The Mosquito Bowl: A Game of Life and Death in World War II

Map

Dedication

To Neal McCallum—

Veteran of the 6th Marine Division and Okinawa. Sailor. Scholar. Student of history. First responder to my endless questions. Best of all my great friend.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Map

Dedication

Author’s Note

Preface

Prologue

Part One

1: McLaughry

2: Everybody’s Watching

3: Schreiner

4: Butkovich

5: Land of the Free

6: The Army Way

7: The Letter

8: Murphy

9: Odette

10: Football Is War

11: Separate and Unequal

12: Remember the McKean

13: Sunday Sheet

14: Bauman

15: Forget Me Not

16: Committed to the Deep

Part Two

17: The Patrol

18: Pen Pal

19: Not a Damn Thing

20: Temptation

21: Millimeter

22: March of the Crabs

23: The Mosquito Bowl

Part Three

24: Bound for Hell

25: Buckner

26: April Fool

27: Abandon Ship

28: The Tortoise

29: The Little Girl

30: Return to Sender

31: A Thousand Ants

32: At All Costs

33: Crazy for Revenge

34: Carry On

35: Last Stand

36: Regret to Inform

37: Why?

38: Three Stars

39: Counting the Days

40: Cessation of Hostilities

41: Silence

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Bibliography

Notes on Sources

Photo Section

Endpaper

About the Author

Also by Buzz Bissinger

Copyright

About the Publisher

Author’s Note

This is not an all-encompassing account of the Battle of Okinawa in the spring of 1945. Because of the nature of the book, the focus is on the 4th and 29th Regiments of the 6th Marine Division. As a result, the bravery of the 22nd Regiment of the 6th Division, the 1st Marine Division, and the 7th, 27th, 77th, and 96th Infantry Divisions of the army are only briefly noted. To the men who served in those units and their families, please do not take this as a slight.

Only the last names of marines are used when mention is brief. Marines in general referred to each other by last name, nickname, or simply mac. First names in many instances were not even known.

Preface

My father was a marine at Okinawa.

He was drafted in 1944 during his freshman year at Dartmouth College. He told me he had actually been taken by the navy but had enlisted in the United States Marine Corps because he did not want to die on board a ship. Knowing even as a kid a smidgen of the history of the marines in the Pacific, that struck me as the strangest logic I had ever heard. But he was suited to the corps. He was tough, an excellent football player at guard in high school despite being only five foot nine and 165 pounds, once separating his shoulder and having his coach pop it right back on the sidelines.

He never talked about Okinawa except for little odds and ends: being in a foxhole at the end of the campaign with a little guy from Brooklyn who prayed a lot, dying for a bottle of booze, coming down with something, and getting shot with a needle bigger than his body. My sister, Annie, and I sometimes marched around the apartment with my dad, the cadence sounding like hup-a-left hup-a-left hup-a-left left right left. He made it fun, as other marines who had been at Okinawa did to avoid the irreversible scars that lay underneath. I did ask him once if he had used his rifle there. He said he had. I asked him if he’d hit anything. He said he’d had no idea and hadn’t been about to find out.

That was all he said, going outside to smoke a cigarette when the subject of Okinawa came up. It was his private space; to ask further would have been to violate it. I know he had seen things he could not bear, so at odds with his humanity and pacifism. He hated guns. But he did what he did because there was no other choice. Duty back then was not up for discussion. I will not embellish. He was not wounded. I can’t say for sure how much action he saw. But I know he was there, and that’s enough for me and should be for the rest of us. He was a hero because he was in the war. He was not a war hero.

When I embarked on The Mosquito Bowl in 2017 with the eighty-two-day Battle of Okinawa in World War II integral to the book, it was not because of my father. It was not some search-and-discovery story. I had no idea what regiment or battalion and company he had been in and had never searched for information.

As I was doing a book proposal, I looked up the military records of the men I might be writing about. Because many of them had died at Okinawa, I wasn’t sure I could do the kind of reporting that was necessary. My other nonfiction books had been based on being there, so-called immersion journalism. This was the opposite. I wanted the men to come alive as flesh and bone before their deaths. I went back and forth on whether I could really get to their core and do them the justice they deserved. As I conducted my inner debate, the irony of researching the careers of others but not my father’s seemed crazy. I wanted to respect his privacy, but I realized I had to know.

I hate the use of the word destiny as a force that leads you to something. The only destiny I can guarantee is that I will eat the last cookie in the jar late at night and then lie to my wife, Lisa, about it.

A significant part of The Mosquito Bowl deals with the 4th Regiment of the 6th Marine Division, which fought at Okinawa. Because online records can be spotty, I assumed I would never find his name. But Ancestry.com makes it effortless, and records are remarkably accurate. It took me minutes.

There was my father, Harry G. Bissinger, on a muster roll attached to the 1st Battalion of the 4th Regiment of the 6th Marine Division as a private. It was a rifle company.

In other words, he was in the very same regiment and battalion that are so central to The Mosquito Bowl. Because many of those I wrote about were great college football players and my dad was a great sports fan, I have no doubt that he knew of them and maybe met some of them.

It was that discovery that made me realize I had to do it; it was destiny, after all. I would be writing exclusively about other marines, but I knew that I would be writing about my dad.

He left us far too soon, dying at the age of seventy-five roughly six weeks after 9/11, invaded by leukemia that devoured him four months after diagnosis. I so terribly wish he was here for so many reasons, a man of incredible charisma, charm, and humor who wasn’t above taking a drink or two or three because that’s the way his generation rolled. He was one of those rare people you always wanted to be around. For all his ebullience with others, he was so very hard on himself. He rarely took pride in anything he did despite all of his accomplishments, one of which was being a marine.

I so terribly want to tell him how proud I am of his duty on those killing fields. The book is my way of doing it.

Prologue

As October bled into November and then December in the iron lung of heat and humidity, the greatest enemy of the 6th Marine Division on the island of Guadalcanal in the fall of 1944 was boredom. Boredom led to anxiety; anxiety led to sights and sounds and smells you could not shed of shit and blood and once-human carcasses turning black with bloat or green with flies or white with a million squirming maggots, which led to fear, and fear never relented no matter how much you had already witnessed and how numb you already felt. The military was encumbered by a thousand rules, but for the veteran marine there was one that stood out, the rule of three: if you had already survived two campaigns in the war, you would not survive a third. Your luck, which any soldier would tell you was the only difference between life and death, would run out.

The marines of the 6th Division were from every state and region: the Brooklyn boys who spoke their own patois and should have been in prison but could hot-wire any army vehicle and therefore were heroes; the southerners, who liked to kill; the stoic midwesterners; the self-collected westerners; the Ivy League easterners, who could fight like hell with a little more smarts. They came together in the great pot of World War II and learned that their differences were far less than their commonalities. They trusted one another. They learned respect for one another. Most of the time they liked one another—except when they didn’t and fought it out. It was the only sustained period in American history when socioeconomic difference was no difference (as long as you were white).

Most of the roughly twenty thousand marines of the newly formed division were veterans of at least one battle. The longer they were in combat, the more they knew when to hold ’em or fold ’em or go all in. They used judgment, as much as they could in war. The ones who were impulsively brave were too often the ones who did not come home. But the untested ones were different, just out of basic and field training, some naturally terrified but others eager and excited. Once they had arrived at Guadalcanal in the southwestern Pacific for training, there was a certain amount of swagger, as though they had been in the war since the attack on Pearl Harbor. The military liked the young ones, seventeen, eighteen, or nineteen, too confident against death to know any better and therefore willing to do anything. They had the excess that comes with youth, all of it just a grand adventure, a way off the dimly lit lamppost corner where the shadows never varied. They wanted to be in the marines because of the great tales of the South Pacific they had read as kids, only to end up here on this jungle-rotted shithole of Guadalcanal, where the million-crab march to the ocean took place with regularity, infesting tents, boots, and fart sacks.

The untested did not yet know that the 320 mm spigot mortar, as big as a trash can and sometimes called a screaming Meemie, had lousy aim for all its thunder and rarely hit anything. They did not know what it was like when a mortar shell hit and men were blown apart and shredded by shrapnel and graves registration could not figure out which leg belonged to whom as the dead bodies were recovered for burial. They did not know what it was like to hear a wounded man screaming in agony and telling him to shut the fuck up because otherwise he would give away the location to the enemy. They did not know about the Japanese snipers who concealed themselves in the tops of palm trees and could stay there for long stretches at a time, subsisting on a small bag of rice and a canteen of water. They had never smelled burning flesh with its strange sweetness like scorched marshmallow. Or the melting flesh left in the sun for several days that slicked the ground with a skim of greasy entrails that caused soldiers to slip and covered their uniform with the slime and stink of the dead. Or the open flesh of infection layered with the yellow jelly of pus. They had not seen the two-ton trucks loaded with the feet of marine corpses sticking out of the back.

They did not know anything. But they would learn.

The 6th Division lived in tent cities on Guadalcanal generally separated by regiment, battalion, and company, in rows of tents, eight or nine to a tent with folding cots on a flooring made of wood and corner posts to support the mosquito net. The camp was basically a small city with clothing stores, recreation fields, a post office, a radio station, a barbershop. The scuttlebutt was that a battle was coming in the spring of 1945, a big one, as the Americans moved closer and closer to the Japanese home islands. When the marines were finally told where they were going, the word was that the casualty rate might be as high as 80 percent during the beach landing alone.

Marines crave rumors. They depend on them as they wait, feeding their eternal persecution. Each rumor passed on only ratchets up the embellishments; it’s the war version of the telephone game. But given the size of the marine and army infantry forces initially landing, somewhere around sixty thousand, an 80 percent casualty rate sounded preposterous. Maybe the men could take comfort in that.

But it was a false comfort.

The campaign they would ultimately enter into, the Battle of Okinawa, would turn out to be one of the bloodiest battles of the twentieth century and one of the least known, fought in the shadow of the western theater and for a country that was already exhausted by the war. A rough average of three thousand people, including US and Japanese forces and Okinawans, died every day for the length of the eighty-two-day campaign that began on April 1st of 1945—maybe somewhat fewer, maybe more, including an unknown number of Japanese soldiers and civilians sealed up in caves by explosives and suffocated to death.

As each day on Guadalcanal in December of 1944 passed with the rumors of when the marines would ship out, more and more of them adopted that faraway gaze known as the thousand-yard stare or going Asiatic or going rock happy or whatever else you wanted to call it, the eyes blank and deadened like shark’s eyes, seeing but not seeing, the mouths talking but not talking. Some went deep into their heads and never came out. One soldier scrubbed his balls raw every night. There were suicides. The wait. The interminable wait.

Marines didn’t like to wait; it was better to know you were going to die than play it over and over in your head. Let’s just fucking get it on. Semper Fi. Semper Die. The army liked to hang back, as far as every marine was concerned, hiding behind artillery and mortar when the only way to conquer was to advance, a foot into a yard into a mile. Men were meant to be sacrificed, if that was what it took, not saved. Be a sightseer in the Pacific, join the army. Fight a war in the Pacific, join the marines.

Much of it wasn’t true. Much of what the marines thought about everything wasn’t true. But it fired up the chip on the shoulder necessary to make them fight and kill and be killed. They believed themselves to be alone, and when you are alone, you reach into yourself and fight like hell to get out. The navy. The navy? They ate like kings on board ship, fresh fruit and vegetables. The merchant marine. The merchant marine? It had published a 358-page cookbook with recipes, including for raisin bread and braised spareribs. Worst of all: the army. It got the best of everything; soldiers left shit lying all over the place like kids at the beach, which was why the marines stole from them whenever they could. It wasn’t simply to even the score; it drove the doggies absolutely nuts, whining to some marine colonel who looked at them with the patented marine look of Fuck off.

Fights erupted in those waning months of 1944, accusations of cheating in ten-cent pinochle with one partner telegraphing his bid to the other with a hand signal, a cough, or a scratch on the neck, the only reason the fights did not become free-for-alls being the admission that everyone was cheating. Too much money was lost at craps behind the sleeping tents off of the Henderson Field airstrip at the canal, where the southern crackers were outhustled by the northern Blacks (who in combat were only assigned to haul heavy supplies and man ammunition dumps so they would not touch whites), the marines the most segregated and racist of all the services. Some marines became animals before combat, like the kid from Alabama drunk on beer, down on all fours, howling at the moon, and challenging every other marine in his platoon to a fight. There were no takers except for his gunnery sergeant, who gave him a chance and told him to straighten his shit up, then, despite giving away thirty pounds in weight and ten years in age, took him behind a tent, hoisted him onto his feet, and broke his jaw with one punch. That was another unwritten rule the untested would learn one way or another: never fuck with a gunny behind a tent.

Relief from the drudgery came at chow time. It was the great equalizer and social hour once a medic popped the antimalarial, a hideous-tasting pill called Atabrine, into your mouth with a grizzled sergeant there to make sure you swallowed it. There was a wooden mess hall with a canvas roof for each company. The enlisted men and officers usually ate in the same facility. The officers also had their own club, where there was beer and whiskey.

It was over a few beers that former collegiate football players in the 29th Regiment of the 6th Marine Division stood toe-to-toe with former collegiate football players of the 4th Regiment and made the emphatic claim that the 29th would kick the 4th’s ass if there was ever a football game between the two, which of course was preposterous in a place like Guadalcanal with a war going on.

They were not run-of-the-mill former collegiate football players.

The 29th included an All-American running back from Purdue who had set a scoring record in the Big Ten; an All-Missouri Valley Conference end who had caught nine touchdowns in a single season; starters from Cornell, Notre Dame, Illinois, and Duquesne; and five former captains, including from Notre Dame, Illinois, and Purdue.

The arrogance of the 29th infuriated the 4th, which had ample bragging rights of its own: a two-time All-American wide receiver from Wisconsin and another at center from the University of California, an Ivy Leaguer who had started with the New York Giants for a year, starters from Wisconsin, Michigan State, Fordham, Montana, and Ohio Northern.

If you merged the players from the 29th and the 4th into one team, it would not only have posed a challenge to any National Football League franchise, with proper training it most likely would have beaten most of them, as the aggregate included sixteen players who had already been drafted by pro football or would receive offers.

The men of the 29th and the 4th continued to banter as they waited and waited. It was just talk.

Until the talk became as wonderful as it was improbable.

There would be an organized football game on Guadalcanal on Christmas Eve of 1944 between the 29th and 4th Regiments of the 6th Division, as close as you could get to the real thing.

There was a name that would forever become associated with it: the Mosquito Bowl.

Sixty-five marines of the 29th and 4th Regiments suited up. The field was carved out of the 29th Regiment parade grounds, dirt and pebbles and shards of coral. Cut-off dungarees and shorts served as football pants. The 4th wore green T-shirts with numbers stenciled on the front and the 29th white T-shirts with numbers similarly stenciled. They all donned marine field shoes since the quartermaster had not anticipated a need for football cleats in the Pacific war. A minimum of fifteen hundred marines ringed the field. Much had been bet on the outcome, making the game even more special.

It was broadcast on the Guadalcanal-based Mosquito Network to various parts of the Pacific. The score was flashed to destroyers at sea. Radio silence was supposed to be observed because of the ever-present possibility of Japanese attack, but snatches of commentary were listened to by sailors on one ship. The captain wasn’t simply livid when he heard it; he assumed that the war must be over if the marines were playing a football game on Guadalcanal.

The game quickly devolved into semitackle, and some said it was tackle. It was a street fight, a sanctioned marine street fight without the military police trying to club the bejesus out of you and throw you into the brig on a diet of piss and punk. A footnote to the Pacific war—until it was forgotten like most everything is forgotten.

For roughly two hours the Mosquito Bowl wasn’t simply a reminder of what life had once been like for the players but freedom and abandon, with the spectators captured in the same moment, screaming their heads off, whether drunk or sober. The beauty of sports, the ultimate power of it to carry you away, had never been stronger. Many of those who played in the Mosquito Bowl had been molded into officers during stateside training, told over and over to tear up every shred of their former lives. They were no longer college boys but men in their early and mid-twenties there to lead eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds of lesser rank into battle and never let any decision be influenced by how many would die or be irreparably wounded physically and mentally. The overall number of casualties in the Battle of Okinawa among the marines, army, and navy, roughly fifty thousand, not including as many as twenty thousand taken off the line for combat fatigue, would be beyond imagination. The number reportedly became a crucial reason that President Harry Truman ordered the dropping of the atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in August of 1945. He was not going to lose another American boy, and his conclusion was that the only way to put an end to the war in which the Japanese had caused the deaths of roughly 30 million civilians and military, and continued to act with stubbornness and arrogance as if they had some bargaining power when they had none, would be with shocking obliteration.

World War II was a total war in which the ends justified any means, the creativity with which a man or woman could die: Bullet. Mortar. Rocket. Bomb. Artillery shell. Naval shell. Shrapnel. Choked. Set on fire. Crushed. Drowned. Amputated. Vivisected alive. Contaminated by typhus from carefully cultivated fleas. Blown up by their own hand. Morphine injection. Land mine. Poisoning. Starvation. Suffocation. Malaria. Snake bite. While taking a piss. While taking a shit. Left to rot. Jumping off a cliff. Beheaded.

That was what a marine of the 6th Division thought about. That was what he knew could happen. That was what would happen too many times. But at the Mosquito Bowl they were college kids again. They were not going to die or see others they loved die. They were going to do what they had done for so much of their lives.

They were going to play football.

The world should have changed course on that field of coral and dust. The rickety ships and transports that had taken them thousands of miles across the sea to this place nobody had ever heard of should have taken them back home, the whole thing turning out to have been some government snafu and FUBAR. The Japanese, knowing they could not win the war the very second the first bomb was dropped on Pearl Harbor but deluding themselves into thinking the Americans had no stomach for the fight and would negotiate a settlement, should have surrendered as early as June of 1942 after the decimation of much of their carrier fleet at Midway. Some top commanders acknowledged after the war that the loss of four carriers there had made victory impossible, without acknowledging the tens of millions who died over the next three years, the vast majority from neighboring countries as well as their own, hopelessness perverted into hope.

Those who played, those who watched, should all have had the chance to see how their lives would have turned out. They should have all experienced success and failure, love and heartbreak, joy and sorrow, babies becoming sons and daughters with their own legacies: growing gray; growing old; dying with as much dignity as one can ever die with; the chance to say goodbye to those they loved and those who loved them. But the world did not change.

By the late spring of 1945 at Okinawa, more than a dozen of the sixty-five who had played in the Mosquito Bowl had been killed and roughly twenty others wounded, a total casualty rate of 54 percent. It was by far the largest collection of athletes ever to die in a single battle. In the entirety of the war in both the eastern and western theaters, twenty-one NFL players died in combat. There were two killed from Major League Baseball.

It wasn’t the best game played or the greatest or some other marketing hyperbole, but it was the most tragic in terms of its later repercussions. Just pause and think about it: a football game in which almost a quarter of the players were dead six months later.

Those who died weren’t the most skilled ever to play, despite their remarkable skill. They didn’t run the fastest or throw the longest or tackle the hardest. But if you measure sports by the values that have since become so blurred by money and fame—pure brotherhood without a guaranteed contract, sacrifice of self, the ability to rise above pain, the refusal to quit, values so important that the US Navy believed football to be the single best training for combat and saved the college game during World War II—then those who died were the best who ever played.

They are all but forgotten now, as all men in war are ultimately forgotten. They are eternal, as all men in war are eternal. Who they were, where they were from in an America both blessed and brutal, the gung ho innocence that turned into the darkest horror as they traveled through the maze of being a marine, is not some period piece or contrived cautionary tale but the most timeless story of all: of humanity in the face of all that has become inhuman, the inhumanity of all that once was human, the remarkable sacrifice that men are still willing to make even when the world has gone mad, united by that thing you cannot ever control in war, however brave or careful or fearful or raging with revenge: who dies, because so many died after that game; who lives, because many did live despite combat and serious injury.

The Mosquito Bowl.

Part One

1

McLaughry

The procession of the 358 graduating seniors of Brown University started at the Van Wickle Gates and wound its way along Waterman Street in Providence in Rhode Island, through the campus to the great white steeple of the First Baptist Meeting House. It was the end of something, the beginning of something, the sliver of time in between the two that was commencement on June 17th of 1940.

There had been a dinner dance the Saturday before, not quite as spectacular as the junior promenade in the Hotel Biltmore ballroom with Louis Armstrong and Jolly Coburn and His Orchestra playing until 3:00 a.m., but perhaps more let loose given that nothing could happen to you anymore. Some of the graduates were undoubtedly the worse for wear than others. One beer too many, or maybe three or four or five depending on the level of relief and mood and celebration and skating by in French or maybe it was English lit, freedom from four years of being told what to do by crotchety men in bow ties who spoke in stilted and stentorian tones like failed tryouts for Shakespeare. Not to mention those ridiculous brown caps with white buttons known as dinks they had been expected to wear as freshmen in all of Providence except on Sundays and not walking on the campus grass and having to make a deferential greeting to all upperclassmen, the regulations enforced by the Brown Gestapo of the Cammarian Club. It didn’t matter how hungover you were at graduation anyway; nobody in history had ever looked bad in a cap and gown as long as the tassel wasn’t on the wrong side.

Commencement processions were hierarchical, who led the line carefully chosen. It was an exceptional honor, something in your life you would never forget.

No one in the class could compare to John Jackson McLaughry, selected by his peers to be the marshal of the 1940 commencement. He was class president. He was a member of Alpha Delta Phi, the supreme of the supremes when it came to fraternities. He was also the football captain in a program that was highly competitive nationally at a time when the East was still the beast of football, fielding six of the top twenty teams in the country in 1940.* Everybody knew who John McLaughry was, not just at Brown. Playing the utterly unglamorous position of blocking back, he had become known nationwide for crushing his opponents without mercy on offense and defense. He had thrown the hammer in track, having unofficially set the national schoolboy scholastic record at Phillips Academy in Andover in Massachusetts; had broken the Brown record in the hammer as a freshman; had won the Penn Relays; had finished second in the Amateur Athletic Union championship; and had been in the running for a spot on the 1940 US Olympic team until the games were canceled because of the cauldron of Europe. He had also been Brown’s reigning heavyweight boxing champion for two years. But he wasn’t some one-dimensional jock.

He was an artist of budding potential, an uncanny gift that had begun as a child when he had been bedridden with an illness that had forced him to learn to walk again; he had drawn soldiers and historic figures and landscapes, imitating Winslow Homer and N. C. Wyeth. When he was twelve, he had won a scholarship for Saturday classes to the prestigious Rhode Island School of Design. As he had gotten older, he had become a student of military history and what made a man heroic in the face of great obstacle. What were the qualities someone must possess? He had no idea how important that search would become.

At the traditional Under the Elms exercises held on the Friday before commencement, McLaughry gave the welcoming address. The speech was short and unadorned, a little bit dour. The lighter side of his personality came through in the drawings and caricatures he created, a side of whimsy and cleverness and affection that were not in his personal demeanor, although there were moments of great animation. He had had his fun in college, and his grades were a reflection of that: two A’s (both in art), two B’s, twenty-six C’s, and six D’s. He was the proverbial big man on campus, strolling down Brown’s Middle Campus with eyes upon him, six feet tall and close to 200 pounds, big for a back in the 1930s. He knew how to clean up and looked Gatsbyan in white coat and tie at the spring Alpha Delta Phi dance. But in pictures you rarely see him smiling; instead there is an aura of seriousness defined by the blunt force of his chin and a surprisingly well-proportioned nose despite his having broken it five times while playing football. He had done so in the 1937 game against Dartmouth College on the opening kickoff, and then a second collision during the same game had actually reset it.

McLaughry and his classmates had entered Brown in 1936 in the grip of the Great Depression. Four years later, the economy was recovering somewhat, with the banks in better condition and the beginnings of job creation by the country’s naval rearmament program. It was also the beginning of a new decade, and beginnings implied possibility despite the seemingly unstoppable advance of the Nazis. In September of 1939, they had invaded Poland, which had prompted declarations of war against Germany by England and France. Americans had watched with wary eyes. British prime minister Winston Churchill emphasized to US President Franklin D. Roosevelt that the United States must become involved for the preservation of democracy. Roosevelt knew that Churchill was right, but the American public was determined not to engage in the war beyond the sending of military supplies to the Allies. No one had forgotten the legacy of the Great War: some 20 million dead, including more than 116,500 Americans, in a cause that had only precipitated the fracturing of Europe.

Americans had felt duped, manipulated, guilted, and goaded by the British, fighting their war thousands of miles away across the Atlantic. They were determined never to be put into the same situation again. On June 14th of 1940, three days before McLaughry graduated, 79 percent of Americans told a Gallup Poll that they wanted to stay out of the war. On college campuses, sentiment against entering the war in Europe was even greater: a month before graduation, the Brown Daily Herald reported that only 2 percent of undergraduates nationally surveyed believed that the United States should immediately join the Allies. The story, in the lower left-hand corner of the front page, was dwarfed by the one in the top left-hand column recapping the formal dances of eleven campus fraternities. Both Delta Kappa Epsilon and Pi Lambda reported record attendance, 225 persons swaying and swinging to the Lee Cross Orchestra at the former and 200 jamming the latter. Not to be outdone, Billy Burke played at the redbrick mansion of Delta Upsilon and Ed Drew and his swingsters at Phi Kappa Psi up on Waterman Hill.

The bands played on.

McLaughry had choices after college, remarkable ones: graduate school in art, an executive training program in business, maybe even a career in pro football. His last season at Brown in 1939 was not his best, as he was beset by injuries. The talk that he could be an All-American got whispered out. But the New York Giants drafted him in the third round, making him the twenty-fifth pick of the draft. He wasn’t sure he would pursue the opportunity. The pro game was not held in particularly high esteem; many of those who played were considered one step up from felons or maybe they were felons, roughhouse thugs whose diet consisted of beer and more beer and who could maybe get the alphabet right on the second try. There wasn’t much money. College coaches, even greater islands of sports than they are now, were decidedly against the pro game, seeing careers that led to nowhere once they were over. Many of the nation’s best players in 1939 had no interest in playing pro whatsoever. McLaughry was different, perhaps because he knew that even if a career in the pros did not pan out, he would still have plenty of options.

Of all the marines who would play in the Mosquito Bowl on Guadalcanal before shipping out for Okinawa, no one had lived a more rarefied life. The McLaughry family in America went back to the Revolutionary War, when Richard McLoughry, who had emigrated to New York from Ireland, had served as a private soldier in the New York militia. John McLaughry had grown up in the neighborhood surrounding Brown, his block filled with private school teachers, administrators, lawyers, and businessmen. He had gone to the finest high school in Providence, Moses Brown School, where he had been football captain, followed by a postgraduate year at the even more prestigious Andover.

He was being groomed for success, plenty of pressure without Tuss.

With Tuss . . .

2

Everybody’s Watching

In a picture taken in the 1930s, DeOrmond Tuss McLaughry is wearing baggy football pants and an athletic shirt with the initials BUAC for Brown University Athletic Council. Spinsterish black socks are pulled up to the knees; his feet are encased in ankle-high football shoes. He looks like the original inspiration for Bill Belichick.

He stands between his two sons, John and Robert. They are in football uniforms, John a young teenager and Robert four years his junior. In another picture taken the same day, Tuss watches as John, already big and brawny, practices his tackling technique against the appreciably shorter Robert, laughing either because he’s having a ball or because he is trying to be cheerful in the face of being pulverized into dust. In another John is hiking the ball to Robert in the style of the game then, in which the backs were roughly a yard behind the center. The field is otherwise empty. Tuss hangs back, seemingly reluctant to coach his sons, his instinct to let them have fun and find their own way. He knew something about pressure because of his chosen profession, how it could corrode, the best thing to do to find ways of minimizing it. He knew that his boys felt pressure enough. To become intimately involved in their practice would only heighten that pressure. Fathers had a way of doing that when it came to sports, living vicariously through their kids, pushing them to heights they themselves could never attain, the common delusion that a child who excelled in sports enhanced their own immortality.

Tuss wasn’t simply the father of two fine athletes;* it would have been so much simpler if he had been. He was a college football coach—a very famous college football coach at the time, a dean among his egocentric peers for his innovativeness and graciousness and levelheadedness. He had become a living legend at the age of thirty-two in 1926, leading in his first season a Brown team that not only went undefeated but became known as the Iron Men in which the eleven starters played two consecutive games without substitution and almost a third until Tuss replaced them with ten minutes left.

John McLaughry attended all but one of the ten games of the Iron Men team. They were magical for a nine-year-old, in particular the Harvard game, when the stadium in Cambridge was so crammed that spectators spilled out into the aisles like tossed peanut shells. His father was a superstar, and the son felt the burden of that the moment he began to play football competitively.

If a son of a coach does not excel in athletics or doesn’t care for them he is looked down upon and is considered not to be a ‘chip off the old block.’ Secondly, if he does make good in a moderate way he is said to be living on the reputation of his father, he wrote in a personal autobiography as part of a school assignment. The pressure had started in high school, at Moses Brown School. He was big for his age, 155 pounds, and as a freshman made the starting varsity in the backfield. Moses Brown played Rhode Island State’s* freshman team in the first game of the season. He was nervous enough, but then the nervousness multiplied when his picture was in the paper the morning of the game, holding a football with an accompanying story about how he was following in his father’s footsteps. He played with the yips and fell out of the starting lineup.

The attention at Moses Brown died down, particularly as he got better. But it ratcheted up again, actually getting worse, when he took the postgraduate year at Andover in 1935–1936. Andover football was a big deal then, routinely written up in the New York and Boston papers, its rivalry with Phillips Exeter Academy the high school equivalent of Yale versus Harvard. The school was a bastion of wealth, prestige, and conservatism, 79 percent Republican, according to a straw poll. Ninety percent of the students disapproved of the New Deal. An astounding 304 alumni were in Who’s Who in America, slightly less than 1 percent of the total.

Close to ninety out of roughly 175 seniors went to Yale in 1936, the year McLaughry graduated, a glaring example of the white privilege that had a lock on the country. During that time period, one out of every ten students at Yale was an Andover graduate.

Postgraduates, or ringers, as the student body called them, were usually excellent high school athletes, particularly in football. McLaughry was highly touted in the newspapers with the unofficial asterisk next to his name. Every account of any of the games in the New York or Boston papers, when mentioning me, never failed to state that I was the son of the Brown football coach, he wrote at one point. The feeling that it was imperative to do well was constantly with me at Andover, and during the Exeter game I had the feeling that a lot of people were watching me to see how many mistakes the son of the Brown football coach made. I made a lot of mistakes [a punt of his was blocked when a player on his own team ran into him] and lost the game for Andover because of them. I think I was not at my best because of the nervous strain I was under in trying to do as well as many expected me to do. It is a hard thing for a person to understand who has never been in the same position as I was and still am.

Andover was the greatest challenge of his life up to that point, no longer in the Providence cocoon. Academics were a struggle; he did more work in one year at Andover than he had done in four years at Moses Brown. His teachers did not hold back on criticism, one he had in the fall term of 1935 noting, He knows a great deal, but his paper is messy and not conspicuously literate. He would have done better, I suggest, to have thought more and written less. He skated by with a 63-point average in the class but an admirable A/B for effort. His Latin was a mess. His French wasn’t so hot, either.

During the winter term his grades improved appreciably, 80 points or better in three courses, English history and two art classes. He was a runner-up for the prestigious Yale Prize for an English history essay he wrote, a shock to his professor and for that