The Pacific (84 page)

For more than sixty years, Jean Miller has watched her husband get quiet whenever the talk came to the war. "He could not say 'I did this,' or 'we did that.' He would just sit and listen to others." Still, his job has required him to put on his dress uniform on certain occasions and it comes with a lot of ribbons. Captain Micheel's ribbons tend to elicit questions from men who knew their significance. Whenever navy pilots hear a little of his background, they have to ask, You flew at Midway? Yes, he replies. Follow-up questions, Jean knows, "get a yes or no." Avid students of the Battle of Midway press further, knowing that several bomb hits from Scouting Six's first sortie on June 4 remain unattributed. His friend Hal Buell calls Mike's refusal to say that his bomb hit the Japanese carrier
Kaga
modesty. Mike calls it fair.

AUSTIN SHOFNER FOUND HIS FUTURE SOMEWHAT IN DOUBT IN THE IMMEDIATE postwar years because of the uncertainty over the future of his beloved Marine Corps. While he served at the marine base in Quantico, Virginia, the United States Congress debated the idea of the "unification" of the armed services. In general, the army supported the idea of creating a single Defense Department, while the navy opposed it. General Archer Vandegrift, the commandant, believed the bill would result in the marines' "subjugation to the status of uselessness and servility." The great hero of the Battle of Guadalcanal told Congress, " The bended knee is not a tradition of our Corps."
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He preferred to have it disbanded than to see it subsumed.

Vandegrift won his key point in July 1947, when President Truman signed the National Security Act, which established the Marine Corps' special amphibious function. Only two divisions of the six that fought the war survived. The 1st Marine Division, the last marine division to return from overseas duty, returned in 1947 and made its home at Camp Pendleton.

That same year, Austin Shofner married his college sweetheart, the former Miss Kathleen King of Knoxville, Tennessee. During the next twelve years, Shifty would hold a variety of positions, including as the naval attache at the American embassy in Peru and as a member of the staff of the chief of naval operations in Washington. More awards came to him as the years passed, including a Bronze Oak Leaf Cluster in lieu of a second Silver Star for gallantry in action on Corregidor in April of 1942, and the "Special Breast Order of the Cloud and Banner" from the National Government of the Republic of China. He also wore the Presidential Unit Citation due all men who served with the 1st Marine Division on Okinawa.

Shofner received a promotion to the rank of brigadier general upon his retirement in 1959. He and his wife and their five sons returned to Shelbyville, Tennessee, where he became active in numerous businesses. They would lose one son in a tragedy and watch the other four become men of great achievements. Most of the men with whom Shofner escaped wrote accounts of their time as guerrillas on Mindanao. Shifty, who had his daily diary, never published an account.

After the Korean War, Shifty received a phone call from Private First Class Arthur Jones, who had served as his message runner on Corregidor in 1942. They arranged to meet. Jones said he still had the plaque of the Fourth Marines that Captain Shofner had entrusted to him on the day Corregidor surrendered. Jones had been sent back to a camp in Japan to work and had been liberated in August of 1945. He had been close to death many times. Keeping the plaque safe had been part of what sustained him. Arthur Jones wanted to give it to Austin to complete his mission. Shofner loved the story and the gesture, but he said the plaque did not belong to him. It belonged to the Marine Corps. They arranged to give it to the marines' museum. At the small ceremony, Jones said, " The plaque has a story which tells about the discipline, loyalty, spirit and stamina and fortitude of Marines...."
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Shifty declared, "Once a Marine, always a Marine."

Brigadier General Austin "Shifty" Shofner passed away in 1999, a few years after his beloved "Koky." At his funeral, the pastor concluded with a fact about him that his neighbors all knew. In his conversations with them, he liked to ask, "Is there anything I can do for you?" Following his death, the people of Shelbyville erected a memorial marker to him at 615 N. Main Street.
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The large metal sign with small letters only just manages to outline the military career of Shifty Shofner.

EUGENE SLEDGE'S MEMORIES OF COMBAT DISTURBED AND PAINED HIM. THE gratitude of the Chinese people for their liberation and the love of the Soong family had helped wash away some of his anguish and grief. Being reunited with his family meant everything to him. Attending Government Street Presbyterian Church with his family, that long-awaited moment, however, did not mark his return to an easy and joyful life. When at last he went hunting with his father, he realized he had no interest in it. " The war," E. B. Sledge would later write, "had changed me more than I realized."
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He labored under what he called a "severe depression."
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He spent much of 1946 writing a detailed account of his war, using the notes he had kept in combat and the longer pieces he had recorded while on Pavuvu and in China.
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Adding to the psychic trauma he had suffered in Peleliu and Okinawa, Eugene found himself "totally unprepared for how rapidly most Americans who did not experience combat would forget about the war."
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As for a career, he considered following in his father's footsteps. He learned that the failing grades he had incurred in the V-12 program in order to serve his country now prevented him from attending medical school.
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It was a bitter irony, since only by enduring combat had he returned to his interest in science. He studied business administration at Alabama Polytechnic Institute (now Auburn University) and tried his hand as an insurance salesman. His brother Edward, on the other hand, made a good start in a career upon his return. It seemed Ed was, as he had always been, one step ahead of Eugene.

Most every man Gene met in the late 1940s described himself as a veteran. He noticed that "even those who had been mail clerks in Noumea" had a lot to say about their war. Their complaints, and civilians' inability to distinguish between "rear echelon troops" and "combat troops," galled him. The sheltered people had no idea. "It has always seemed a bit strange to me," he wrote a friend, "that the guy who got a million-dollar wound and was evacuated was considered a decorated hero, whereas his buddy who never got hit but stayed in it until his mind broke from stress is listed as a non-battle casualty." The nightmares would not abate. Working in insurance brought him no joy, either.

At a friend's wedding, he met Jeanne Arceneaux, also a native of Mobile. Their relationship grew quickly and they married in March of 1952, less than a year later. Although he did not describe his war to her, Gene's aunt warned her never to wake her husband by touching him--he would instantly leap to her throat. Jeanne learned to put her lips close to his ear and whisper, "Sledgehammer." His eyes would snap open.
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She also noticed that he always carried a canteen of water with him on outings. "Why do you do that?" she asked.

"Well, we got so terribly thirsty the first day on Peleliu that it just seared into my brain that I would never be without water within reach the rest of my life."
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He eventually went back to school to study science, earning a PhD in biology from the University of Florida. Mastering the data of his new career, he found, allowed him to escape the nightmares. As the years passed, Gene noticed many combat veterans, including his older brother, struggle with their memories in ways that made their lives and their families' lives more difficult. E.B. became a professor of biology at the University of Montevallo in northern Alabama. In his spare time he collected books about World War II and the Marine Corps. He continued to fill pages with his recollections of combat.

In 1968, Sledge almost gave up writing. He had recently received the muster rolls for K/3/5, and reading those names and seeing the entries of when and where his friends were wounded or killed hurt him. Although it felt like he had "finally reached the end of my tether," he could not stop. As he later explained to R. V. Burgin, "My feeling of obligation to our buddies to tell it like it was wrote me on--often against my will."
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The books he read failed to convey the horror of war because they too often relied upon official records and quoted men who had not served in a rifle company.
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In the next decade, the 1970s, Japan emerged as a powerful economy, a stable democracy, and a staunch U.S. ally. Americans tended not to celebrate the wonderful transformation they had done so much to create, nor to recognize the tremendous perseverance and hard work of the Japanese to raise their nation from the ashes. Americans regarded Japan as an economic rival. In 1972, the United States gave the island of Okinawa back to Japan. Japan considered the return of Okinawa the final act of the war. Two years later, the former commanding officer of Second Lieutenant Hiroo Onoda of the Imperial Japanese Army flew back to the Philippines to assure Onoda that Japan had indeed capitulated (not surrendered) and to order him to lay down his weapon. Lieutenant Onoda walked out of the jungle in 1974 in his uniform. He was armed with several hand grenades, his rifle, and five hundred rounds of ammunition. In the twenty-nine years since the war ended he had exchanged fire with local Filipinos on several occasions and killed about thirty people. He returned to Japan a hero and wrote a book.
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In December of 1980 E. B. Sledge completed his manuscript. He described it as "not a history, but a personal narrative of combat."
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His narrative candidly revealed the riot of fear and the wrenching dehumanization he had endured. Both he and Jeanne, who turned his handwriting into a typed draft, hoped it would encourage leaders not to use war as a means of resolving conflicts.
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An editor helped cut the draft down from the more than eight hundred typed pages. E.B. wanted to entitle it
Band of Brothers
, but it was changed to
With the Old Breed at Peleliu and Okinawa
. As it went off to press, he wrote his friends R. V. Burgin and Stumpy Stanley to say: "Now I'm ready to lay down the pen. Now, I think I've earned the privilege of trying to forget. I fulfilled an obligation I felt to write it all down in memory of buddies living and dead. Now, I want to enjoy the happiness of those wonderful K/3/5 friendships at the reunions, and forget what I tried to remember for so long."
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That same year he attended the annual reunion of the 1st Marine Division for the first time. He saw R. V. Burgin, Snafu, and so many comrades dear to his heart. They told stories of the war, used nicknames not heard in decades, and caught up on one another's lives. Burgin had made a career with the U.S. Postal Service in Texas; Snafu, with a lumber company in Louisiana.

On the plane ride home from the reunion, Gene cried. He loved his wife, his two sons, and his life, but saying good-bye to King Company "felt like I was leaving home." He was fiercely proud of having served with K/3/5 even as he hated the war. Riven by that contradiction and propelled by a pervasive honesty, Sledge's memoir has become the most important personal account of the Pacific War ever written. The success of the book made it difficult for him to continue to attend reunions. He remained in touch with his friends and enjoyed rehashing the war with Bill Leyden. Seeking to help them both come to terms with their experience, Leyden wrote, "Our comrades that lost their lives were loved by their Creator just as much as the survivors. . . ." Eugene Bondurant Sledge passed away March 3, 2001. A year later, Jeanne Sledge published another section of the original manuscript entitled
China Marine
.

THE LEGEND OF MANILA JOHN BASILONE GREW IMMEASURABLY ON AUGUST 12, 1946, when the secretary of the navy awarded him the Navy Cross posthumously. Awarded for his service on Iwo Jima, the citation began, "In the forefront of the assault at all times, he pushed forward with dauntless courage and iron determination . . . [and] contributed materially to the advance of his company during the early critical period of the assault." The recommendation had been written soon after the battle by a lieutenant in Charlie Company who had landed with John on Red Beach Two.
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The medal placed him in an elite pantheon of American military heroes. Lena accepted it in a ceremony in December of that year, wearing the dark clothes of a woman in mourning. She was always careful "never to say or do anything that would tarnish her husband's name."
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Lena was discharged from the corps the following January. She went back home to Oregon for a time and later worked as a secretary. As a woman of limited means, she was unable to attend the second burial of John's body at Arlington National Cemetery in March 1948, although she had chosen it for him.
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Nor could she witness the parade that the city of Raritan staged in memory of John in June. Scores of civic and community groups marched past a crowd of ten thousand. As the highlight of the celebration, John's mother, Dora, unveiled a statue of him at the American Legion Triangle, where three of the city's important streets intersected.
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Lena came east in 1949. She met John's parents and his sister Mary in Boston for the commissioning ceremony of USS
Basilone
in July.
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John's widow served as the ship's sponsor but she did not speak. The captain pronounced USS
Basilone
"ready for any service demanded by our country in peace or war." Lena next paid a visit to her husband's hometown and his family. Dora and her daughters showed her the statue of him. She brought them a few pictures of the wedding. Their meeting was strained, though, as the earlier meeting had been. They did not know her or trust her. She had married him after he had become famous and, as Sal and Dora saw it, at a time when John should have been closer to home. The Basilones had heard the news of their son's death by a reporter, who had arrived at their house before the telegram. The reporter had been looking for a quote. A radio announcement followed the telegram's arrival by a few minutes. The first visitors and more reporters began showing up soon thereafter. The family's grief had been played out in the media and in front of most of Raritan. The challenge of sharing their Johnny came again on the day of Lena's visit. To commemorate their meeting, the local newspaper took a photo of them all admiring John's portrait.
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