The Pacific (39 page)

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.
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The actresses and actor who accompanied him were not quite as well known: Virginia O'Brien, Louise Allbritton, and Robert Paige.
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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."
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In his sermon, Reverend Graham declared John's "life will be a guide to American youth. God spared him for some big work."
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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."
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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 .
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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.
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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."
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Another shop had hung two large portraits side by side: General Douglas MacArthur and Manila John Basilone.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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."
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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.
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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."
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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.
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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."
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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."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.