Camp Pendleton is two-thirds of a mile south of Los Angeles. Each time I pass it, I can’t help but think of my dad and brother who both went through boot camp and training at Pendleton. In my father’s case, as a combat Marine, he later witnessed many of his mates die in combat. As a Corpsman, my brother held many Marines’ hands as they breathed their last. My relatives returned. Many did not.
Before one passes Pendleton, you’ll see a road at the north end of the base called “Gunnery Sergeant John Basilone Memorial Highway.” It’s named after a WWII Marine who earned the Medal of Honor for bravery on Guadalcanal. To raise money for war, Marines pulled Basilone from combat following Guadalcanal. Basilone couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt at his fellow soldiers being fighting in wars that he wasn’t. He begged to return to active duty. The Marine Corps agreed. On 19, February 1945, Basilone was killed on Iwo Jima. Basilone was the first enlisted man who received both the Medal of Honor (and the Navy Cross) posthumously.
In his war memoirs, my father had written a story about the effects of death on him. It was repeated by me last year. It’s here:
“Over the side, down the Life Net and into the landing craft. Our boat reached the rally point once it was fully loaded. The signal was given and then the boat headed to Engibi. The landing craft landed on the beach at the island’s south end. After the ramp fell, we fled for cover. Rounds were zipping past us. After hitting the sand I looked up to see where the fire was coming and then got up to move for shelter. As I ran for better spots, a Marine from my company was on my landing craft and took a shot in the chest. Thump. He seemed like the bullet hit right in his heart. The bullet seemed to hit him in the center. He fell like a potato sack. I stopped and called for a Corpman. Finally, a Corpsman arrived and took control. I then headed towards a hole or some other place to hide. I fell into a hole in the shell.
“The grim reaper was about to say hello again. Even though it felt like forever, the time we spent on the beaches was just a few seconds. It was a scene of guys hopping from one shell hole into another. I was standing next to Captain Blood, the company captain. He died instantly from machine gunfire. Captain Blood was hit directly and died instantly.
“Later, when the battle was over and the graves detail was preparing Captain Blood’s body to be taken back to the ship or buried I asked the Marine removing his personal effects if I could look at his wallet. Captain Blood breathed his final breath next to me. A photograph was found in his wallet. His beautiful wife and his two young children were staring at me. It was overwhelming. What was running through my mind was – A wife would never see her husband again. Children would never again feel their father’s touch. I was able to retain that photograph forever. It remains there still.”
Every man and woman who died in battle had a loved one. A loved one was someone who saw them back, whether they were a Soldier, Marine or Sailor. More than a million Americans gave the last complete measure, and every one of them had a story.
This reminds me of the thirteen American heroes who served honorably in Afghanistan and were tragically killed at Kabul Airport. Like passing Pendleton and thinking of my dad and brother, and John Basilone — each time I think of our final month in Afghanistan, I think of something specific. Sergeant Nicole Gee from the USMC is my first thought. While wearing her combat equipment, I can see her with a baby in both her arms. She wrote this one week before her death:
“I love my job”.
Today, honor our fallen heroes. They were and still are the best.
About Post Author
