The Pacific (38 page)

"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."
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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.
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In so doing, Manila John Basilone had "contributed to the virtual annihilation of a Japanese regiment."
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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.
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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.
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They also took part in a nationwide broadcast called "Report to the Nation," which included an address by President Roosevelt.
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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."
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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!"
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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.
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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.
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The pigeons carried the message "For Victory--One Down, Two to Go."
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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.
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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."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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."
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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."
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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."
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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.
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Not all of the visitors were stargazers, though. Men who had served with John left messages in his box at the front desk.
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Mothers and girlfriends of men serving overseas showed up to ask about their sons or boyfriends.
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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."
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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."
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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.
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