Hero of the Pacific_ The Life of Marine Legend John Basilone - James Brady [98]
“The ground was rising and slowly settling back under the thunderous impact of heavy mortars and artillery shells. Slowly, it seemed hours, we crawled for the comparative safety of the first rise of ground. The figure of Sammy loomed larger and larger through the haze as we approached the end of the beach area. A second later, just when we thought we’d make it, suddenly there was a horrible screeching, whining sound picking up in intensity until we thought our eardrums would burst.
“Sergeant Basilone yelled, ‘Hit the dirt, boys!’
“As if in rehearsal, we all hit the ash. Just at that moment, there was a terrifying roar, indescribably loud and angry. As we were slammed into the ground, we saw Sergeant Basilone hurled bodily into the air. It was as if a huge hand had reached down, smashed him deep into the volcanic ash. As we picked ourselves up, dazed, groggy and numb from the concussion we saw Sergeant Basilone lying half-buried in the swirling volcanic ash. He was unconscious and from the peculiar position he was in, appeared to have been hit bad. Sammy, who until this moment was too shocked to move, recklessly ran over to Basilone and was trying to rouse him.”
There are additional contradictions here. Other accounts have Basilone killed with three other men in a group as they advance on Motoyama Airfield #1, not on the beach. Here he seems to have been the only one in the unit to have been hit. Though later Phyllis has the scout Sammy telling the wounded Basilone, “Sarge, it’s horrible. Most of the group got it,” the official Marine Corps casualty record blames small-arms fire, not a big shell. In Phyllis’s version Basilone is still alive but unconscious. Several of her sentences later, he is awake and trying to shove his intestines back inside his body, and he is speaking. Others say he died instantly. Some say he lived half an hour. Phyllis has him living for hours and his men calling for help: “Medic, medic!” In the Marine Corps the call is always for “Corpsman, corpsman!” our term for a medic.
But these are details, and perhaps I’m nitpicking. Phyllis’s account of her own brother’s death deserves a hearing. Without my injecting further critical commentary, this is how she narrates the story in the Somerset Messenger-Gazette on Valentine’s Day 1963, eighteen years after his death, of Manila John’s last hours:
“You could see Sergeant Basilone fighting his way back to consciousness. In deep shock and tottering on the brink of complete unconsciousness, the sergeant was fighting back. His face, twisted and contorted with pain, was set in grim determination. By now Sammy was crying as he cradled Basilone protectively in his arms. Basilone slowly and with great effort, opened his pain-wracked eyes and said, ‘Sammy, what happened?’ Sammy, convulsed with grief, could only mutter, ‘Sarge, it’s horrible. Most of the group got it.’ We watched silently, knowing the rest of us should move on, yet not wanting to leave the two of them alone on this God-forsaken beach. As we leaned over, Sammy was removing Sarge’s hands which were clasped tightly over his stomach. The sight before our eyes was horrifying. Basilone’s hands were drenched with deep scarlet blood, which trickled back to his wrists when Sammy elevated Sarge’s hands over his head. The hot nauseating smell of blood and torn guts swirled slowly under our nostrils. We gulped back hard, but Sammy couldn’t take it. He started to heave, horrible, retching, vomiting. It was then Sergeant Basilone displayed the intestinal fortitude he was so noted for. Ever so slowly and with a deftness surprising in such a muscular man, Basilone reached down into the sickening bloody mess that