YESTERDAY'S HERO

This was a letter sent to The Journal. I wrote it up. It won't appear in any edition for a while.


I think it was yesterday - maybe a little longer than that. I was
eleven and full of Technicolor in a beige world. It must have been
longer than yesterday since I'm seventy-four now and even my dreams
are in black and white. But I remember John Basilone.

On that Saturday long ago, the whole world was, for me, brighter,
summers were longer, our stickball team was terrific and it didn't
hurt so much after a while that my only brother went off to serve in
the Army, leaving me at home with four older sisters who hated me.

But not today - nothing could bother me today. My whole gang was
going to walk the three and a half miles in our own parade to see and
honor the greatest hero in America, Sergeant John Basilone, U.S.M.C.
Honest to God! He was coming to town to Journal Square at a Buy Bonds
Rally.

I read about him in The Jersey Journal and heard the older boys talk
about him and how he destroyed about a thousand tanks and killed
around a million Japs and they had to stop him from going to Japan to
personally strangle Tojo. Something like that.

Anyway, he was a big hero in our book and the Generals sent him home
to the nation's capital, Washington, D.C., where the President
himself, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, shook hands with him and presented
him with the best and biggest medal the country's got called the
Congressional Medal of Honor.

Milt said he'd probably wear it but Red said "no way" 'cause with all
the diamonds and jewels and all on it, he was sure they'd have it in a
bank or something.

But off we went past 34 School up to Hudson Boulevard in a morning
charged with excitement, speculation and such patriotism it was like a
marching band was playing all the way.

The air was filled with questions, too! Do you think the President
will be there? Will there be a lot of Generals there? Suppose the Japs
invade Jersey City and try to kidnap Sgt. Basilone? Do you really
think he's seven feet tall?

The answers were varied but each authority was positive that his
answer was valid.

When we arrived at Journal Square the entire population preceded us
and the place was wall-to-wall with people. Red, White and Blue
bunting was everywhere and amplifiers were blasting patriotic music by
Sousa.

Richie was older than the rest of us and wiser in the ways of such
things and advised us to get a better view, work our way to the
platform where all the politicians were. We did as we were told and
sure enough, we could see the Mayor, Frank Hague, in a grey homburg
hat and tons of politicians all looking a little plump, that Richie
claimed were ballots sewed into the lining of their suits that they
would stuff into the ballot box next election.

There was a pretty blond who kept laughing and talking by the name of
Betty Hutton and three guys called The Ritz Brothers who were so
unfunny they should have kept their mouths shut. Part of the entourage
was two Negro tap dancers called The Step Brothers. I think they were
good and so did the crowd who applauded like mad.

Then Sgt. John Basilone stepped to the mike after a long introduction
that lasted about six hours. He was Hollywood handsome with deep dark
eyes and a bronze tan.

However, he was not seven feet tall nor much bigger than the Mayor in
his pearl grey homburg hat.

The nice thing about him, he seemed shy in the spotlight but we were
cheering for so long he didn't get a chance to talk. When he finally
did after a couple of hours of applause, I really liked him. I had
trouble seeing him though because a big fat man with bad body odor was
right in front of me.

But the Sergeant said something like he wasn't a hero, that he didn't
do anything on Guadalcanal that they wouldn't do if they had been
there. He also said he hoped all the adults and kids would be War
Bonds and Stamps.

He didn't speak more than a minute or two but the crowd must have
cheered forever. I saw the Sergeant making his way off the back of the
platform and I elbowed Milt and Richie to follow me and they passed it
along. Four of us almost caught up with him as he quickly passed
Nedick's Orange Juice when I realized we lost four of the guys in the
crowd.

We followed him past the florist, the Canton Tea Garden Restaurant
and dozens of shops closed for the holiday festivities. When he slowed
down, so did we. When he stepped up the pace, so did we. Let' face it.
How often do you get to be around a real live hero? As we followed the
marine past St. Adain's Church, he was on to us, stopped dead in his
tracks and whirled around to face us. My heart was in my mouth and I
ate my bubble gum.

"Can I help you boys?"

The brown eyes penetrated our very beings. I didn't know if he was
going to kill us like some Japs or was it simple inquiry.

We looked to Richie. "Do you think maybe we could see your medal?"

The marine, who was not seven foot, shook his head just slightly and
then he gave us one of those big Italian smiles and you could see how
white his teeth were in contrast to his tan complexion.

"I'll tell you what," he said, "I don't have the medal with me but
would you settle for an ice cream soda?"

I was so excited I don't know what he said after that. We all went
into Mueller's and I remember ordering a chocolate soda. So did Milt
and Richie, but Red had strawberry. The Sergeant had a small Coke.

We wanted to know how come he didn't carry a gun or even the medal.

He said he only used a weapon with an enemy. Then he showed us the
battle ribbon of the Medal of Honor. It was baby blue with little
white dots or something. He said, almost casually, that there were a
lot of other marines who deserved it more.

But I was sure that was a load of baloney. We asked him a million
questions and all he seemed to do was laugh. Did he really wipe out a
whole Jap Division? How come he wasn't seven feet tall? If he got to
Hollywood would he kiss Betty Grable, Lana Turner and Ava Garner? Was
Roosevelt nice?

Then Red asked him if he was ever scared. Red's kind of dumb like
that. He couldn't see with his own eyes that we were talking to a
marine. Everybody knows that marines don't get scared. Jeez!

But then something funny happened. Sgt. Basilone stopped laughing and
he stared past us at I don't know what and he said in almost a
whisper, "All the time. All the time."

He volunteered that he didn't like going around the country, "trying
to act like a hero or something." He said after Hartford, Boston and
Chicago, he'd asked if they'd let him go back to the same outfit he
was with on Guadalcanal.

I remember we agreed it was a good idea that he should go back to the
Pacific and kill more Japs.

Outside of Mueller's, he shook hands with each of us, told us to do
well in school and be nice to our Moms and Dads.

We promised and he went off by himself down Bergen Avenue as we stood
in shock and awe all wrapped up in admiration. Richie even saluted.

Every conversation in the remaining days of summer from Milt, Red,
Richie and me always begin with, "Did I tell you about the afternoon I
spent with Sergeant John Basilone?"

But the sharp winds of fall, the snows of winter and the boredom of
our friends who heard the story too many times helped face the
excitement of that wonderful journey when we met an American hero,
Sgt. John Basilone.

I wish that was the end of the story.

Two years later when the war in the Pacific was going well, the hope
words were popular again. I picked up The Jersey Journal and there on
the front page was a picture of John Basilone taken on that special
day when Richie, Milt, Red and I met our hero. Under the photo was the
stark testimony of a headline.

"KILLED ON IWO JIMA"

I slowly read the story about how he demanded to be returned to his
old outfit and he and his squad were killed by a Jap mortar on the
black ash of that slaughter house. My hero was dead.

I read until my eyes were so full of tears I could not see and the
lump in my throat hurt so bad.

I sat there empty and alone. The only hero whose hand I had ever
touched or touched me was now cold to all. Never would he love a woman
as my father love my mother nor would he bear a son with whom I could
find friendship.

My country had lost a hero. I had lost a hero.

He gave us a little light called courage at a time when we needed it
and now it had gone out. But not in my heart.

I was so empty, so alone. I had no one to talk to and tell how much
it hurt. I wanted to talk to God and yell at him for doing such a
rotten damn thing.

Nothing much help so I went to Church to light a candle so that I
could tell John Basilone's special angel to fly him to God safely.

I saw this little prayer card in the pew and I found myself reading
it over and over again.

I am so afraid God
A stranger in a dark room
Frightened by what might be or
Not be in a place called fear
Give me a hero to save me Lord
Broad shouldered and as quick
To smile as to fight
Just for goodness sake
Or hold a child's hand
In storms or fire or simple terror
Or sunshine to feel secure
When we who fear need ransom
Hope and a reason to look up to You
God who brought our children
Out of the no-man land of Egypt
Give us a hero, in your image and likeness
To help us in the terrible darkness
A hero called hope

Is it really 61 years ago that a simple young Marine Gunnery Sergeant
named John blushed when a grateful nation applauded his heroics or
would take the time to but ice cream sodas for a group of silly
hero-worshipping kids who couldn't even imagine the horror of war?

John Basilone translated the meaning of Semper Fi for me many decades
ago. I haven't forgotten. I hope America doesn't forget and remember a
four letter word called hope.


JOHN P. GHALLAGER
FAIRLAWN