The Pacific (41 page)

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.
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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.
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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.
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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
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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.
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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.
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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."
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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.
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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."
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