planes. The second time a pair of enemy planes approached within four miles, coming in low and fast right at them. The skipper bellowed orders and Narwhal's bow pointed down. She ended the dive to 150 feet with a sharp turn. No bombs were heard. The captain told them he was taking them to Port Darwin and, barring any more disturbances, they would arrive on November 22; from there, a plane would take them to MacArthur's headquarters in Brisbane. Shofner borrowed a book about the marines on Guadalcanal to keep himself entertained. ^w When Narwhal crossed the equator, Shofner and his friends were delighted to learn they had become "shellbacks."

SLEDGE'S HAPPINESS DISAPPEARED IN AN INSTANT. JUST BEFORE THANKSGIVING, he received a letter from his parents. They had received a letter from the V-12 program at Georgia Tech advising them that their son had flunked out and been transferred. His parents accused him of lying to them. He felt terrible, but there was no going back. He launched a campaign to convince them he had neither lied nor flunked out. The explanations grew lengthy. The letter they had received from the V-12 program was explained away by relating the story of one of his friends in boot camp. This "boy," Eugene claimed, had passed his courses in Atlanta, but had requested a transfer. This boy's parents had received a letter stating their son had flunked out. While the unnamed boy was obviously "crazy," and Sledge himself had "wanted to become an officer," this story proved that "no matter why anyone left, his parents received the same letter."

Although they continued to correspond about other matters, and the packages of goodies continued to arrive, Dr. and Mrs. Sledge remained unconvinced. Their youngest son pushed harder. "I might not be a credit to the Sledge name," he said, "but I've never lied to you or pop. And I didn't lie about my leaving Tech. If I had failed, I promise you I would admit it. . . ." Gene increased the pressure. "I guess you know, I've got a lot of danger to face before I come home again. I'll face it like a Sledge should, and I won't fail to hold up the name. But please believe me, for I've told you the absolute truth."

The ordeal of boot camp, meantime, had begun to change. Platoon 984 took its turn at the rifle range in late November. Their day still began with the DI waking them up at five a.m. Every last man in Sledge's hut, all nineteen of them, immediately lit a cigarette and began coughing. Sledge thought they were crazy. Smoking's ill effects were readily apparent. After chow, the DI turned them over to the instructors on the rifle range. These marines were concerned with teaching the boots to shoot straight. Eugene, whose passion for firearms went back to his earliest days, ate it up. When asked about the largest caliber he had fired to date, Sledge proudly described his .54-caliber muzzle loader. Absorbing every detail of the instruction, he set his sights on earning the highest rank, Expert, when his platoon fired for record. Scoring that high would help him earn the right to go to Sea School, his first choice of duty assignments.

The training with the M1 rifle brought back a flood of happy memories of hunting with his father. He wanted to tell his father about his training so he would "understand why Marines are the best riflemen in the world." In the evening, as he listened to the others in his hut talk about their parents, he realized how lucky he and his brother Edward had been. Eugene wrote to tell them about an argument his hut mates and he had had about where they would like to go on their first liberty. "You can bet I said I'd go home & stay there as much as possible. We have the most beautiful home & finest & happiest family I ever knew of. We really have a lot to be thankful for and I really am." He spoke of going to college upon his return. However, Eugene never let go of his demand that his parents accept his explanation about his departure from the V-12 program. Dropping the subject was not good enough.

AN ESCORT SHIP LED THEIR SUBMARINE THROUGH THE MINEFIELD AND INTO Port Darwin. A lieutenant colonel in the USMC met Shofner, Hawkins, and Dobervich onshore and brought them to an unmarked house. As he doled out Red Cross packages, the colonel told them they were flying to a hospital in Brisbane the following day. He also ordered them not to divulge any information about themselves to anyone. From what Shofner could see, the armed forces in Darwin enjoyed such a level of comfort "I do not believe these people are doing any fighting." The hospital in Brisbane turned out to be very impressive. On November 24, Shifty slept late, took his first hot shower and shave in two years, and had ice cream for lunch. The doctors began to run tests. His duties included getting new uniforms and a haircut; having his teeth cleaned; and writing a report about the Japanese prisoner-of-war camps. He also played poker against all comers in his ward. He lost $17 on a run of terrible cards.

At the end of the month, the hospital discharged him, Hawkins, and Dobervich. They received orders to return to the United States and were given a class-three priority for seats on naval air transport planes. A few days later Shofner delivered a series of reports to Brigadier General C. A. Willoughby, the intelligence officer, or G-2, of the General Headquarters for the South West Pacific Areas. Based on the entries of his daily diary, he had written a record of events in the POW camps from May 6, 1942, to April 4, 1943; an account of their escape; and a document entitled "Service with Guerrilla Forces in the 10th Military District, Philippine Islands: May 11 to November 15, 1943." ¹⁶⁹

As the senior officer of his contingent of the escapees, Captain Shofner would have considered it his duty to prepare a report. All of the ten men shared the intense desire to let the world know the atrocity being committed, and a military report written in a timely fashion formed a foundation for publicity. Publicity in Shofner's mind would produce legal redress and spur military action against Japan. As the only one to have kept a diary, Shofner could write with a level of specificity others could not match. The final part to his report, "Recommendations for the Philippine Islands," demonstrated his strength of purpose and high level of energy.

Shofner's three-page memorandum detailed the means by which the United States could strengthen the guerrilla forces and use them to prepare the way for the U.S. invasion. This included sending a large cadre of officers to take command of the guerrilla forces at all levels. He recommended that a general be put in command. His note that the rank of general might be "temporary if necessary," combined with his insistence on the necessity of "experience," suggested that he had someone in mind for the job. His own experience had taught him "the Filipino soldiers are good fighters under American officers." However, "the average Filipino must be treated as a child." Americans also needed to understand "extreme patience as the ways of the East are mysterious." The equipment needed for this mission was spelled out in a long, prioritized list. "Bullets are the best propaganda," he insisted. Much of the list was devoted to sabotage equipment, ammunition and guns, although he itemized the medicines, clothing, and various types of communications equipment, including mimeograph machines. A final page covered the long list of incidentals like raincoats, buttons, and flashlights.

While his memo focused on protecting the Filipino's faith in America and creating a force capable of isolating the enemy, Shofner included the plight of the POWs in his plan of action as well. Vitamin tablets should be sent to the camps "immediately," because some of it would make it to the prisoners and their needs were "urgent." It had to be done before Japan moved all of the POWs to camps on the island of Formosa, well inside the empire. This threat had been heard many times in Cabanatuan. One outcome of his plans for the guerrillas on Mindanao, a reader would have inferred, would be to move beyond the relief of the POWs to their rescue.

Before departing, the three marines were driven to the office of the commander of the South West Pacific Areas, General Douglas MacArthur. The general had already heard of the plight of the POWs from Commander McCoy and his friends. The marines affirmed the truth of McCoy's story. Shofner disclosed that he had kept a list of all the POWs he felt had betrayed their oaths to their country. MacArthur gave a vague reply about ensuring returning POWs received proper acknowledgment for their service. The discussion, however, turned away from the war. MacArthur's wife, Jean Faircloth MacArthur, was a distant relative of the Shofner clan. Next came the unexpected. The general decorated him, Hawkins, and Dobervich with the Distinguished Service Cross. As he pinned the U.S. Army's highest award for bravery on Shofner, the general said, "Never during my long and illustrious career have I presented a more deserved" award. The citation, dated that day, December 6, had been awarded not to the captain who had been captured on Corregidor, nor to the lieutenant colonel of the guerrillas, but to Major Austin Shofner of the USMC. He had received an official promotion. Major Austin Shofner's citation, "for extraordinary heroism in actions in the Philippine Islands," described his escape from the camp, his volunteer service as a guerrilla, and praised his delivery "of information of great military value on the defense of Corregidor and the treatment of our prisoners of war in Japanese hands."

After Shofner, Hawkins, and Dobervich left the general's presence, the new major vented his disgust. MacArthur had dared speak of his "illustrious career" to men who had endured the results of his failure.¹⁷⁰ Being Shifty, he later poked fun at the general's carefully cultivated aura of power, quipping that during the meeting he had felt like MacArthur was "God and I was the right hand angel. It took me 48 hours before I could have a dirty thought." The PBY bearing the three heroes departed Brisbane on December 9, making stops at Noumea, Efate, and elsewhere along the chain before landing in Hawaii on December 14.

MANILA JOHN REPORTED TO THE NAVY'S WAR BOND OFFICE IN MANHATTAN ON December 6 to prepare for the Pearl Harbor Day bond drive. On the anniversary of the attack, he traveled upstate to a bond rally in the town of New Windsor. With each bond sold, he autographed a special preprinted flyer, dedicated to the person who bought it. The front side of the flyer explained why it was important to buy bonds and thanked the donor. The reverse quoted from the citation for John's medal. It also described how he "had a machine gun on the go for three days and three nights without sleep, rest or food"; and how he had "killed 38 japs near his hole with a pistol."¹⁷¹ At least the flyer to which he signed his name correctly identified him as "the only living enlisted Marine wearing the coveted Congressional Medal of Honor." After a cold day riding in a jeep and thanking bond buyers, he returned to the city to attend another big gala thrown by the National Association of Manufacturers (NAM) at the Waldorf-Astoria, one of the great hotels of New York.

As befitted one of the nation's most powerful industry associations, the NAM held a very fancy affair for the four thousand members attending its "second War Congress." The remarks by its speakers were recorded for an international radio broadcast. The chairman of General Motors informed his audience that GM was ready to invest $500 million into "postwar America."¹⁷² Lieutenant General A. A. Vandegrift, identified as the Commandant of the Marine Corps although his tenure would not begin until the new year, said that victory over Japan would "demand the best kind of teamwork."¹⁷³ John sat on the dais next to another sergeant, William Downs, who had lost a leg in the air war over Stuttgart, Germany. Both men gave short speeches as a part of thanking their hosts.¹⁷⁴

In order to make Manila John available to attend the NAM event, the USMC had extended his leave again, to December 26. So he returned home to Raritan for another twenty days of furlough. One of the letters that arrived during that period came from his friend Richard Greer.¹⁷⁵ Greer started by giving him the Dog Company news--who was now sergeant of which platoon, who had gotten busted in rank, who "broke his hand on somebody's jaw." Their pet, Jockstrap, was still with Dog Company. J. P. Morgan sent his regards but would not write. The boys were near the ocean and were once again bathing in a river. They saw lots of "fuzzy wuzzies," or natives, mostly males but sometimes females. "The young are black, bushy headed with those pointed breast and the old gals are baggy and their breast hang down to their waist."

Even out in the boonies, Greer said they had read a news report stating John would soon marry Helen Helstowski, Steve's sister. Along with demanding to know "the dope," Greer teased him. Like all good jokes, there was some truth and some lies mixed together. "We thaught you had a wife and kids in Minila to take care of let alone one in the states. Ever hear from Nora? Or the gook gal you ran up a coconut tree about eighteen months ago? I believe Morgan dragged you out of the church in Georgia once time. Boy you've had some close calls but this time its news and you're _____." Greer closed the letter by saying that they all wanted to hear from him. Having written letters for John, Greer knew his friend all too well, so he ordered Manila to "get somebody to do it if you won't."

THE MONTHS SPENT AT NAVAL AIR STATION SANTA ROSA, JUST NORTH OF SAN Francisco, had been very much like the months of training at NAS Quonset Point, Rhode Island. The naval aviators of Bombing Two gained confidence faster than competency. They referred to their Dauntlesses in disparaging terms. They expressed their concern that they were missing the war. The arrival of another award for Lieutenant Vernon Micheel could have only convinced them they were right. Mike received notice from the navy that he was entitled to wear the Presidential Unit Citation for his service aboard Enterprise, which had "participated in nearly every major carrier engagement in the first year of the war."

It escaped no one's attention that none of the U.S. carriers had merited that kind of award for their actions in 1943. There had not been any major carrier engagements and the end of the year was fast approaching. A look at the map showed the United States in control of the Gilberts and the Solomon Islands. A vast ocean dotted with hundreds of islands separated them from Tokyo. One afternoon the wolves found out they were going to do their share to get there. In mid-December they packed their Dauntlesses hurriedly and flew down to Alameda. Instead of an immediate departure, they found themselves in a barracks near the wharf. Being so close to San Francisco, and not being ones to sit idle, most of the wolves raised such a drunken ruckus that the whole squadron was put on report. The warning made little impression on the ringleaders. They knew Uncle Sam had a job waiting for them. A few days before Christmas a crane began to load their airplanes on a small aircraft carrier, known as a "jeep" carrier. The pilots of Bombing Two walked aboard. "Marines stood on the dock with sub-machine guns," the ensigns noted sarcastically,

"as if to prevent dangerous criminals from a last minute escape."¹⁷⁶ After sailing under the Golden Gate Bridge, Bombing Two would spend Christmas 1943 cramped in a small space on the way to Pearl Harbor.

SHOFNER AND HIS FRIENDS MADE GOOD TIME FLYING ACROSS THE PACIFIC ON A class-three priority. They landed at Pearl Harbor on December 14. On their way to Washington, they changed planes in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Shofner walked into the airport. "Behind the Pennsylvania Central Airline counter Shofner saw . . . Kathleen King, his sweetheart."¹⁷⁷ They had begun dating while attending the University of Tennessee. He got in line. Jack Hawkins watched as he walked up to her. She caught sight of him and fainted. The man she knew had lost some of his strength, with lines etched into deeply tanned skin. He had lost some teeth. The last word from him had come a year ago, a postcard letting his family know he was a prisoner. Here he was out of the blue and he had a plane to catch. He had been ordered not to reveal his ordeal. Shofner was allowed to share good news: after he and the others reported in to the chief of naval operations, they would receive furloughs. He would see her soon.

A car met their plane when it landed in D.C. and took them to the Willard Hotel. In the main dining room of the hotel, Major Shofner felt out of place "with a complexion more brown than that normally allowed a guest of the Willard." At least some of the guests, however, must have recognized him--if not by the DSC, the Silver Star, the Purple Heart, and rows of campaign ribbons, then by his uniform and rank--as a veteran returned from the Pacific. The three marines were allowed a few days of rest. After completing some paperwork, Shofner got paid and decided to treat himself to a new pair of shoes. He had to admit to the shoe salesman that he had never heard of ration cards. He could not purchase shoes without them. It was one of those little things that made him think his transition would not be entirely easy.

The big meeting came on December 22, when the three friends went to see General Archer Vandegrift, the incoming commandant of the Marine Corps. The officers of his staff welcomed them, as did the general, until at length each escapee had a moment alone with Vandegrift. Along with the words of praise, the general offered the idea of Major Shofner working with a Hollywood studio on a film about the great story. It certainly had all the elements for a great movie. Austin came clean. One morning in Cabanatuan Prisoner of War Camp Number One, Shifty replied, he had decided to consider the war against the Japanese as a football game. His desire "to get back into the game, and to win . . . had kept him going." He "did not want to be cheated out of his opportunity to bring the battle to the Japanese." The general granted his request. As the meeting concluded, Vandegrift and his staff informed all three men that they would receive a two-month furlough. Even as he spoke, Vandegrift said, their families were being notified of their return. When their furloughs ended in late February, Major Shofner and Captain Dobervich would report to the Senior School of the Command Staff College of the Marine Corps in Quantico, Virginia. Captain Jack Hawkins would go out to Hollywood, California, and develop a movie about their experiences with the legendary film producer Darryl F. Zanuck.¹⁷⁸

For the time being, however, they would have to continue to keep the secret of Cabanatuan, of the March of Death on Bataan, of their escape. The burning desire to tell their countrymen had helped sustain them. Now that they were home, they were ordered not to speak of it. Shofner was not told why, exactly, he had to keep his mouth shut. Everyone of prominence in Washington knew about it. He guessed that it had to do with President Roosevelt's decision to beat Germany first. Roosevelt wanted Americans to continue to focus on Germany, rather than on Japan. Whatever the reason, Austin Shofner's year did not end on a high note, but with frustration.

On December 23 he said good-bye to his two comrades, with whom he had endured so much, and boarded a flight for Nashville. His parents met him and drove him to Shelbyville. The thin line of blacktop made for a four-hour drive, so he had plenty of time to tell them "what he dared." Sharing the story of his war was a moment steeped in generations of family tradition. The land upon which their home stood had been granted to a Shofner for his service in the Revolutionary War. Austin's grandfather had served in the cavalry led by Nathan Bedford Forrest during the Civil War. As the car neared their home, it passed an oil truck driven by one of Austin's teammates from his high school football team. They exchanged a wave. The car pulled into the drive. Austin was home. His mother began preparing dinner. In the driveway came the oil truck, followed by the cars of more friends. The homecoming lasted late into the evening and continued the next day as aunts, uncles, cousins, and more came for a visit.

The party proved too much too soon. All that he had suffered at the hands of his captors could not be washed away by a few weeks of hot showers, nor bound up by a clean dress uniform, nor healed by his parents' warm embrace. Months as a guerrilla had helped him, but sometime that day, Christmas Eve of 1943, Austin's family watched as he "collapsed into a state of near total mental and physical exhaustion."

EVENTUALLY EUGENE SLEDGE'S PARENTS STATED THAT THEY BELIEVED HIM: HE had been kicked out of the V-12 program against his will. Now all he had to worry about was the weather, since the daily rains were hindering his platoon's rifle instruction and the final test was approaching. Then a camp doctor determined that one of the members of Platoon 984 had spinal meningitis and quarantined the lot of them for three days. Eugene passed the time reading the Mobile newspaper and writing his friends and family. "From what the papers say," he joked, "I am safer out here than in Mobile with all the ship workers. When all of us come home I really hope all those people have left town for good." The newspapers had also carried stories about the marine invasion of Tarawa in the Gilbert Islands. The marines had suffered more casualties in three days there than in six months on Guadalcanal, a disturbing fact that no one at the Recruit Depot could explain to him, except to say "something went radically wrong."

When the quarantine ended, Platoon 984 shot for record, meaning their scores would be entered into their personnel files and affect their respective futures. Eugene shot 300 out of a possible 340, just shy of Expert. Although disappointed to rank only Sharpshooter, he had been around long enough to know that in this category, the one prized by the Marine Corps above all others, his score placed him above the average. The platoon left the rifle range and returned to its huts for the final week of training. The NCOs gave a lecture on the Japanese use of sabers. Sledge "thought that's absolutely got to be the most ridiculous thing. That was in the Civil War when people were running around a saber at people." The boots eased through the last few days. Sledge was allowed to take communion for the first time since his arrival and spent every last dollar he had ordering Christmas presents for his family.

A number of Christmas presents for him, carefully selected and beautifully wrapped, began to arrive as Christmas approached. Boot camp officially ended for Platoon 984 on December 24. Along with being recognized as a Sharpshooter, Eugene had scored a perfect 5 in "obedience" and "sobriety," and 4s in the other categories, like "Military Efficiency" and "Intelligence." Although he already had worn the eagle, globe, and anchor emblem, Sledge attached it to his collar not as a student but as a United States Marine. He had been promoted to Private First Class. He would depart for Camp Elliott, a training base nearby, on Christmas Day.

IN MID-DECEMBER, SID PHILLIPS'S COMPANY HAD THE CHANCE TO REVIEW THEIR next assignment while studying a physical, three- dimensional map of the island of New Britain. The big enemy base of Rabaul sat on one end of the long thin scythe of an island. Reports of the slow devastation of Rabaul by U.S. planes had been reaching them for two months. The 1st Marine Division would storm ashore on the other end of New Britain, on Cape Gloucester, near New Guinea. The advance had already begun. In the course of the past two weeks, his division had leapfrogged up the northern coast of New Guinea. Each stop had involved unloading the ship, making camp, breaking camp, and reloading. As they neared the point of New Guinea that almost touched Cape Gloucester, the air raid alerts were no longer false alarms. Enemy bombers appeared overhead on occasion.

As December came to a close, Sid's 2nd Battalion, First Marines, learned that not all of the division would go ashore at Cape Gloucester. Their battalion, reinforced with some supporting units to form a landing team (LT- 21), would seize a beachhead near the village of Tauali, eight miles from the main invasion site. The 2/1 would block one of the island's main trails and thereby prevent the enemy from either resupplying its forces at the main beachhead or withdrawing from that position. ¹⁷⁹ One last leapfrog brought them and the rest of the First Marines to Finschhafen; the next one would take them into combat. Not so long ago, Finschhafen had been in the enemy's hands. The site of the battle interested Sid and Deacon because it was still littered with weapons, ordnance, and equipment. Through the port came battered ships and wounded men on their way to rear areas.

On December 23, the NCOs ordered the #4 gun squad to turn in all of their khaki uniforms, all excess clothes, and all personal effects they wished to save. Amid the equipment they were authorized to take with them were their new jungle hammocks. Sid liked his hammock. A waterproof tarp and a mosquito net covered the hammock's sleeping area. At last the U.S. military had figured out how to provide its troops with a convenient means of escaping the wet and muddy ground. Before Christmas service that evening, they learned that Cape Gloucester had been bombed by one hundred Liberators, the four-engine bombers of the army air corps.

Christmas Eve found the 2/1 in a flurry of action as they made final preparations. Each man received ammunition, salt pills, Halazone tablets (for water purification), Atabrine, and some of the army's good K rations. Christmas packages from the Red Cross were also distributed. "Headquarters Company," Deacon observed of the distribution, "got the best as usual." In the evening, Lieutenant Colonel James Masters, Sr., gave his battalion landing team a talk. Masters had just come over from the States, so he was green. The word was he had lost a brother at Wake Island. Masters ordered his men to "kill the bastards whenever we could." He reminded Sidney Phillips of his father. "I liked the man immediately; he hated the Japanese just like the rest of us." One of Sid's friends took to calling their battalion "Masters's Bastards."