Hero of the Pacific_ The Life of Marine Legend John Basilone - James Brady [99]
“Don’t ever discount the courage and bravery of our medics. This lad was typical. There he was, oblivious to the hell and destruction being showered upon him as he tenderly ministered to the wounded. We watched as Sammy talked to him and gestured in our direction. No doubt Sammy told him the wounded Marine was Sergeant Basilone. It made no difference to the medic. A Marine was a Marine, Medal of Honor or not. To his credit, and keeping in the spirit of the Corps, he calmly finished bandaging his patient. Then, and only after making the wounded youngster as comfortable as possible, did he accompany Sammy back to us and Sergeant Basilone. We watched hopefully as the medic silently, and with tender hands, examined Basilone’s wounds. Reaching for his kit, he fished out a hypo and bending loosely to Basilone’s ear, he said softly, ‘It’s OK, Sarge. I’m going to give you a shot of morphine. That’ll ease your pain until we can get you to a doctor.’ The enemy by this time had succeeded in stopping any more landings.
“Basilone’s only chance to live was to be taken back in one of the empty assault boats as it returned for another load. Seeing Basilone tug at the medic’s sleeve, we edged closer to hear his words. ‘Level with me, Doc. Am I going to make it?’ Hanging on for doc’s reply we heard him tell Basilone, ‘Sarge, I’ll give it to you straight. If I can get you back to the hospital ship in a couple of hours, you have a chance. Right now we’re pinned to this goddamned beach. Your guess right now is as good as mine. I’m going to stay with you and the first boat that hits the shore will have you and I as passengers on the way back. Meanwhile, when the pain gets unbearable, yell out. I’ll give you another shot. That’s the best I can do for you now.’ Basilone nodded he understood.
“We watched fascinated as his life blood slowly and relentlessly kept oozing out, trailing brilliant crimson streamers down his side, turning the black volcanic ash into a dark purple spot which spread out ever so slowly. He was bleeding to death before our eyes and we were powerless to stop the flow.”
In the Taebaek Mountains of North Korea in January 1952 I watched a Marine bleed to death coming back from a combat patrol. We had him on a stretcher, and it took the wounded man maybe seven hours to die. Toward the end he thought he was Jesus. Loss of blood eventually kills you; along the way it weakens not only the body but the intelligence, the judgment, the brain. Lose enough blood and you don’t make much sense anymore. In Phyllis’s story, Basilone was not only physically tough, he was still remarkably cogent.
In her account, as hour after hour passes, Sammy and Basilone have a discussion of what Basilone wants the young Marine to tell his brother George when and if George hits the beach. Basilone says he’s had it, that he knows there’s no chance. Sammy argues with him. Then Sammy pulls out a pencil and takes down Basilone’s instructions about his brother. Basilone asks the corpsman, “Doc,” for a cigarette. Doc then lights a cigarette for Basilone and places it between his lips. But the wounded sergeant coughs and the butt comes away soaked with blood. Then Sammy reaches inside the pocket of Basilone’s “tunic” and pulls out the miniature Bible many combat soldiers were given and carried during World War II, worn as protection in a pocket over the heart. Sammy begins to read the Lord’s Prayer. As he finishes, Basilone’s face, “now in peaceful repose, turns toward us.” The Marines drop to their knees in prayer, as John Basilone “slipped away.” Sammy, unbelieving, tries to rouse him, but the corpsman tells him, “Kid, it’s no use. He’s gone.”
Here is Colonel Joe Alexander’s briefer account: “On the left center of the action,